Well . . . and she had
summoned
her maid had she not? Becca thought. She drew a hard breath.
"Nancy," she said, keeping her voice low and calm. "I would like a nightdress. And I wish you would comb the leaves and twigs out of my hair."
Nancy stood utterly still for the space of two heartbeats.
Then, she vanished.
The tears began again, hot and fast. Becca looked down, blinking. It was true that she had nothing—
"That is
not
so," she whispered, licking tears off her lips. "You have Rosamunde, and Nancy, and your books; your seeds and your salves. You have your wits and your training as a healer."
All true, and—and so what if she had no nightdress? she asked herself rebelliously. She had often slept naked beside Altimere before—
She gasped, shocked tearless by the intensity of pain, and raised her head.
Nancy swirled into existence no more than a handspan from her nose, a packet under each arm. She flitted to the bed and put the comb and brush on the coverlet, then dashed upward, shaking out a nightdress in spotless white, its sleeves deep with lace, and ribbons at the throat.
"Where—" Becca began, but Nancy gestured impatiently, clearly meaning her to get onto her feet. Becca stood, swaying slightly, and, encouraged by the small homey sounds still coming from behind the screen, let the blanket fall away.
Nancy patiently worked the wide sleeve over the crippled arm, tied the ribbons primly, and pressed her back down into the chair. She picked up the blanket, and draped it tenderly over Becca's shoulders, fetched the comb and went to work.
By the time Violet Moore came 'round the screen, carrying a cup of aleth tea, Becca was drowsing and Nancy was braiding her hair loosely, for sleep.
"Bound to a sunshield?" Sian put her feet on the ground and snapped forward, frowning. "That's—"
"Impossible? See for yourself." Meri held it up, the threads glowing bright against the dark air. "Inconvenient? Definitely so. Horrifying?" He shook his head, speechless.
"I would have chosen insupportable," Sian said, her voice surprisingly moderate. "I have never seen, nor heard of such a thing. Does the sea reclaim you, Cousin?"
"
That
choice was mine, and long made," he said, staring at the thing in his hand.
One did not bespeak a sunshield as one might a tree, by asking a question and receiving a—most times—cogent answer. Communication with the sea's children was more fluid than that, and subject to many levels of nuance. Still, what he had to say was simple enough.
Carefully, feeling his way along paths he had walked too little of late, he arrived at a place where he felt the tide move in his blood, and, bearing full upon him, the attention of the sunshield, like the plash and play of water among beach stones.
I refuse this binding
, Meri let the thought flow out of him.
The sea long ago released me to the trees.
Waves lapped the shore, and set stones clattering against each other.
The Vaitura is not just trees
, the stones clattered.
The Vaitura is not only the ocean.
You cannot claim what is not yours
, Meri answered.
The stones clattered, briefly loud; perhaps the sunshield was laughing. The sound of surf faded, and Meri shook himself back to the night, and blinked stupidly at Sian, sitting on the grass next to him, a wooden mug of ale in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.
"Elizabeth sent the boy out with food," she said, putting the bread on her knee. She reached behind her and produced another wooden tankard, which Meri accepted with gratitude.
He had not expected more than a few heartbeats to have passed during his exchange—unsatisfactory as it had been—with the sunshield. However, as the poet wrote, the sea kept its own time. He supposed he ought to be pleased that he had not been detained longer.
The ale had a pleasing nutty flavor; he drank deeply, and took the bread Sian offered with a nod of thanks.
"If you will forgive me, Cousin, it seems as if your powers of persuasion were not equal to the task you set yourself."
Meri sighed and had recourse to the ale once more.
"The sunshield appears to be making its claim for the Vaitura entire," he said, settling the tankard into the crook of his knee and breaking of a bit of bread. He chewed thoughtfully, wondering whimsically how many out-of-the-common-way events one day could contain.
"Oh." He turned to Sian, who lifted her hand, as if to ward him.
"I'm not certain I like your tone," she said.
Meri sighed. "Nor should you. Will you hear the report of your Wood Wise
now
, Engenium?"
"It would appear that I must," she answered, waving permission. "Report, by all means, Meri."
