Helena continued. “I told him what you said to his fellow soldier, my Mischa.”
Mischa had the grace to look away.
“And after we both laughed, he then asked me, and in my opinion, it was in a rather saucy tone ‘when was the last time a man had the honor of your bed and what does it take to be honored a second time?’ and I, well, I pretended to be a little more offended than I really was and asked him what he meant and he was quite courteous this time and he said ‘I should like to know how to please my bride.’”
There was a beat of silence as we digested this.
Maureen’s face was scarlet.
Mischa and I looked at each other.
There was a glow to Helena neither of us had seen.
Mischa regained her speech before I did. “And what did you say?”
Helena looked up from her tea, the corners of her mouth creeping upward. “I said ‘you seem like a man who knows what he is about.’”
“Oh, well said, Helena, well said,” said Mischa. “I’m impressed.”
“I have never seen you…” I fumbled for words. “I have never seen you affected by a man. I have never known you to even have much interest in a man.”
“Me either,” said Maureen.
“I’ve never known anyone worthy of being your father,” Helena answered softly.
Our mood changed from cheeky to contemplative. I could not take my eyes from Helena’s tranquil face. Maureen, not exactly opposed to her future stepfather, but surprised, balanced her chin in her hands, watching her mother. Mischa shoved more toast in her mouth and kept slowly shaking her head while she chewed.
62. Lightleaf
I began the work week like any week and yet not the same. Now, I had magic. It was like coming into the sunlight after a bleak winter. Everything sparkled around me and every leaf on a fern or herb on my fish or rock under my feet was a gift. I delighted in my goddess, overcome with gratitude at her noticing me. I scoffed at every dejected memory I had of praying to Rodwin and receiving nothing from him. Now I hadher. And I prayed to her unceasingly, talking to her as if she were an old friend. I did not hear her voice again, but it was enough to know I had heard it. I chose not to tell anyone of her ‘so be it, girl,’ in my ear. The words were secret and precious to me.
I spent most of the week in Cian’s office, bleeding into a bowl of dirt, praying and trying to make small stones move. The effect I had had in the field did not return, but the gray stones he lined up on his desk quivered. Cian said that this was a promising start and explained that other than clearing rocks from fields, which rakes and shovels could do, he needed to do further research on stone magic to see what uses it had. He himself, possessing a strong and broad scope of what he liked to call ‘his dirt magic’ could not pick out exactly what his propensity towards stone, as opposed to soil, did that benefitted Tintar. He and Hazel and few other priests could bleed into an unyielding field and the following crop would be bountiful. But as to stones, he did not know.
He had been a little short with me the day after our visit to the farm, but I was polite and deferential and this invited him to reengage in our usual friendly cadence. I felt bad about Alric’s shouting at him and felt I had no real way of addressing their disagreement. So I did not. While I played with the stones, I again observed that self-writing slate on his desk and had my hands not been bloodied, I would have been tempted to pick it up and read what Cian’s correspondent with the other enchanted slate wrote. But our relationship was fragile due to Alric’s irateness in the field of rocks.
The keep was abuzz with the anticipation of another Tintarian holiday, The Gleaming, which heralded the end of summer and fell on the upcoming day of rest. The days were still hot and sticky. River informed us that the Tintarian fall was only slightly cooler and that their winter was nasty but short.
I finished my work week one day earlier and had pledged my extra day to Helena and Maureen, helping them mix up white pitch in the throne room. I took a late afternoon bath in Gareth’s bath, washing my hair and combing it out with my lavender worked into it. I retired to our room, eschewing dinner in favor of reading. I poured myself some water with lightleaf in it, noting the vial was nearly half empty. I was grateful that my husband slept more soundly now.
I was laying in only my shift, Gareth’s journal abandoned on the pillow behind me when the door burst open and Alric strode in. His tunic was draped over his bare shoulder and he looked down at me sprawled on our bed, his eyes roving over me from head to toe. He had a tin cup in one hand.
“Did you just come from the baths?” I asked for want of anything better to say.
“I should have knocked,” he said, more to himself than to me. His eyes were on my bosom.
“No matter,” I said, moving to sit up.
“Don’t move,” he said and his tone was imperious.
I stared up at him. “What is in your cup?”
He looked down at it. “Watered down whiskey and more lightleaf than I am accustomed to taking. I worry what I say tonight.”
I smiled up at him. “I would not worry. You are not much of a conversationalist. Why the merriment? You still have one more day of work ahead of you.”
He just stared at me. Then he said, “Thatcher brought whiskey to the baths. I had already put the lightleaf into my water. I was not thinking. My stomach hurts because I got punched by a big horse breeder’s boy who is young enough to be my son. But he did not best me. Just so you know.”
“Poor thing,” I said, moving to lay on my side and face him.
