She rushed to her bedroom and took her one dress off its peg on the wall. It was dull yellow and didn’t suit her coloring, but she put it on and twirled around, enjoying how the sleeves fitted close to her arms and the skirt flared out around her ankles. She didn’t have shoes to match, but there was enough snow that boots made more sense anyway. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and ran out her front door and up the street.
The place where Sterris’s two main streets intersected was wide enough for a couple of oxcarts filled with ore to drive side by side, and it was there the townsfolk had set up lanterns on poles and cleared the street of snow. Light, and music, spilled down the street, and Zara ran toward it, pulled onward like a child’s toy on a string.
She slowed as she reached the outskirts of the crowd. Now she was there, her excitement turned to apprehension. Most of Sterris seemed to be at the dance; finding Hobson in that crowd was unlikely. She turned down the offer of a beer with a smile and moved forward, feeling shy and awkward even though she knew a third of the people and all of them greeted her freely, as if there were nothing at all strange about her presence.
Then she saw him, standing a few yards away. Hobson was head and shoulders above the men standing near him, broad and powerfully built, and her heart began beating faster. She couldn’t bring herself to go to him. This was stupid. She was making a huge mistake. But she couldn’t turn around to leave.
He said something to the man next to him, and his eyes met hers. He looked startled, then smiled, a warm grin that she couldn’t help but match. He clapped the other man on the shoulder companionably, then made his way through the crowd until he stood before her, his rugged face still creased in a smile. “Dance with me?” he said, extending his hand.
Zara put her hand in his. “It’s why I came,” she said, then shrieked in mixed surprise and delight as he put his arm around her waist and lifted her, spun her once and set her down. “Though I didn’t expect that,” she said, breathlessly.
“I aim to keep you off balance,” Hobson said, drawing her along after him toward where couples were forming up for the next dance. “See if I can convince you to dance with me more than once.”
“You know what that means in the big city,” Zara said, curtseying to him as the music began. “Once is nothing. Two is an interest.”
“And I am very interested in you, Miss Weaver.” Hobson bowed to her in return, then took her in his arms. “Agatha.”
His voice caressed her name, that name she’d taken at random, and it had never felt more like her own than right then. “You’re impertinent,” she said with a smile.
“I prefer to think of it as ‘daring.’” He spun her away, then brought her back, his strong hands holding her steady. They were still ingrained with coal dust, and the sight was so unexpectedly arousing it made her catch her breath. “And daring usually wins the day.”
“You think you’ve won something?”
Hobson’s expression went from teasing to serious. “First prize,” he said in a low voice, and Zara couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t think of anything to say to that. They danced in silence until the music ended, then stood, hand in hand, as men and women moved around them preparing for the next dance. Zara’s heart was pounding. If he asked her for another dance, what would she say? One dance meant nothing. Two meant an interest. Two in a row was a declaration. Was that what she wanted? Was it what he wanted?
As if he’d read her mind, he drew her closer, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I’d dance with you forever if you’d let me, Agatha,” he said. “Say it’s what you want, too.”
The music started, something slow and swaying. She should walk away. But she knew if she did, if she walked away from him at that moment, he wouldn’t follow, and he wouldn’t be waiting at Mistress Watkins’ door ever again. This is what I want, and to hell with the future. “Dance with me again, Hank,” she said, and fierce joy lit his face. Once more he put his arms around her and drew her into the rhythm of the dance.
For the rest of the night she was never more than a hand’s breadth away from him as they spun through dance after dance. She had no idea what her neighbors thought of it and didn’t care. My love, she thought once as they came together after going down the line during a country dance and he smiled at her as if it had been an eternity they’d been separated instead of less than a minute. When they weren’t dancing, she stood beside him, her hand in his, gazing at him in wonder. Maybe it was just the holiday, maybe by the dawn this would all be a fever dream, and she clasped his hand more tightly and prayed it wasn’t true.
When the sky began to turn pink and the stars had faded, he walked her home. It felt strange, and wonderful, to take the same path they always took, familiar and yet utterly different. Neither of them spoke; Zara couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t break this spell between them, and a tiny part of her was afraid of what would happen when they reached her door and had to say goodnight, or good morning, or whatever it was. What was he thinking? Was he as conscious of her nearness as she was of his?
At the door, she turned to face him. “Well,” she said.
“Well,” he repeated. His face was still, though a smile still touched his lips.
“I…it was an enjoyable evening,” Zara said, then mentally kicked herself as his smile dropped away. That had definitely been the wrong thing to say. She’d once commanded the respect of hundreds of powerful men and women and never had she been caught without words—until now, when it actually mattered. “Oh, hell,” she said, took hold of the front of his coat and pulled him close for a kiss.
His lips were cold only for a moment before the touch of hers warmed them, and then he was kissing her fiercely, pushing the hood of her cloak back and twining his fingers in her hair. She put her arms around him and drew him closer until she felt the heat of his body through her dress, the lean hardness of his muscles and the strength of his arms, circling her.
