“Relentlessly practical.” There was no sting in it now.
“And you’re not?”
“Genova, my sweet, I’m a creature of whimsy and artifice of no practical use at all.”
“Rosemary!” someone called ahead in the gloom. A hinge creaked.
“Ah, rosemary,” he said, as they quickened their steps. “Sacred to Venus and reputed to replenish male vigor. Useful at this point.”
He’d slid from their discussion, and Genova knew it was wise. The conversation was another pearl, however, that she would consider deeply when she had time.
“Christmas is taking on a most unholy aura when seen through your eyes,” she said.
“But of course. Christ’s birthday was pasted on top of the Roman feast of Saturnalia, a time for wild revels. Add the Norse Yule, festival of light, and whatcan we do but be wild? Rothgar must be demented to play these games.”
“He wasn’t expecting you,” she pointed out.
“How true. Do you think I should make peace?”
For a moment she didn’t understand him. When she did, she tried to read his expression in the vague, deceptive light. In the end she said, “Yes.”
“Without knowing the cause and details of the war?”
“Peace is always better than war.”
“A simplistic assessment.”
Sudden rage flamed in her and she stopped. “What do you know of war and peace, you creature of whimsy and artifice? Assist at an amputation, or try to hold a man’s body together as he cries for his mother before you speak lightly of war to me!”
His hand moved toward her, faltered.
Behind him, lights in the great house began to spring to life in random windows. They had reached the afternoon death of the light.
Genova whirled and almost ran after the group, into a walled herb garden, aromatic even in winter. Her shoes clipped on a stone path as she hurried to press in among the others.
She realized she had neither basket nor knife.
Ash appeared at her side and returned her basket. Then he cut sprigs. The pungent smell stung her nose.
“‘Here’s rosemary for remembrance,’” he said, passing a bundle over.
“And it means true love and weddings!” a woman cried.
“And fidelity,” said Damaris Myddleton, appearing at their side. “Here, Ashart, dare you wear a sprig of it?”
Genova thanked heaven she didn’t have a sharp knife in her hand. The great house glowed brighter and brighter, promising warmth, safety, and civilized restraint.
“It’s time to go,” Genova said, turning and leadingthe way out of the garden, even though it wasn’t her place to do so.
Damaris Myddleton would drive her to violence, but the deeper pain was because Miss Myddleton would probably end up in the cage with the wolf. Despite all logic, Genova envied her that.
Why had she said what she’d said? People far from war never wanted to know what it was really like. War was a part of the edge that most people avoided, a part red with blood.
She’d simply been infuriated that someone with the chance of peace should contemplate throwing it away, and she still was.
Chapter twenty-nine
Everyone caught up with her and she let herself be enveloped by the merry group as they entered through the main doors. She laughed with them, teased and flirted, as they all piled their mistletoe and herbs with the holly and ivy near the Yule log.
