Roses (13 page)

“Go and look inside!” said one woman, her tall lace headdress bobbing on her head as she spoke. “Isole’s done it all up real nice.”

Taking her father’s arm, Isole led him into the cottage, and Beauty meekly followed. It had only two rooms: the downstairs and the attic. On the far wall were three pens with various livestock in them and a wooden table set before a fireplace in the corner. A ladder near the door led to the attic and there were two large chests with fasten doors.

“I been saving the sticks yur sent me,” said Isole. “And I bought them animals myself. I hoped yur’d come home.”

Owaine clumsily embraced her.

“Thank yur, my child. I can’t thank yur enough.”

Beauty stared at the goat, calf, and chickens in horror. Owaine noticed and hid a wry smile.

“Winters are hard here, Beauty,” he said quietly. “And we live simple lives. Yur’ll learn to love Imwane, yur will.”

Isole frowned. “These be the best animals about. I got Hally to buy them from town.”

“They’re just right, my child. But this’s a different life for Beauty. . . . And speaking of, there’s only two sleeping chests.”

“Well I didn’t know yur were bringing a . . . child.”

“Mayhap I could buy another? But I scarce have sticks left after the journey.”

Beauty did not like the idea of sleeping locked in such a thing.

“No, I can sleep on a bedroll.” She glanced at the pens. “In the attic,” she added.

“I’ll do that, child. Yur can sleep in my closet.”

“No. I insist.”

“Yur sure?”

Beauty nodded and Isole fixed her with a hard stare.

After they were sure that the travelers were settled, the villagers of Imwane brought in the luggage and then left for the evening.

“We’ll give yur a few days to straighten out before we speak of work,” said Hally, shaking Owaine’s hand as they left. “It’s good to have yur back among us, Cousin. I know Isole has prayed to the gods for yur return.”

Owaine glanced over his shoulder at his daughter, already sewing before the fire, and he smiled.

“I thank yur, Cousin.”

When they were finally alone, Owaine began unpacking the saddlebags and setting things to rights.

“What yur doing?” he asked Beauty, noticing her lingering by the door. “Yur should be resting, gods know yur deserve a rest after that journey.”

“I am worried for Comrade,” she muttered.

“All Hilland animals roam around the village. He’ll be safe, Beauty, don’t fret.”

“But he is not a Hilland animal.”

Owaine sighed. “I’ll check him for yur, but yur stay here. Isole? Why not measure Beauty for an anth and dress? Then she’ll look like a proper Hill girl.”

Owaine left and Isole motioned Beauty to her side.

“Get here, then.”

Up close, Beauty noticed Isole’s ruddy cheeks and thick jaw. The lines about the edges of her eyes gave away her age, for she was older than she acted.

“Don’t stare at me so!”

Beauty squeaked as Isole pinched her hard on the arm. A deep, plum bruise rose to her silvery skin.

“Let’s measure yur then!”

She shoved Beauty to the side and roughly pulled a tape measure around her.

“Yur might wear the clothes, but yur’ll never be a Hillander,” she snarled. “Remember that.”

Beauty stumbled away from Isole in surprise.

“I said don’t stare so!”

Isole jumped up, looking as if she might slap her, and Beauty quickly grabbed her bedroll and climbed the attic ladder to safety.

“Yur stay up there! Yur beast!”

Owaine entered some moments later and looked about the room.

“Where be Beauty?”

Isole glanced up from her sewing. “She went to the attic. She were tired.”

“I don’t doubt it. Beauty?”

She peered over the edge of the ladder and Owaine smiled at her.

“Comrade be fine, I checked him myself. Thought I should tell yur before yur went to sleep.”

Beauty nodded.

“Papa, come and sit by the fire. I want to tell yur stories.”

Owaine obeyed his daughter and Beauty went about laying down her bedroll. She had thought that in the Hillands she would at least have a real bed. She had not realized how different it would be among these people.

Downstairs she could hear Isole chattering away and she tried to block the noise. Beauty did not understand why Owaine’s daughter hated her so—she did not understand why anyone hated her so.

She pulled her cover over her, trying not to notice the uneven floorboards or the sacks of grain in the corner that saturated the air with the scent of maize. The thatched roof above her had cobwebs in it and she thought that she could hear a mouse scuffling, not to mention the various sounds of the animals in the room below.

Beauty shivered. It was the first night that she had spent under cover in a long time, but she was still cold and she could not get comfortable on the hard floor. Wriggling around, she decided to take off her amulet, for it was pressing into the skin of her chest. As she pulled it over her head, she looked at its glinting disk and touched its engraved surface. She realized that she was a long way from Houses and ballrooms and syrupy tea. There was a beam above her head with a loose nail and she hung the amulet on it. There would be no point wearing it any longer, for it meant nothing in a place like this.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

The Temple

B
eauty tried to adjust to her new life in the hills, but whenever she left the house, the villagers ran from her. They whispered as she explored the valley, pointed as she passed on the paths, and mothers called children to their sides whenever she was near.

Beauty felt even lonelier than she had at Rose Herm and were it not for Comrade she would have no one to speak to. Owaine was busy sorting out work with Hally and she did not like to stay in the house with Isole around, ready to snap and smack her when her father was away. One time, Isole heard Beauty call Owaine “Papa” and it threw her into a rage.

“How dare yur! He isn’t yur papa! He’s nothing to yur!”

“But . . . but he told me to call him that,” Beauty cried, cowering.

