by P. J. Fox
In a vain attempt to distract herself from her discomfort, and the stench—it was almost noon, and shaping up to be another unseasonably warm afternoon—she thought back over the chain of events that connected Rowena’s outburst to this moment and to their present predicament.
Peregrine Cavendish had had little other choice, in the end, but to accept Tristan’s offer to see to the burial as gracefully as he could. His own inaction had forced his hand. A messenger had finally arrived from their neighbor, the Earl of Strathearn, politely but firmly declining the honor of burying Father Justin. And a burial was expensive, leaving Peregrine the Impoverished, as he was sometimes called behind his back, few options.
The messenger, unluckily for him, had arrived at Enzie Hall just as the hunting party was returning home.
Tempers were still high and the messenger was very nearly run over by the earl himself. Always an indifferent horseman, he had apologized profusely. And then taken the vapors. So that, in the end, it was Hart who spoke with the messenger and Hart who relayed the dismaying news to his father. The earl feared the church, and mistrusted it, and the last thing he wanted was one of its former representatives moldering away in his dairy. He’d been counting on some more important, less impoverished person taking the responsibility—and, thus, any attendant ill consequences—off his hands.
And so one had.
Once the earl recovered from the messenger’s arrival, the family met after dinner for a conference of sorts. The messenger, too, had recovered; he’d had his horse seen to and was undoubtedly enjoying a plate of stew in the kitchen with one or several enthusiastic scullery maids. Isla, seated next to Tristan on the pillowed bench, wished most devoutly that she’d been there instead of where she was.
The conference took place in the women’s gallery; the earl’s office was eschewed by a common, if unspoken consent. Someone had at least lit a fire, but a small one and the gallery was cold. Tristan, after beckoning her to sit with him, put his arm around her. She shivered. He felt, surprisingly, warm. He hadn’t been at dinner; she had no idea where he’d been, as she’d barely spoken to him all afternoon and not at all during the evening. There simply hadn’t been an opportunity. Or he hadn’t made one; he’d been very busy, and then he’d been gone, and she couldn’t say whether he simply had been too busy for even a few minutes’ conversation or whether he’d avoided her.
But he was—as he always was in public, where he had an audience—the absolute height of solicitation now. Which, she’d immediately scolded herself, was unfair; he was solicitous in private as well. And hadn’t he kissed her, and told her that he wanted her? He’d given her no reason to believe otherwise, apart from the faint coldness that was part of his nature. Because, as loving as he was—and, truly, no fault could be found with his treatment of her, apart from the occasional off-color remark—Isla got the distinct feeling sometimes that her lover was playing a part.
She thought back to what he’d said, to Rowena: it is only as a favor to your sister that you’re not dead. From a demon, was that a romantic gesture?
His hand rested on her upper arm, the gesture casually possessive as he spoke with the earl. Other than that recognition of her presence beside him, he ignored her entirely. She, however, was on this occasion perfectly happy to be ignored. The conversation unsettled her, and her own memories of Father Justin robbed her of words and left her gripped with a stomach-twisting anxiety that no amount of wine could shake. She hadn’t drunk more than half a glass all evening, realizing immediately that even falling into her cups to the point of collapse would make no difference and the little she’d had was making her sick.
She glanced at Tristan. She couldn’t help but feel that she was somehow wrong for sitting here, with him, like this. He’d hit her sister. She was supposed to be furious at him, outraged, even. She was supposed to be screaming and sobbing and threatening to call off the wedding. Tristan had seemed to take it as a given that she’d do none of these things and, of course, had made no attempt to discuss the situation with her. Had seemed to take it as a given, as well, that she’d support him and share his point of view. Which, in point of fact, she did—a galling admission that gave her no end of guilt.
She’d felt nothing, when he’d hit Rowena, except relief. Relief and a brief, fierce spurt of exultation that someone was finally standing up to the little bint. She’d watched in disbelief as a demon defended a child while the fair maiden abused him; what kind of fairy tale was this?
Rowena had gotten by on her looks and charm her whole life. Rowena who, like their father, had taken the vapors but who, unlike their father, had also refused to emerge from her room. Even Rudolph was present at their little meeting, his face drawn into uncharacteristic lines of worry. Isla wondered if he regretted his choice. That Rudolph thought himself in love with Rowena was beyond doubt; whether he really was, that was another matter.
No mention had been made of his supposed treasonous activities, for which Isla was grateful. Tristan did, indeed, appear to view Rowena’s accusations with the same jaundiced eye as Isla herself. Isla wished she could have discussed the situation with him and wondered, if she brought it up later, if he’d discuss it with her at all.
If they’d ever discuss anything at all, ever again.
Rowena, Isla was beginning to see, had protected a certain image of herself as the damsel in distress. As, Isla noted with chagrin, the epitome of womanhood according to The Chivalrous Heart. How much of the sister she’d loved, and striven to protect, had been an act? Who was the real Rowena? Isla wasn’t sure she knew—or ever had. She’d been duped all right, seeing what Rowena wanted her to see, but more to the point she’d seen what she herself wanted to see. She’d dismissed even outright manipulations as the tantrums of a childish mind—and at what cost?
