The room was cluttered, its corners stacked with baskets of mending, half-finished garments, and a washline strung withdrying shirts. Kara stood in the middle of it, arms folded, her sharp gaze pinning Ilys as soon as she entered. She held out a plain dress, roughspun but clean, the color of river clay.
“Try it,” Kara said, her voice flat. “If it fits, you’ll wear it. If it doesn’t, we’ll cinch it with rope.”
Ilys took the dress carefully, her fingers brushing the coarse fabric. “Thank you.”
Kara’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because my brother’s too soft-hearted to turn away strays.” Her gaze swept over Ilys, sharp and prying. “You don’t look like any wife I’ve ever seen. Where’s your ring?”
“Lost,” Ilys answered smoothly, forcing a veracious ring. “I lost it in the skirmish.”
Kara gave her a long, skeptical look, then rolled her eyes. “Put the dress on. We’re leaving shortly.” She stormed from the room, her steps heavy on the floorboards. But Ilys heard her voice, low and cutting, through the door as she joined Owin in the hall.
“She’s a fucking liar, Owin. Dunna say I did’na warn you.”
Chapter 22
The revel had begun. At first, it was restrained. Voices were low, movements careful. Long wooden tables were set along a stone lane between the cottages, piled with roasted fish, dark loaves of bread, and clay pitchers of ale. Smoke from braziers curled into the salt-wet air, mingling with the scent of seaweed and brine. The houses around them glowed with torchlight, their whitewashed stone walls and thatched roofs stark against the starry sky.
Ilys lingered near the edges, uncertain. She had never seen such a gathering. Neighbors greeting neighbors with claps on the shoulder, laughter easing into the night air. A fiddler sat on a low stoop, plucking a dilatory, lilting tune, his bow sliding gently across the strings.
Then the ale took hold.
The music quickened, the fiddle grew sharp, and the drumbeat deepened. Hands clapped, boots stamped, children wove through the crowd. Someone danced atop a table, skirtsflying, drawing cheers from the circle around her. The narrow street rang with voices, laughter, and wild, salt-stained joy.
Ilys stayed back, watching.
“Could you be any more unwelcoming?”
She turned. Owin leaned against a cottage post, a cup dangling loosely in his hand, cheeks already flushed from drink. His grin was boyish, softened at the edges.
“What?” she asked.
“You stand like you’re waiting to be judged.” He squinted at her, head cocked. “Ramrod straight. Eyes too sharp. Makes folk uneasy.”
Her brows drew together. “This is how I stand.”
“Aye, and it’s eerie,” he said, laughing, tipping back his cup. “Like you see everything.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Your tongue is loose.”
“That’s what the ale’s for.” He bowed his head in mock gravity, then set his drink aside and, without warning, caught her wrist. “Come.”
Ilys stiffened. “Where?”
“To dance you.”
She frowned. “Dance me?”
“Dancewithyou,” he corrected, dismissing his own slip with a wave. “Come, come.”
Before she could argue, he tugged her into the crush of revelers. The music surged around them, fiddle shrieking, drum pounding. He spun her into the center, light and loose from drink.
“With the drums,” Owin urged, nodding to the beat.
Ilys tried, but her movements were stiff, each step inelegant.
“Not like a nun,” he teased, dodging her clumsy foot with a laugh. His hands shifted to her hips, coaxing. “Like this, you see?”
Heat rose to her face, but she followed, letting the drum carry her. Bit by bit, she yielded. Her body softened into the rhythm, her steps matched his. The world blurred into firelight and music.
