“See that you take care,” Mistress Bell said again. “There are those who do not like what they do not understand.”
The door opened behind her as Thomas came in with the wind at his back.
Conversation didn’t stop exactly, but it altered. It always did when Thomas entered a room. The hall straightened around him. Men found tasks. Children remembered manners. Even the dogs near the hearth lifted their heads, decidedhe wasn’t carrying food, and lowered them again with faint disappointment.
He wore a black wool tunic belted at the waist, a cloak damp at the shoulders, and boots muddied nearly to the knee. His black hair curled at the ends from mist and weather, and the scar along his jaw looked pale against the rough shadow of his beard. He looked tired, cold, and large enough to make the hall feel half its size.
His gaze moved first to Amelia, then to Mistress Bell, then the salt in Mistress Bell’s hand.
“What has happened?”
No one in Ashcombe ever answered that question with the truth first.
Mistress Bell dipped a curtsy. “My lord. I came for salt.”
Thomas looked at the little twist of cloth in her hand. Then he looked at Amelia.
She tried to make a face that said everything is fine, which was idiotic, because her face had betrayed her to caterers, customs agents, and one very offended priest in Chicago who had absolutely noticed when she mouthedwowduring a spectacularly passive-aggressive wedding homily. No poker face for her.
“Edith,” he said.
From the kitchen doorway, Edith folded her arms. She was wearing a dark blue gown with her sleeves rolled, and the look of a woman who had been waiting for permission to unleash herself upon the world.
“Mistress Bell came to warn us that men have been asking whether Amelia casts shadows.”
Mistress Bell flushed. “I did not say I believed it.”
“No,” Edith said. “But you hurried here to share the rumors.”
Wat whispered, “I’ve seen her shadow.”
Alyson nodded solemnly. “It’s much smaller than Lord Thomas.”
Thomas didn’t look away from Mistress Bell. “What men?”
She swallowed.
Amelia almost felt sorry for her. Almost. Being the focus of Thomas Ashcombe’s displeasure looked about as pleasant as being invited to hug a trebuchet mid-launch.
“Riders, my lord. They asked near the ford. I did not speak to them myself.”
“Murrey and gold,” Amelia said.
Thomas’s face changed. Not much. His face didn’t make many expressions unless one counted scowling in various dialects. But the air around him seemed heavier, and Amelia knew at once that she had been right.
Belmaine.
“Who else has heard this?” Thomas asked.
Mistress Bell looked down at the salt. “Some in the village. A few at Lowmere. The miller’s wife said naught to me, but she’d heard. And old Mother Cresswell made the sign against enchantment when her name was spoken.”
“Perfect,” Amelia muttered. “I’ve become a neighborhood craft project.”
Thomas’s eyes flicked to her.
“Not helping?” she asked.
“Nay.”