"I spent the day lost inside a wood," he said baldly. "It may be only luck that I wandered out again—or it may be that . . . whatever intelligence holds the trees grew tired of its sport."
Sian was watching him attentively, her aura showing an edge not unlike a knife.
"A Ranger who has become lost under leaf is very nearly as strange as a sunshield that seeks to bind Fey."
"That is precisely the path that led me to recall this now," he acknowledged. "The trees had no awareness, no curiosity; their
kest
was—silver. Cold. Possibly not
kest
at all. I had no sense of anything alive—even the birds shunned the place."
She nodded, absently chewing bread.
"Sian," he said abruptly, "where are Sea Hold's Rangers?"
"Sea Hold's Rangers?" She laughed, if so grim a sound could be termed laughter. "Would that I knew. They wandered away, each in receipt of a charge—you know what Rangers are, Cousin!—and have not yet been released to their other duties.
"I did send one to find one, but nor did she return. You were good with your numbers—how long might I continue to spend two when one had gone unreturned?"
"Even a Ranger on charge may send a message by the trees," Meri said, stomach tight. "What are their names?"
"Joda Meerlauf, Varion Fanelauf, Skaal Meerlauf, Cai Vanglelauf, Dusau Meerlauf, and Kluka Xanlauf."
Meri nodded, and belatedly brought his hand up to cover the yawn.
"I will inquire," he said, "but not tonight." He finished his ale, and reached over to lean the tankard against Sian's knee.
"Your Wood Wise has had a most exerting day, Engenium, and now seeks his nest."
Sian shook her head, eyes wide in bogus wonder, her aura admitting a ripple of mischief.
"Your manners are fair, indeed, Cousin Meri, when you choose to display them."
"I look forward," he said, rising to his feet, "to the moment when I may say the same of yours, Cousin Sian. A peaceful nighttide to you."
"And to you, Cousin," she answered softly.
It was warm, and the air was silvered with fog.
Becca looked about her, identifying the trunks of trees, and flowers in stern, ordered beds, reminiscent of the grounds at Artifex. She did not remember rising from her bed in Violet Moore's workroom, though she must have done so, nor walking out into this shrouded garden, clad yet in her chaste, white nightdress. Her feet were bare and the bandages were still wrapped around her wounded hands.
Where was she? She turned 'round about, trying to identify a landmark—or even a flower—but the mist made everything strange. Music moved on the hot, sluggish breeze, and the fog danced about her, stroking her face with wanton fingers. She shook her head, and took a breath; it seemed that the cool pleasant taste of duainfey touched her tongue.
She was, she thought, inside a dream—or, perhaps not precisely a dream. There was real danger here.
"I will awaken now," she said, but the mist she had inhaled cottoned the inside of her mouth and vanquished her voice aborning.
"Rebecca," a whisper, softened by fog, but she knew the voice. She would never forget his voice.
"Rebecca. Come to me,
zinchessa
."
She meant to stand firm; indeed, it seemed that the uncertain geography moved more than she did, the impish mist leaping at her side, plucking at the ribbons of her gown. It was so
warm
. Scarcely thinking, she pulled the ribbons, and allowed the fog and the turgid breeze to tug the opened gown down her arms and waft it away.
The fog continued to flow, wantonly stroking her nakedness, waking such desires that she nearly lay down on the unseen ground and allowed the phantom fingers to have their way with her.
"What have you done to your hands, foolish child?" The fog covered them, shaping itself around Violet Moore's careful bandages. "You must take better care of yourself,
zinchessa
. Had I known you would be so careless, I would not have considered leaving you alone."
"Altimere?" Her voice was sticky and warm, like the air, and her thighs, and the long strands of hair that the mist had teased loose from her braid.
"Altimere, what do you want?"
"I want you by my side, pretty child! It is what I have always wanted. Come to me, now. I know that you are able."
By his side, she thought, and felt a longing so intense she thought it would murder her on the spot, with the mist making sport of her breasts. But—had she not been by his side when his teacher Sanalda was slain, by his will and her hand? Had he not withdrawn his protection and exposed her to violence, shame, and agony?
