A Turn of Light (58 page)

He leaned on the doorframe. “You send much mail?”

“A fair amount. The next bag goes with Uncle Horst before the harvest,” Peggs chatted easily as she scooped porridge into a bowl. “Frann writes articles on weaving. She’s had some published by her guild. Master Dusom corresponds with the university in Avyo. Gallie Emms keeps in touch with her publisher. Oh, and every fall, Lorra Treff sends her letter to the prince.”

Tir’s eyes narrowed. “What about?”

He thought of Bannan, Jenn realized with a jolt. Of how important it was that no one in Vorkoun—or anywhere with people who traveled and talked—learn a Larmensu had been the truthseer among the border guard. Hadn’t Bannan asked her to keep his talent from the tinkers, who certainly went outside Marrowdell? He’d understood that risk; she should have.

Well, she did now. “Lorra calls the prince names and tells him how to rule Rhoth,” she explained quickly. “Don’t worry. Davi burns the letters without her knowing. Please don’t say anything.”

She saw the curve of Peggs’ smile. So it wasn’t a secret. Few things seemed to stay that way long in Marrowdell. Well, no matter what it took, Jenn decided, Bannan’s past would. Not that anyone here loved the Rhothan prince, but there was no sense being careless.

Jenn took the packet, but not the coin, from Tir. “I’ll put this with Father’s,” she promised, then looked up. “Would you do me a favor?” she asked shyly. “Would you kindly take a letter from me, when you go to the farm?” As a gleam appeared, she added hastily. “For Wyll.”

“Only Wyll?” Behind his mask, Tir was grinning at her. She knew it. “So you’ve made up your mind, then?”

Her cheeks flamed.

Peggs, ever her ally, pressed the filled tray into his hands. “Why don’t you take this on the porch, Tir? We’ll let Poppa know you’re here.”

“That’d be most kind.” He slipped out the door, leaving Jenn with her mouth half-open, then stuck his masked face in through the kitchen window. “Write your love letter, girl. I’ll take it this afternoon.”

The outrageous man vanished from sight before Jenn could do more than close her mouth.

“‘Love letter.’”

“Nothing of the kind,” she denied hotly, still flustered. “I left without—it’s not fair to—I—”

Peggs chuckled. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

Jenn gave her a suspicious look. “You do?”

At her most innocent, her sister took the leather packet and handed her the drying towel. “Of course. What is it Aunt Sybb says?” she mused. “Ah, yes. ‘The spoken word’s a chancy thing, but in his letters, you’ll find a man’s heart.’ They’ll write back. You’ll see.”

Jenn wasn’t sure Wyll could write, though she shouldn’t underestimate him. “I didn’t say I’d write Bannan as well.”

“Oh, but you must.” A contented sigh. “Letters are so romantic.”

“You write them, then,” Jenn glowered.

Peggs pulled a slip of well-folded paper from her bodice. “I do.” She fanned the note under her sister’s nose. “Kydd’s wonderfully eloquent.” Jenn tried to snatch it, but her bright-eyed sister was too quick. “Some things are not for sharing,” she stated firmly, tucking away her prize. “Write and you shall receive.”

“I’m not writing love letters,” Jenn repeated firmly. “To either of them!”

Though she wouldn’t mind receiving one of her own, to see what it was like.

The village gate stood open to the road. It preferred being open, having old hinges and a rickety middle. Closing it did nothing to hinder escaped piglets anyway, and anything larger, with a mind to, could push it flat.

Past the open gate, the road flowed from Jenn Nalynn’s feet to the trout path, to the bend, to wherever else it was inclined to go. Later today, it would take Uncle Horst and Roche, as well as Tir’s letters, to Endshere, for the two went to arrange for Aunt Sybb’s escort after the harvest. Riding back, they’d meet the twins and help bring the livestock home for the winter. Marrowdell was starting to feel the season’s change and stir.

For once, Jenn didn’t care about the season or the road, having another, closer destination in mind.

The path to the ossuary led off to her left, tidy and raked smooth, but narrow. By this time of year, the hedge became a little uppity, as Aunt Sybb would call it, and soon Master Dusom or Zehr would take a day to trim back the intruding growth.

