You’ve created a monster,Gareth had signed to Elodie just yesterday, watching Marian organise a supply inventory with terrifying efficiency. But his expression had been warm. Proud, even.
Sir Miles—gruff, barrel-chested Captain Miles, who had once suggested that Elodie might be a demon sent to curse them all—stood near the window with his thick arms crossed. His bushyred beard couldn’t quite hide the smile threatening the corners of his mouth.
“The thumb goes under,” he rumbled. “Not over. You look like you’re trying to catch fish.”
The lieutenant tried again. Sir Miles nodded, then signed back—slowly, carefully.Good. Better.
Elodie’s throat tightened with something that felt dangerously close to joy.
This was her doing. Hers and Gareth’s together, though he’d never take credit for it. What had started as a private language between two people who needed to communicate had spread through Greywatch like fire through dry grass. And something miraculous had happened in the process, they’d stopped being afraid.
The servants who’d once flinched when Gareth passed now greeted him with signed good mornings and received nods of acknowledgment in return. The guards who’d whispered about curses and demons now exchanged tactical information in a language no enemy could overhear. The children who’d hidden from the Silent Reaper now followed him around the yard, showing off their newest signs, competing for his rare almost-smiles.
A tug at her sleeve interrupted her thoughts. Thomas, the stable boy, stood at her elbow, all elbows and freckles and barely contained energy. He signed eagerly.What is “okay”? You say it all the time.
Elodie blinked. She hadn’t realised she was still using modern expressions. “It means... everything is fine. Good. Acceptable.”
He frowned, his red hair sticking up at odd angles. “That has three meanings. How do you know which to use?”
“Context.” At his blank look, she clarified, “The way people say it. The situation.” She demonstrated, signing fine alongside,“If someone asks how you are, and you say ‘okay’”—she shrugged, made her face neutral—“it means fine. If you taste the soup and say ‘okay’”—she nodded thoughtfully—“it means good enough.”
“And if the soup is terrible?”
“Then you say ‘okay’ like this.” She made a face of polite suffering, her voice going flat and her eyebrows rising in barely concealed dismay.
Thomas’s face lit up with understanding. He practiced immediately, cycling through the variations with the intensity he brought to everything—neutral okay, approving okay, this-soup-is-an-abomination okay.
“Perfect,” Elodie said, laughing. “You’re a natural.”
He beamed and darted off, probably to practice on the first person he encountered. Elodie shook her head, still smiling. Teaching medieval people about modern expressions was either a brilliant cross-cultural exchange or a recipe for utter confusion. Possibly both.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
She turned to find Father Aldric at her elbow, his thin face arranged in an expression of grudging approval. The priest had never quite apologised for the exorcism incident, but he’d stopped making signs against evil when she passed, which felt like progress.
“I’m pleased with them,” she said, gesturing toward the impromptu lesson. “They’re learning so fast.”
“Hmph.” Father Aldric clasped his hands behind his back. “’Tis true, I confess, when you first arrived, I thought...” He trailed off, apparently unwilling to enumerate the various demonic origins he’d suspected.
“You thought I was one of the fair folk come to steal babies and curdle milk?”
His ears reddened. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. Mayhap He sent you to us for a purpose.”
Coming from Father Aldric, that was practically a declaration of undying loyalty. Elodie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. “Perhaps He did.”
The priest nodded stiffly and retreated toward the chapel, muttering something about morning prayers. Elodie watched him go, then turned back to the hall—and found Gareth watching her from across the room.
He stood in the doorway that led to the kitchens, a cup of something in his hand, his dark hair still damp from washing. He must have been training already, she could see the flush of exertion beneath the tan of his skin, the slight sheen of sweat at his temples that the morning air hadn’t quite dried. Their eyes met. Held.
He signed, one-handed.You are happy.
Not a question. An observation. He’d been watching her long enough to read her mood, and something about that—the attention, the seeing—made warmth bloom in her chest.
“They make me happy,” she waved a hand, indicating the room. “This makes me happy.”
You made this.His hand moved with quiet certainty.You changed everything.
He stopped close enough that she could smell wood smoke and leather and something uniquely him. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Close enough that when he reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, his calloused fingertips brushed her cheek like a question.
