“Aye, true enough,” Ussin said and just stood there, as forlorn a man as Guyik had ever seen.
Winter sagged, old and tired, and stared at the floor. “I don’t know who I despise more,” her voice the merest whisper but loud in the silent room. “You, for taking them to their deaths, or myself for not doing more to stop it from happening.” She closed her eyes.
“Winter,” Ussin’s whisper was a plea for both their sufferings. Guyik held his breath.
“Come, Captain Ussin,” Winter held out her hand. “We will open a bottle and share our grief and try not to hate ourselves quite so much come the morning.”
Ussin stepped forward and took her hand and they disappeared together up the stairs.
The room stayed silent. Guyik looked around at stricken faces, filled with fear and indecision. Perhaps a new understanding of life under the House of Wyvern was slowly sinking in.
Guyik took a sip of ale and settled back in his chair to watch.
Plumestra left herescort of guards outside and eased the door of her home open. It was a solid, decent home. No velvet, or servants, but them and theirs and a door to close against the world.
The warmth within was not just from the fire. Borre, stood by the table where a meal was laid, a pitcher and mug in his hand. Waiting.
“You heard.” She paused in the doorway, seeing the worry in his eyes.
“The gossip beat you home,” he rumbled. “My entire guild knew and watched and kept eyes on you as you went about with palace guards, and then to the palace itself. The Queen wants a midwife, I take it.”
“Husband, I—” she didn’t even know where to start. She closed the door at last.
“You are worn,” Borre poured hot kavage. “What food can’t cure, kavage can.” He held out the steaming mug. “Come tell me of your day, wife.”
She started to remove her scarves and cloak, then glanced at the door behind her. Stout and warm the house might be, but hard to know if ears were glued to the door.
Borre nodded his understanding as she took the mug. “I’ve roasted onions, and here are bread and cheese.” He settled his large frame into a wooden chair and she sat opposite him.
They kept the talk light, each telling of their day. Plumestra said that the Queen wished her services and did not to mention the threat of execution.
Borre raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You are the best, and known for it.”
Plumestra flushed with pleasure.
Borre finished first and offered more kavage, which she declined. “Have you women in need this night?” he asked as he cleared the plates.
“No, unless I get a summons of distress.”
“I too am released from duty tonight. I’ve a mind to take you to bed, wife.”
“And I’ve a mind to be taken,” she said, glowing.
What followed were normal chores, clearing the table and warming water for washing. What made it special was her consciousness of Borre’s presence. The warmth as he stood next to her, his soapy hands handing her the dishes to rinse and dry. His scent as he leaned into her space, reaching for a pot as he gave her ear a brush with his lips.
She smiled in anticipation and gave him a nudge with her hip.
He hummed in response though she could see the worry in his eyes.
She went to bank the fire. And her warm, wonderful husband, a caring man, went out and offered kavage and bread and cheese to the guards.
She almost laughed out loud as he walked back in and closed the door firmly behind him.
He shrugged and held out his hand.
She took it and he led her to their sleeping chamber. They made their ablutions quickly, then climbed into the bed to meet in the center where it sagged. The linens warmed as she snuggled up next to him.
“I do not like this,” Borre whispered. “I fear for you.”