Hart finally finished speaking, and silence fell.
The earl swallowed nervously, and then swallowed again. They both knew he had little choice but to accept, however much he disliked the idea. The dairy stank and those responsible for its upkeep complained—rightly—that soon the smell would sink into the fixtures and become permanent. He cleared his throat, and asked somewhat hesitantly about Tristan’s beliefs concerning burial. He understood that practices were, ah, different in the North. He couldn’t bring himself to come right out and mention the mountain lion in the room: that Tristan was a known heathen, Satanist and necromancer and the fact of his having been responsible for Father Justin’s death was an open secret. Everyone knew, even if no one dared make such an accusation to his face.
Tristan had assured the earl in his usual bland tone that the priest would get all the respect he deserved. A statement that was, Isla reflected, widely open to interpretation. If the earl had concerns about Tristan’s possible designs on the corpse, then he’d have to be man enough to voice them. Tristan wouldn’t supply him with courage, or indeed with excess information.
Isla said nothing.
The funeral was set for the morning following, as this morning was nigh on arriving and more time was needed to make preparations. And, as Hart had pointed out rather dryly, the notion of a speedy burial was somewhat passé at this point. Father Justin could wait.
The issue at hand having been resolved, conversation turned to pleasanter matters. Isla excused herself, pleading a headache but really wanting to avoid the man who’d caused her so much turmoil in recent weeks. It had become their habit to spend time together after dinner, and Isla wanted only to be alone with her thoughts. Tristan had said nothing when she left, only watched her with that inscrutable gaze. She felt torn: wanting to stay, wanting to talk to him, but at the same time wanting to be alone and frightened moreover that he’d reject her. He hadn’t spoken to her hardly at all and she didn’t know what that meant. She didn’t know what she meant to him, but she was increasingly aware of what he meant to her. She needed time to think.
And she had felt ill the next morning, too ill for much except rest. Whatever was wrong with her wasn
’t, despite its physical manifestations, a true illness; Isla knew that hers was a sickness of the heart. The past few days—few weeks—had simply been too much.
And now here she sat, at this supposed celebration of life.
Outside, the last of the cicadas droned. Soon they’d all be dead, joining the leaves on the ground and sinking into the earth, along with Father Justin. Isla’s stomach turned, and she felt her gorge begin to rise. The sickly-sweet stench of death had mixed horribly with the stale sweat and musk that were part of any gathering. Because no one, except Isla, bathed. She glanced over at Asher and saw that he, too, was on the verge of being sick.
“Come on,” she whispered, her lips against his ear, “let’s get some fresh air.”
Father Justin could rot. He was dead. She didn’t care.
THIRTY-NINE
Asher flashed her a small but grateful smile.
Isla felt the burn of questioning gazes as she slipped down the side aisle, Asher in tow. She turned on impulse, feeling one gaze in particular, and Tristan’s eyes met hers. He nodded almost imperceptibly before turning back to the altar, and she knew that the communication had been meant for her alone. She smiled slightly, to herself.
Rowena, too, spared a glance in her direction but much less discreetly. Her eyes burned with a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and something that looked very much like hatred. Her skin was livid around the dark, ugly bruise that marred her cheek. Isla turned back toward the door, almost tripping in her haste to be gone, desperate to avoid that gaze. She’d seen a side of her sister over these past few weeks and days that she hadn’t known existed, had never wanted to believe existed—but that, she realized now, she’d willfully ignored. The signs were there, had always been there, if Isla had only had the courage to see them for what they were.
She pushed the thought from her mind, pushing open the small side portal that led out into the chapel garden. Asher needed her now, she had to focus on him. And the subject of Rowena was simply too painful to think about. The door stuck at first, before swinging open. Thankfully, the hinges didn’t squeal despite the flakes of rust. Isla put her shoulder to the oak, leaning into it, and cool breeze blasted her face. She breathed in, feeling like a drowning man who’d resurfaced at the last moment, and then she and Asher were outside.
The chapel garden was a bleak square, bounded on three sides by a hip-high stone wall and on the fourth by the side wall of the chapel itself. What grass grew inside had turned brown with the approach of winter. The weather, too, had begun to change: a new wind was blowing from the north, dispelling the somehow pregnant heat that had plagued them all morning. Humidity would soon give way to rain, soon, and storms.
Isla and Asher both had their cloaks, though, and Isla at least was warm enough. She pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, a simple garment of dark gray wool that she’d made herself, and the page shot her a sidelong grin that once again made him older than his years.
“This is a pleasant spring afternoon, in the North,” he told her.
“Oh,” Isla said faintly, “I can’t wait.”
“I thought you highlanders were supposed to be tough.”
Isla wandered over to the edge of the little garden and sat down on the broad top of the wall. She had to hoist herself up a little bit, and her feet dangled. Asher clambered up as easily as a squirrel, settling himself next to her. He’d be a tall man, she thought; like his—what? What was Tristan to him? What was he to Tristan?
