Edith sniffed from across the table. “About time.”
Walter laid the parchment down with great care, blinking too often. “It will need signatures. And proper witnesses.”
“Later,” Thomas said.
Walter opened his mouth.
Amelia looked at him through her tears. “Walter.”
He closed it. “Later.”
Huck stood and lifted his cup. “To Lord Ashcombe and his lady.”
The hall answered with a roar.
“To Wat and Alyson Ashcombe,” Hob shouted.
Another roar, louder than the first.
Alyson lifted her tear-streaked face. “Do I get more cherries now?”
Thomas laughed. Actually laughed.
The sound was so rare that three men looked toward the roof as if expecting angels.
“Yes,” he said. “You get more cherries.”
Alyson turned to Wat with deep satisfaction. “Being adopted is wonderful.”
Wat wiped his face and nodded solemnly. “Aye.”
The feast went on until the candles burned low and the children drooped. Songs rose and fell. Huck’s mead made Hob philosophical, which everyone agreed was worse than when it made him loud.
Ashcombe was pardoned.
The words moved through the hall again and again, sometimes spoken aloud, sometimes only felt in the way shoulders loosened, cups lifted, and laughter came easier.
At some point, Thomas led Amelia away from the noise and into the open doorway of the hall.
The evening had turned clear. Stars shone above Ashcombe, sharp and cold, scattered over the dark like spilled salt. The yard smelled of damp earth, horses, woodsmoke, and the coming of winter. The tower stood black against the sky, silent now, its windows dark.
Amelia leaned into Thomas’s side. He wrapped his cloak around both of them. For once, no one shouted about propriety.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“I’m happy. And sad.”
His arm tightened. “Aye.”
“And terrified.”
“That too?”
“Marriage, motherhood, medieval plumbing, possible future royal politics, winter, Walter’s paperwork. There’s a lot happening.”
“I’ll stand with you.”
She looked up at him.