He slid his hands beneath her cloak to stroke her back, sending a thrill through her, a hot streak that flashed through her body and left her burning with desire. She kissed him again, and again, not caring that they were standing in the middle of the street where anyone could see, and heard him make a noise deep in his throat that made his kisses sweeter, more intense. “Don’t stop,” she murmured when he began to pull away.
“Not a chance,” he said into her ear, kissing its curve. “Dear heaven, I’ve wanted you for so long.”
“I was afraid,” she confessed. She’d never admitted to fear in her life, but this was the one man in all the world who would never use her weaknesses against her. “It’s never been easy for me to trust.”
“You don’t need to be afraid, Agatha. I love you.”
She shivered with delight. “I love you, Hank,” she said, and the words came so easily she was amazed she hadn’t said them before.
He smiled, then kissed her lips again, softly. “What a way to begin the new year,” he murmured.
She could have gone on kissing him forever, but her heart was screaming a warning. “Wait.” All her secrets warred within her. She drew back enough to be able to look him in the eye, which was all the further his embrace would let her. “I…can’t have children. That might matter to you.”
He pursed his lips. “You sure about that?”
“As sure as I’m standing here. I’ll understand—”
“I’m not changing my mind, Agatha. I love you for who you are, and if you think you can get rid of me that easily, think again.”
“And—” She almost told him. But the truth of her identity wasn’t hers to tell; it was a state secret, and one she would have to keep from him. And it wasn’t truly a lie; she was never going back to being Zara North, and Agatha Weaver was who she was. She smiled at him, taking off his hat and smoothing his hair. “It’s Wintersmeet Day now,” she said.
“It’s been Wintersmeet Day since midnight,” he pointed out, and kissed her forehead.
�
��Lucky day to get betrothed,” she said.
He blinked at her. “So I’ve heard. Agatha—”
“You said it, Hank. I always know my own mind. What I want to know is, do you know yours?”
Hank stroked her cheek, then kissed her once more, sweeter than honey. “I think Hank Weaver has a nice ring to it,” he said.
“You’d take my name?” Was it her name? What would happen when they swore oath to one another? But the idea of giving up her family, those few brief seconds of contact at the solstices, filled her with nearly as great a dread as the idea of losing Hank had.
“You don’t talk about it much,” Hank said, “but I know your family is important to you. I’d be honored to join them.”
Her heart felt full to bursting with joy. “Then marry me,” she said. “Soon.”
“Nothing wrong with today, is there?”
Zara laughed. “You’re so decisive.”
“I’m just afraid the most beautiful woman in Sterris is going to change her mind about me.” Hank ran one hand through his hair, then settled his hat firmly on his head. “I want you sworn and sealed to me as soon as possible.”
“And free to share my bed?” Zara teased.
“To share your life, sweetheart. Now and forever.”
Zara leaned into him and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “A wonderful, long life together.”
Part Two: Spring, 924 Y.B.
The loom had been silent for weeks now. The half-finished length of blue and violet cloth taunted Zara, reminding her of all the responsibilities she’d ignored since….
She sat at the loom and took the picking stick in hand. Its smooth, ridged wood fit her palm naturally. She’d had the thing for eight years, ever since the end of her apprenticeship, and it was worn on one side where she gripped it. She flicked it once, twice, sending the empty shuttle flying back and forth through the shed. Then, furious, she began working it so hard the clacks of the shuttle’s metal-sheathed tips became harder, sharper, until a loud crack and a rough hiss told her she’d broken it. She flung the picking stick away to swing rapidly on its wire and dug the broken shuttle out of the loom. It was only cracked on one side, not shattered, but that was something she couldn’t repair. Just like everything else.
She set it aside next to the spinning wheel and went into the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry. Mercy kept telling her she had to eat, but she was reasonably sure her body wouldn’t die even if she starved it. Not that she could imagine what would happen. Nothing good, probably. And she didn’t really want to find out.
She found the remains of a meat pie Mercy had given her—Zara was a terrible cook, even when she wanted to eat—and sat at the table and ate. She’d moved the other chair to the far side of the room. It was hard enough sleeping in the big bed without any more reminders of—
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly, then took another big bite. Hank was gone. It was time she faced that fact. But she couldn’t stop seeing his mangled body, damn them for bringing him home to her in that state. He’d gone down that mine every day for the fifteen years they’d been married without having anything worse than a broken finger happen to him, and then the tunnel collapsed, and just like that, he’d gone from being a living, vibrant man to a wrecked pile of flesh and bone. He pulled two men to safety, they’d told her, he died a hero, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d died, period.
She pulled a piece of gristle from between her teeth and flicked it across the kitchen, not caring where it landed. He’d been dead for four weeks now, and for four weeks she’d felt dead too.
She finished her meal and washed the pie tin so she could return it to Mercy. The funny thing, the absolutely hysterically funny thing, was that this day had always been coming. She’d always known she would outlive him. She’d just thought he’d die in bed when he was ninety and not in a mining accident when he was forty-three. She dried the pie tin and set it aside. Mercy didn’t need it right away, and it was one of those days where Zara couldn’t bear her friend’s pity.