She remembered; she remembered it all, so clearly. Looking down she saw golden light dripping like blood from her fog-locked fingers. Where the light touched, the fog burned away; and she saw in the flickering flames the blasted carcasses of trees. "No," she whispered. "No. I won't come to you."
The mist blew apart in a scalding blast; cruel fingers dug into her softest parts, and she screamed, gagging when the mist filled her throat with a taste like rotting flowers. The burning wind flung a white wraith into her arms—her nightdress, writhing like a mad thing. She clung to it and ran, the fog beating her now, until she fell, twisted, and sat up—
Whimpering and shaking, her limbs twisted in a blanket strongly scented of lavender, and a single rosy ray of sunlight creeping beneath the screen.
She focused on that sunbeam—clear and clean, and completely unlike the murky, disturbing fog of her dreams. And Altimere! What could it mean, that she dreamed of Altimere inside the
keleigh
?
Or had it, indeed, been a dream?
Could
he call her, even now, when she had rejected him?
Becca bit her lip. Surely, she thought, it had been a dream, born of the stresses of the day, and—and had she not only yesterday seen—and heard!—ghosts in the mists of
keleigh
? It was not wonderful that she had dreamed of it—nor that she should dream of Altimere. She suspected that he would figure in her dreams for the rest of her life.
She licked her lips, tasting blood.
"Nancy," she said softly, so as not to wake Violet Moore, should she still be abed in the next room. "Nancy, I would like to bathe and dress, please."
There was a moment of perfect stillness, while the sunbeam stretched along the floor, then three
poofs!
of displaced air in quick succession.
The first produced a stand and a pitcher at the far corner of the little alcove. The second, a wooden tub, steaming gently, sitting on a bright rag rug.
The third
poof!
produced Nancy herself, her arms filled with bundled clothing, and a pair of sturdy country shoes dangling from one delicate hand. She unburdened herself and flashed over to the bed, tugging the covers down with a will and harrying Becca out of her warm nest.
"Brute!" Becca laughed in spite of herself, pressed her fingers to her lips and looked guiltily at the screen.
"Yes, I'm up!" she continued in a whisper. "Now, attend me—
gently
, if you please, Miss!"
She slipped out of bed and approached the tub, pausing at its side. The rag rug was soft and comforting beneath bare feet, the steam rising from the water scented with mint and rosemary. Becca raised her left hand and clumsily used her bandaged right to unknot the dressings. The cloth fluttered down to the rug, revealing a smooth brown hand, the fingers long and well-formed—and not a scratch nor a scar to be seen.
She unwrapped her right hand with fingers that shook, and found a similar state of complete healing. It was as if, she thought, wondering, turning her hands over, she had never been wounded at all.
"It was only fremoni that she used to dress them," she whispered to Nancy's impatient flutter. "Easewerth in the water, to dull the worst of the pain, fremoni on the wounds before wrapping, and aleth tea to put the patient to sleep." She shook her fingers, imitating impatient wings. "Those should have been days a-healing."
Nancy's wings fluttered again, expressive of boredom, or possibly irritation. Becca felt her lips curve into a slight smile.
"Yes, I was the one who called for a bath," she said; "and the water is doubtless growing cold while I stand her and moon about. Your pardon, Nancy." She raised her unmarred hand and pulled the ribbons of her nightdress, shivering suddenly as she remembered her dream and the liberties taken by the mist . . .
The nightdress fell to pool on the rug about her feet. Becca stepped into the tub, and sat down, Nancy steadying her right elbow. She sighed in heartfelt contentment as the warm bath embraced her—and squeaked as water cascaded over her head.
She shook the hair out of her eyes in time to see Nancy replace the pitcher on the stand. The tiny creature twirled, plucked a bar of soap from the air, and approached with such an air of determination that Becca could almost see her shoving up sleeves she did not possess.
She denied him!
He leapt to his feet, dashing the glass away, anger dissolving wine and glass before ever they were swallowed by the mists.
After all his planning, his care, his—
Anger.
Deliberately, Altimere calmed his rising
kest
. The boiling mists withdrew somewhat as he did so, and that calmed him further. He had been close, oh, so very close to another entrapment, for the mist was greedy for
kest
, and for anything else that would fill up its nothingness and give it weight, form, being.