He doomed her to disappointment with a humorless smile and luminous gaze. “You know why.”
“Does the flux really change you so much?” She prayed he’d tell her no.
“Aye, though I didn’t expect it this soon or to be so strong. The roses are the first to react—our warning of what’s to come. As you’ve just learned to your misery, they’re even more dangerous during the high tide.” He looked away. “As am I.”
The sickness in her gut roiled up toward her throat. This proud man, of enormous heart and strong character, was ashamed. She tangled her bloodied fingers through his and tugged until he met her eyes once more. “If I promise not to kick you in the face this time...” she paused and smiled wryly. “Or headbutt you, will you let me stay with you?”
His features softened, and he squeezed her fingers until the tips turned white. “Beautiful fishwife, how do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Give me back my dignity.”
Louvaen pulled one of her hands out of his grasp and wiped it down her shift, leaving a red smear behind. “Don’t be foolish, my lord. Your dignity is as much a part of you as your rather impressive nose. I give you nothing you don’t already possess.”
He laughed then and almost pulled her into his arms, stopping when she flinched. He settled for brushing his lips against hers. “Speaking of impressive noses...”
She frowned. “I’ll thank you not to. I’ll be hard pressed explaining to your household how you drowned yourself in your bath.”
A pounding at the solar door interrupted their banter. Ballard dragged a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. “In case it’s your sister,” he said. Louvaen followed more slowly behind him as he left the bedchamber to greet their visitor.
Ambrose stood in the corridor, barefoot, spectacles askew, and dressed in threadbare robes. His white hair stuck out from his scalp in spiny tufts, as if he’d danced with a lightning bolt. “Ballard, the flux has...” he paused at the sight of a crimson-washed Ballard and the bloodied Louvaen behind him. “Begun.” His gaze flitted to Ballard’s hand before returning to his face. “But I think you know that already.”
Ballard stepped aside and motioned for the sorcerer to enter. “The roses paid us a visit some time during the night. I was about to find Magda and ask her for witch hazel and the keys to my cell.”
“You’ll find her with Gavin. He’s taken to his bed.”
What little color remained in Ballard’s pale face leached away. “So soon?” he said, voice anguished.
Ambrose nodded. “I’ve brewed a draught for him to ease the pain. She’s making sure he drinks it.” He turned his attention to Louvaen. “Cinnia guards his door better than a dragon with treasure. He refuses to see her. I need you to coax her away.”
Louvaen crossed her arms and quickly uncrossed them at the sting of her injuries. “I’ll do no such thing. He wants her to marry him? Then he shows her what she’ll deal with if she does—a man made invalid by what should be neutral magic.” She eyed Ambrose, suspicious. “Though I’m guessing there’s nothing neutral about this particular sorcery.”
He met her narrow-eyed gaze with one of his own. “Magic is always more than it seems, Mistress Duenda.”
She growled under her breath. “Very clever, magician. And deceptive. Your answer smells as bad as those foul roses.” She turned to Ballard. “You’ll want to see Gavin, yes?” At his nod, she continued. “So will Cinnia. She’s more like me than any of you realize.”
Ambrose muttered “Gods help Gavin then.”
Ignoring the sorcerer, Louvaen laid a hand on Ballard’s forearm. “She needs to understand what he suffers during the flux. Protecting her from such knowledge does neither of them any favors. I can assure you she won’t run or cower away. If she does, is that truly the wife you want for your son?”
Ballard shook his head. “No.” He smiled faintly. “The men of Ketach Tor aren’t known for binding themselves to milksops.” He turned to Ambrose. “Let Cinnia into the room.”
“Butdominus, Gavin doesn’t want...”
“Right now I don’t care what Gavin does or doesn’t want. If he intends to take her to wife, he’ll allow her across his threshold.” He captured a flyaway strand of Louvaen’s hair and ran it between his thumb and forefinger before releasing it. “Bath from a basin, mistress, nothing more. And a poultice for the wounds. We don’t have the time for anything else.” He stalked back to the bedchamber, leaving Louvaen with Ambrose.
The two sized each other up like hounds before a fight, Ambrose as sour as if he’d eaten a bowl of unripe currants. “Happy now? You got what you wanted.”
Louvaen snorted. “Hardly. I’m certain both Cinnia and I are being gulled by you and de Sauveterre regarding this flux or whatever you want to call it. This has all the signs of a curse.” The subtle shift in his expression—a blankness that smoothed his features—signaled she’d hit her mark. Her eyes rounded. “That’s it, isn’t it? This is curse magic. Admit it!”
He huffed, his outrage making his spiky hair quiver and his robes snap as he quit the solar. “I admit nothing,” he declared on his way out. “You want confessions? Ask thedominus, not me.” He strode down the corridor toward the second floor mezzanine and Gavin’s room, leaving Louvaen to smack the flat of her palm against the door.
“He told me to ask you, you gleedy old spitfrog,” she snapped.
“I heard that,” he called out without turning around.
“Good!” Louvaen yelled back and slammed the door.