She went back to stand by the loom. It just seemed like so much trouble, and for what? A length of fabric that would be cut to make a shirt or a dress that would wear out in a few years and be thrown away. From her perspective that was barely a blink of the eye of time. And yet people paid her to do it, and if she didn’t, she’d be back to starving, though not to death. She’d finish the cloth. Just not today.
Instead she sat at her spinning wheel and picked up a tuft of grayish wool. Spinning was soothing in a way weaving was not; it was quiet, and mindless, and she could let her thoughts spin round with the wheel without dwelling on the painful ones. She had dozens of skeins that needed dyeing; maybe she should do that tomorrow. In between working the loom. Hank wouldn’t want her to let her grief take over her life. Besides, she was still Zara North, and Zara North never cried.
A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. She let the wool slip through her fingers and went to answer it. Probably someone else, some well-meaning someone, come to see how she was faring. She liked her friends, but she wished they’d find some other way to express their sympathy than constant, awkward visits in which they either didn’t know what to say or said the wrong thing. Only Ed Kerwin, who’d lost his wife to disease six months before, was any comfort, and even he didn’t know where to look when he stopped by.
“Yes?” she said to the man standing in her doorway. Then she went mute, because the stranger looked exactly like her brother Anthony. A young Anthony, and one slimmer than her muscular, broad-shouldered brother, but still him. The young man looked as startled as she felt. “Can I…help you with something?” she said.
“I hope so,” the stranger said. “Are you…is your name North?”
She had to grip the edge of the door hard to keep from falling over. “Agatha Weaver,” she said.
“You can’t be,” he said.
“I am. Have been all my life.”
The young man’s brow creased in thought. “I’ve seen you before. I know I have. A long time ago.”
Suddenly it all fell into place. The blue eyes, just like hers— “I recognize you,” Zara said. “You’re Jeff—Prince Jeffrey North. Begging your pardon, your Highness, but what are you doing on my doorstep?”
The Prince’s mouth fell open. “Dear heaven,” he said. “Aunt Zara?”
Zara grabbed him by the wrist and towed him inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. “That’s not a name you want to go throwing around in the street,” she said. “And I’m Agatha Weaver.”
“You’re Zara North, I’m sure of it,” the Prince said. “I remember you—I was just a little boy, but you were unforgettable. You died. Why are you here? Why don’t you look any different from when I was small?”
Zara let out a deep sigh. “Why don’t you tell me first why you’re so certain I’m your dead aunt?”
The Prince glanced around as if he expected to see lurkers hidden in her hallway. “I have inherent magic,” he said in a low voice. “I always know where my family is. Not like at the solstices, when you can feel the connection but not where people are, or which bond belongs to which person; it’s more like reaching out along the lines of power, and then I just…know. Mother and Father, Sylvester and Elspeth—and then there was…they’re like tiny bonfires under the skin of the world, and they’ve been growing stronger and easier to see as I’ve gotten older. And I saw yours, all the way out here in the east, and I had to know who you were. Mother and Father always told us, at the solstices, that those extra bonds we felt were just a couple of distant cousins, but when I got older I knew that was impossible, because anyone sworn and sealed to the North family would be living in the palace. And then, four weeks ago, one of them disappeared, and I couldn’t bear not knowing. So I came. Aunt Zara, why are you here? How are you alive?”
He was so earnest, and so like the boy she remembered, that Zara turned and went into the kitchen, not waiting for him to follow her. “Take a seat,” she said,
and after a moment he dragged Hank’s chair over to the table and sat down opposite her. She examined the face that was so like his father’s. He was only seventeen, as old as Anthony had been when their father died, but he carried himself with the calm certainty Anthony had taken years to grow into.
“I’ll tell you the story, but on condition you swear never to tell anyone who I am,” she said.
“I swear.”
Zara nodded. Then she told him everything. What her inherent magic was and how she’d learned of it. How she and Alison and Anthony had staged her death. How she’d crossed the country to make a new life for herself. “You know better than anyone what it could mean to the North family if the kingdom knew it was tainted by inherent magic,” she concluded. “It would be the end of our dynasty and the beginning of civil war as the Counts and Barons fought to take the Crown. You’ve got to keep my secret as well as your own.”
“I understand,” Jeffrey said. “You were brave to give up your life like that.”
“It’s not bravery if it’s the only choice left to you.”
“Still. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I have a good life here.” Or had. She hesitated, then said, “How are your parents? And little Sylvester?”
“Mother and Father are well. Happy. Sylvester’s a pain. We don’t get along. And Elspeth—but you never met Elspeth, she was born four years after you…left. She’s sort of a brat, but she’s smart and funny too, so I guess I don’t mind her much.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Wish I’d been there to see you all grow up.”
“Can I tell them? Mother and Father, I mean.”
“About me?”
“You said they already know you’re not dead. I think they’d be happy to know how you’re doing. Mother could even come visit—”
“No visits. You swore it, young man.”
“But—”
“No.” She wasn’t going to confess her weakness to her young nephew, how she didn’t think she could bear seeing Alison and Anthony again, especially now Hank was gone. “Besides, you can’t tell them you found me without betraying your own secret.”
Exile of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 0) Page 2