For a long time, neither of them spoke. They merely enjoyed the silence together. The chill, damp air was gloriously refreshing after the close confines of the chapel, and Isla resisted the urge to giggle. She once again felt like an errant schoolchild. A little of her good spirits returned, as she began to relax. She was leaving here, soon. Saying the statement, even to herself, still sounded like fantasy rather than reality. But it wasn’t; this was all real—a fact of which she had to constantly remind herself. Beside her, Asher studied his surroundings with interest. Leaves swirled to the ground around them, and a crow croaked.
A minute later, Asher pulled a knife from a hidden sheath and began sharpening it.
Isla was more than a little surprised to see such a small child handling such an obviously adult weapon, and so matter of factly. Asher, glancing up, saw her surprise. “Lord Tristan thinks that it’s important I learn to defend myself,” he said.
After what she’d witnessed at the hunt, Isla was beginning to understand why. And Tristan’s strange comment, about the quarry being hunted, still rang in her ears. She’d meant to ask him about it, but she hadn’t had the chance. Hadn’t given herself the chance, rather; if she were being perfectly honest with herself then Isla had to admit that yes, she’d been avoiding him. She was scared.
And she was overwhelmed, too—this all had been too much, too quickly. In the space of a few short weeks, everything in Isla’s life had changed and almost everything she’d thought about that life—and about herself—had changed with it. Worst of all, she knew now that she was falling in love with—no, had fallen in love with—the man she was pledged to marry. Which scared her, because she didn’t know how he felt in return.
At first, she’d told herself that she’d rather live with a demon than someone like Rudolph. Her life, however long it lasted, would be interesting. But then, as she’d gotten to know Tristan, something—she couldn’t say exactly what—had begun to change. Most women, when they talked about insurmountable obstacles, meant issues of class or family ties. Isla was literally in love with a man of a different species. And maybe not even a man.
“You’re not supposed to leave funerals,” Asher remarked, a hint of a smile in his voice.
“Yes,” Isla agreed, “but I’m a lady and therefore of delicate constitution. I can’t help myself. And you,” she added, “are a child and thus equally unaccountable for your actions. I’ll always be a lady, but you should take advantage of your condition while you can.”
“When I’m an adult,” he said darkly, “I’ll remember that it’s all an act.”
“The ladies will love you better for it.”
“Ladies.” Asher snorted in a most un-noble fashion.
“Rowena,” Isla began, and then trailed off. “I’m certain that she feels absolutely terrible about what happened.”
“No she doesn’t. She’s just upset because she’s not getting her way.”
“She’s….” What could she say? Asher was right. And she’d just told him that the notion of a lady not being able to do any better was a myth. Isla knew she shouldn’t try to take responsibility for Rowena’s conduct, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d only known Asher for a short period of time, but already she felt protective of the boy. There was something about him. Something that reminded her very much of herself, back when she too had been a sad, sallow-faced little thing with an uncertain future ahead of her.
“My mother was like that,” Asher said after a moment. “As sweet as honey, so long as she got what she wanted.”
Isla had never heard the page mention his family before. She paused, not wanting to scare him off. Asher’s mother was presumed dead but, in truth, no one really knew what had happened to her. Sometime before the Battle of Ullswater Ford, she’d simply vanished. Her name had been Maeve and, by all accounts, she’d been very beautiful.
“Rowena said….” Asher drew a breath and then let it out, slowly, as if having decided something. “Changing my surname was Lord Tristan’s idea. He thought that I’d have a better chance at a future if….”
He left the thought unfinished, but Isla understood him well enough: he’d have a better chance at a future if he weren’t branded the son and nephew of traitors. After his own fashion, Tristan had been generous. Moss was one of the many surnames adopted by children who had no father, like Summer and Snow and Flowers. Natural entities all, as was the convention. But these were legitimate names, as well; many a bastard had earned respectability, gotten married and passed on his
name as proudly as his neighbor. The surname Moss signified nothing, except that its bearer was probably from the North—or had ancestors who were. And with Asher’s light eyes, such a claim was believable. No one would suspect him of connections to House Terrowin, if they met him in the street. He’d be anonymous, safe equally from those who’d harm him and those who’d seek to use him—to raise a banner in his name, whether he willed it or no.
Tristan had, in essence, given the boy the one thing he could: freedom.
“Do you miss your father?” she asked.
Asher thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “My father—my real father, I mean—wasn’t a nice man.” And he proceeded to tell her a tale of a man who’d suffered abuse at the hands of his own father but who couldn’t see that he’d enacted the very same pattern with his son. Brandon Terrowin had treated his son as though he’d been a recruit in the worst army in the world: beatings, forced marches, and starvation diets had all been part of his childhood. Where his mother was during all of this, Asher didn’t say. “But,” he added reflectively, “I’m sorry he’s dead. He was my father and I…there were good things about him, too. Sometimes we went hunting, or fishing, and we had fun together then.”
He glanced up at Isla. “Why does he smell so bad?”
It took Isla a minute to grasp the change in subject. “Father Justin?” she asked.
Asher nodded.