Jenn didn’t mind. The shadowed path was cool and peaceful, crisscrossed by single-minded bees and the odd spiderweb, and it was easy to duck under the branches. She needed the peace. Writing took more time and invention than she’d realized, particularly with Aunt Sybb keeping an eye on her handwriting.

Tiny birds hopped between the leaves, too busy stuffing themselves with berries to startle, and a butterfly with yellow spots landed on the flower in her hand, unrolling its long black tongue for a taste.

Melusine’s rose.

The path opened on the patch of ground the villagers had claimed for their dead, carpeted in low-growing flowers. Moss surrounded the flat stones beneath the bench at one end and a grove of old trees softened the rock wall behind, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze.

Sunlight shone through the sigils, casting the names of the Blessed on petal and leaf. Jenn laid the rose gently within her mother’s. At the Midwinter Beholding, all was beneath a blanket of snow, and, to be honest, the younger villagers, herself included, struggled to stand quietly during the ritual and not stamp their booted feet to warm chilled toes, the feast and dance to follow being of greater interest.

Not so today. Today was a lovely morning.

Today she needed more than ritual. She needed to be heard and answered.

Answers. Jenn lifted her hands to let the sun write “Melusine” across her palms. Questions overwhelmed her. Dreams and dragons. Crossings and carrots. The Great Turn and the Ancestors’ Golden Day . . .

What had their mother been like, before her nineteenth birthday?

A fine young lady of Avyo, of course, but what did that mean? Aunt Sybb’s stories painted a life of appropriate behavior and proper protocol, which was well and good in public, but surely Melusine had her private moments and joys. Had she a place like Night’s Edge? Had she other suitors? When had she fallen in love with Radd Nalynn?

How had she known he was the one?

It was terribly inconvenient, not to have those answers.

Or a mother.

Jenn brought her hands to her heart, giving Melusine’s name back to the rose. She was here, she reminded herself, to share with the Ancestors, not complain about what couldn’t be.

“Ancestors Dear and Departed,” she began in a small, carefully solemn voice, “I suppose I’d better start with the wishing. That’s pagan magic.” Which the Ancestors would know, as they’d know about the books in the hives, and Uncle Horst and Melusine, and the secrets and hopes of everyone stretching back through time itself. Though they’d likely have to wait till midwinter to learn about Hettie and her baby-to-come, and she doubted Wyll would be inclined to share at all, having been a dragon and thus having no Rhothan Ancestors to listen.

Her wits were thistledown and clouds.

She composed herself. “The wishing wasn’t Peggs’ fault or Wainn’s or anyone else’s. I was the one who wanted—”

“Oh.”

Jenn looked up at the little gasp to find Riss Nahamm standing in the hedge. Well, not in the hedge so much as come through it. Since the yard behind Wagler Jupp’s house was on the other side of the hedge, where Riss hung laundry and tended a small garden, she was the most reasonable person to come through but . . . the hedge was there for a reason. Not even Wainn’s old pony could force himself past those thick branches.

“I’m sorry, Jenn. I heard someone and—I’ll leave you be.” As Riss retreated the way she’d come, Jenn could see the thick branches had been cut away, leaving only thin ones, like a curtain. It was very cleverly done, though why anyone would want a secret door to the ossuary when there was a perfectly good path, she couldn’t imagine.

“I’m not sure why I’m here anyway,” Jenn admitted.

Riss paused, her long fingers lingering on the leaves. “It’s a good place,” she said softly, with a little smile.

Perhaps the secret door was for quick visits to her cousin, the way their father visited their mother. The ossuary was secluded for more than the peace of the Ancestors and living with Old Jupp had to be wearing at times.

Though that didn’t explain why Riss wore her hair loose at this hour of the morning, nor the spray of pretty white flowers tucked above one delicate ear, nor did a visit to the Ancestors require a rolled blanket under one arm, since the bench was right there.

As for that lively sparkle in her eyes? Just like the one in Peggs’ when she’d shown her love letter?

