CHAPTER FIVE

NONE OF THEM WOULD DO. Derkh dropped the last bracelet into the box where he kept the few articles of jewellery he had made that were worth saving and closed the lid. This was work Theo knew nothing of, a skill learned not at his forge but from the head smith at Stonewater.

All—the necklace, the two bracelets, the delicate knotwork ring, the ear pendants—were of silver. At first Derkh had worked in silver because it was the metal favored by the Elves. Later it was the best he could afford on his modest journeyman’s wages. And silver, he decided, was just wrong for Yolenka.

He had barely laid eyes on her in over a week, thanks to a run of extra guests at the inn that kept all the staff working over-long days. Even when he dropped by in the evening, she was too busy to give him more than a tired smile along with his ale.

That left him plenty of time to think about her. She was unlike any girl he had ever met—certainly in Greffier, where the women were quiet and obedient, at least in public. Even in Verdeau, where people were freer and more outspoken, Yolenka’s forward brashness stood out.

He was no longer intimidated by her manner. He loved it. It was as if a lifetime of reticence and restraint was set free just by being with her. He didn’t even mind that she had beaten him to their first kiss, pulling him against the side of the smithy on the very day he had vowed he would kiss her before the sun went down.

He didn’t know why she liked him, or if her feelings were as serious as his own. But he realized now in missing her bright presence that he wanted to give her something special.

It should be gold. Derkh had some money set aside—he had been well paid for the hunting set, and although he was still a journeyman bound to give half of what he earned from personal commissions to his master, it was still a handsome sum. Not enough for gold, though.

Bronze? Copper? He shook his head, discouraged now. Yolenka had boasted to him of the artistry of the Tarzine people—the richly patterned textiles with colors like jewels, the elegant crafting of gold and gemstones. He was overstepping himself.

Except...he opened the box again. He had been right to save these pieces. They were good. He hadn’t mastered the delicacy of Elvish work—no Human ever would—but there was an elusive balance of weight and flow to the design that was distinctive and beautiful.

An idea came to him. He saw the dark burnish of bronze contrasted against Yolenka’s warm skin, highlighted with the sheen of gold. He had coin enough for a little gold, enough to brighten the piece and give it richness.

Excited now, his doubts vanished, and Derkh pulled out his quill and ink and began to sketch.

FOR THREE DAYS Gabrielle interrupted her care of the girls only to eat and sleep. Colette gave her a hastily stuffed pallet beside her own bed, which she shared in shifts with Aline. As the twins came to consciousness, she soothed their cries and coaxed into them her standard brew of willow bark, comfrey and hawkweed, laced with plenty of honey and a tiny pinch of mandragora—all she dared give them—to ease their hurts and help them sleep. Their wounds were little changed to the eye, but under the surface Gabrielle was steadily pushing back the edges of the damaged tissue. She no longer worried about the girls’ survival.

By the fourth day, despite the protective tent she had rigged over their legs and the women’s attentive removal of any trapped insects, the honey coating had become grimy.

Bath day, she decided, and wondered how it could be done.

She was just broaching the subject with Aline over a midday meal of barley bread and the salted dried twists of mutton the Maronnais shepherds used as travel fare, when the door opened. Simon stood framed in the light that poured into the cabin, bandages gone, his hands hanging free at his sides.

Aline had not mentioned her husband once in Gabrielle’s hearing, and Gabrielle had wondered if there were hard feelings between them. But no—Aline’s cry as she sprang to Simon’s side was as eloquent as any declaration of love. Gabrielle watched Aline gasp and laugh as she examined Simon’s hands, watched his dark eyes well up with tears at the sight of his girls sleeping peacefully.

Later, when Simon sat down to join them at table, Gabrielle asked to see his hands. He flipped them over, spread out his big-knuckled fingers and grinned.

“Can you believe it? And he didn’t do hardly anything. Just held onto one of ‘em or the other and kind of dozed over it. And then my hand would feel warm and kind of buzzy, like it were a hive of bees, but the burning pain of it would ease off, and I would feel easier in my mind too. And each time, when he was done, the hand looked better.”

Towás had done well. Simon’s palms were shiny pink, but it was the pink of new skin, not of burned flesh or scarring. They would be sensitive for some time yet, but they would serve him almost as well as before.

“Oh, and before I forget—someone is coming here to see you, m’Lady.”

Gabrielle looked up, surprised. Towás, perhaps, coming to help with the twins?

“His name is Féolan. He just rode into town—or whatever that Stonewater place is—as I was getting ready to leave. He says he’ll be here by sundown.” Simon frowned, struck by a sudden doubt.

“You do know him, m’Lady? He looked something scruffy compared to the others there.”

Gabrielle laughed—the first laugh she could remember since arriving at the village—picturing Féolan’s response to hearing that a Maronnais shepherd had declared him “scruffy.” He would have just returned from trade talks in the Gamier capital of Turleau—a long journey through rough country.

“Oh yes, I know him. He’s my husband.”

BY THE TIME Féolan arrived, the girls had been cleaned up, dosed with medicine, coated (sparingly, this time) with honey and settled back comfortably on their pallets. Simon had taken on the bath project with dispatch, producing two trestle tables, which he set up in an empty livestock shed, and enlisting everyone who could be found in the village to contribute buckets of warm water. He and Aline had carried the girls to the shed and laid them gently on the tables, and Gabrielle had got to work.

Féolan had proved himself equally useful, bringing dinner, a pannier of clean clothes and a tent. After days of sharing a bed and eating hastily prepared peasant fare, an Elvish picnic and a night alone were luxurious gifts.

“How long will you stay?” asked Gabrielle. Colette had been visibly relieved to find she would not need to house and feed Féolan, but only find a patch of ground he could camp on. Still, there was little he could do here.

“I should head back tomorrow.” Féolan leaned over the fire to fish out the last packets of limara— a rich concoction of dried fruits, nuts, spices and honey, wrapped into a curl of birchbark and soaked before heating in the coals—and gingerly dropped one onto Gabrielle’s plate. The evening star had just appeared, shining out over the far hills. “Tilumar is keen to discuss Gamier’s trade offer. I just wanted to see you.”

Gabrielle couldn’t see the sudden brightening of Féolan’s eyes in the waning light, but she felt the flare of his desire. Teasing, she carried on their matter-of-fact conversation as though she hadn’t noticed, knowing he would sense her own true feelings.

“Can you leave me the tent? I’m sure Aline would rather share her bed with Simon.”

“Of course.” Féolan smiled wickedly. “If you think you can keep warm without me.”