Isole slapped her hard, leaving a burning sting across her face.

“Never call him that again! Do yur hear? Never!”

With nowhere else to go, Beauty spent long hours sitting on the hillside with Comrade grazing beside her. She would speak to the
old black stallion, and sometimes she would weep on his shoulder, breathing in the sweet, dusty smell of his coat.

She did not regret leaving Sago, for she was old enough to realize that she had escaped mortal danger, but she was beginning to resent the Hillanders. When Owaine came to find her one evening to tell her the “good” news that Isole had finished making her an anth and Hilland dress, Beauty could not muster much enthusiasm. She had spent the day sitting on the hillside with Comrade again, watching the rest of Imwane go about their business.

“Yur’ll come to the temple tomorrow?”

Beauty had not attended a ceremony at the temple on the hill yet, since Owaine had wanted her to settle first.

“Yur’ll be able to go dressed like a proper Hilland girl now.”

Beauty nodded glumly. The thought of sitting among those who despised her did not fill her with joy.

“I am worried about Comrade,” she said.

Owaine looked at the black stallion who was standing nearby, and panic flashed across his face. Beauty saw it and her heart sank.

“Tell me the truth,” she added quietly.

“He’s old and the journey were hard.”

“Can you not do something? Can you not help him?”

“There ain’t no cure for old age, but he ain’t in pain either. Don’t be sad, my child—”

“Do not call me that! I am not your child!”

Owaine glanced at her bowed, white head.

“I won’t call you so if you don’t want to be.”

“I do not.”

He nodded and quietly walked away.

Once he was gone, Beauty ran to Comrade’s side and wrapped her arms around his neck. He snorted softly and nosed her back as she sobbed. “Please do not go,” she whispered. “Please do not leave me.”

But she knew that he must, because she had dreamt it.

The next evening, Isole came to fetch Beauty.

“Yur should make yurself more useful!” she snapped, hauling Beauty from the rock she had been sitting on and propelling her down the hillside. “I been making dinner and sewing yur dress, and what yur been doing? Talking to that horse! Troublesome, bad creature. The temple’s no place for yur.”

Isole dragged Beauty to the cottage and pushed her inside.

“Put on them clothes I made!”

Beauty peeled off her dress and climbed into the blue smock that all the Hilland women wore. It had a high neck and long sleeves and its skirt came to her ankles. It itched and chaffed her shoulders, and she looked longingly at her old peasant dress. She had brought all her clothes from Sago with her, though there were few of them and they were looking tatty and worn from the hard journey.

“Yur still look strange,” hissed Isole, tying a white apron around Beauty’s waist.

The cottage door opened and Owaine entered, startling the chickens in the pen.

“Look at yur, Beauty!” he cried. “Don’t yur look a pretty girl!”

She smiled weakly at him.

“Yur did a great job, Isole.”

“Thank yur, Papa. It weren’t easy, and I hope she appreciates it.”

“Yur does, don’t yur, Beauty?”

She turned to Isole and slowly placed her left hand to her chest. Isole’s lip curled.

“Now put on her anth and we can head to the temple. I suspect Beauty wants to show off her pretty new clothes to all them other girls.”

Isole took a white headdress from a stand. She had ironed the lace into intricate folds all day and then set it with starch to create a stiff, coned hat.

“It . . . it won’t go,” she muttered, trying to fix it to Beauty’s silky, white hair.

Beauty winced as a pin stabbed her scalp.

“Careful, Isole, you gotta be gentle,” said Owaine.

“It won’t go!”

The anth kept sliding off of Beauty’s head.

“It’s Magic!” screamed Isole, throwing the anth to the floor.

“It ain’t! And I will never hear you say such a thing!” said Owaine.

Isole blinked at her father in surprise.

“I’ll try it again,” she whispered.

In the end, Isole fixed it with a row of tight pins that looked as if they might slip away at any moment. The anth sat lopsided on Beauty’s head and wobbled precariously whenever she moved.

“It’ll do,” Isole growled, her brow damp.

They left their cottage and climbed the steep hillside with the other villagers. A steady stream of families was making its way to the temple and congregating outside its doors. When Beauty appeared there was much muttering and shifting among the crowd, and one by one, everyone made a sign to the gods.

Feeling their damning eyes on her, Beauty bowed her head.

“Good evening to yur Imwane brothers and sisters,” said a booming voice.

It was the preacher. Dressed in the rags of a peasant he traveled the hills giving sermons in the village temples. He had a strong, muscular body and a clean, clear face despite his nomadic lifestyle.

“I have much to speak to yur of,” he said, patting his satchel of scrolls about his shoulder. “Enter and we may begin.”

Following him, the villagers crowded into the temple, chattering. There was nothing inside except the bare, hard floor, and Owaine
guided Beauty to a corner where they knelt, pressing their hands against the earth. She glanced up at the high, wooden ceiling, painted gold like the rest of the temple and coming away in places.

“Settle, all of yur,” cried the preacher. “We have much to speak of—”

“There is an evil one among us!”

Gasps of surprise echoed around the temple, and a woman stood and pointed at Beauty.

“I can’t be silent no longer! Not in the gods’ house! Owaine, yur my kin by marriage, but I can’t let yur bring that under-realm thing here!”

Hally pulled at the elbow of his wife, Duna.

“No, Hally!” she gasped. “The women be scared! We can’t let this happen.”

“I fear for my children!” another voice cried.