She didn’t, Jenn decided, want to know. “I’ll leave,” she offered hastily.

“No need, Dear Heart.” Spotting the rose, Riss came forward as if drawn. “That’s Melusine’s,” she said with surprise. “I didn’t know you could pick them.”

“It picked itself.” And had, as far as Jenn knew.

Riss smiled and briefly bent to touch a petal, her unbound hair rippling across her back like a red satin cloak edged in white. “I should have guessed. That’s how it came to Marrowdell in the first place.” At Jenn’s expression, she chuckled. “Have you not heard the story? Of Melusine and this rose?”

The two had been close friends before she was born. Had the Ancestors listened? Jenn wasn’t sure they did anything more than that, but it did seem remarkable to immediately find someone who could answer her questions.

“Not that one,” she said eagerly. “Aunt Sybb told us how mother had to flee Avyo, because her family didn’t approve of our father.” Jenn hesitated, but it had been secret only from her and Peggs. “And about Uncle Horst.”

Riss gave her a keen look. “He couldn’t love you more. You must know that.”

Jenn nodded, warm inside. For some reason, the sun grew a little brighter and warmer, as if it had slipped from behind a faint, high cloud. In the glade, it felt more like midsummer and perfume from the rose filled the air.

“Ah, the rose.” Riss paused for an appreciative sniff. “Say what you will about them, the Semanaryas had a gift for roses. They grew them everywhere on their estate. This one climbed the wall outside Melly’s bedroom. Handily so.” She chuckled. “Before they were married, she’d nip out her window and down its trellis to meet your father, with none the wiser.”

“So that’s why she brought the rose,” Jenn concluded happily. Could it be more romantic than this? “As a sign of their love.”

“Not exactly.” Riss’ eyes shone. “She didn’t bring the rose. The rose chose to come.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve heard Melusine’s family tricked her into coming home that night, locking her in her old room?” At Jenn’s nod, she continued, “Melusine packed what she could carry—having little Peggs, as well—and nipped out the window neat as could be. Only it wasn’t a simple thing, climbing with such burdens and in formal dress, and she slipped. The roses caught her.” A dimple showed. “Melly said the worst of it was trying not to swear while she pulled herself free of the thorns. Someone might have heard, you see.”

Jenn winced in sympathy, having pricked herself more than once.

“She met your father and they fled through the gates,” Riss went on. “It wasn’t until they were well away from the city that Radd had a chance to tell her she had twigs tangled in her hair. Melly claimed the rose had escaped with her, and deserved a new home too. A better home. They certainly grew well. We all loved them.” Her face grew thoughtful. “They were something of home.”

Riss had been young then. Young and beautiful, with suitors and prospects and a full life ahead. Until that same night. “Have you been happy here?” asked Jenn without thinking, then blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“Dear Heart, you should.” Emphatically. “Sometimes we talk about the past as if it matters more than the present, and it doesn’t.” Riss grinned. “No matter what my beloved uncle claims.”

Remembering parrots, Jenn grinned back.

Riss lifted her face to the sun and half closed her eyes. “Marrowdell, you won my heart long ago—”

“Marrowdell, was it?” said the man stepping into the ossuary.

Jenn’s eyes widened. Riss, a blanket, and . . . Uncle Horst?

She couldn’t have uttered a word if she tried.

His smile altered ever so slightly when he saw Riss wasn’t alone, though it was no less warm. “Fair morning, Jenn. And to you, Riss,” A small bow.

She inclined her head. “Indeed it is, Sennic.”

Uncle Horst had a first name?

He carried a pair of the snips used for hedge trimming, which might have made sense except that he was supposed to leave for Endshere today. Worst of all, he wore a clean, if faded, linen shirt instead of his usual leather, and looked to have recently bathed.

Jenn realized she was staring when his smile faded. He looked down at Melusine’s name and the rose. Twin spots of color appeared on his cheeks. When he looked up again, his face might have been carved from stone. “My apologies for the intrusion.” Another, quicker bow, then he turned and strode away.

“Sennic—” Riss let her outstretched hand drop to her side. For an instant, disappointment curved her shoulders.