Copper Ravens (15 page)

Regardless of the dirty hands that forged it, the sword itself was a thing of beauty. It was perfectly balanced, and I held it as effortlessly as if it was an extension of my arm. Delicately engraved ravens and oak leaves swirled down the length of the wickedly sharp blade, and the steel hilt was accented with incised copper filigree.

“Ash knows that I'm of copper?” I murmured, tracing the delicate hilt that had somehow been wrought by that oafish man. Micah and I had retreated to our bedroom, since I felt that meeting one's first sword was a somewhat private matter. “And a Raven?”

“All know that the Lord of Silver has lost himself to a copper girl,” Micah said. “And all know that the Raven clan was instrumental in Ferra's demise.” He stood behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist while we admired the sword—
my
sword—together.

“Let me change, and then you can give me my first lesson,” I said as I wiggled free of his arms.

“I advise against changing out of your lovely clothes,” Micah said. “You should learn sword fighting while wearing one of your gowns, so you will understand how to compensate for their restrictions.”

“Micah, that's ridiculous!” I suspected he was having some sort of damsel in distress fantasy that featured me waving a sword while my skirts whipped around my legs. “And I hardly ever wear dresses.”

“You know I wish you'd wear them more often.”

Good gods, if it wasn't babies, it was dresses. “Okay. I'll let you teach me sword fighting while I'm wearing a dress, on one condition.”

“Name it, my Sara.”

“You, Mr. Silverstrand, must wear a skirt.”

His smile faded, and his eyes glazed over in mingled horror and disbelief. “Why would I do such a thing?”

“Well, you seem to think it's no big deal for me to wield an edged weapon while dressed to kill,” I explained. “Prove it.”

“Your argument is flawed.”

“How so?”

“As a man, I would never don such a garment.”

“In the Mundane realm there are entire countries where men wear skirts. All the time.”

“You're making—”

“Are you insinuating that your consort is lying to you?” My hand flew to my breast in mock outrage. “How could you ever,
ever
, suggest such a thing?”

Micah stared at me, his mouth smushed into a crooked line. “When next I venture to the Mundane realm, I will verify this claim,” he warned.

“Go ahead. The place is called Scotland.” After a bit more glaring and grumbling, we fashioned a passable kilt from one of our bed sheets and Micah's sword belt. (He outright refused to wear one of my gowns. Spoilsport.) He wouldn't even put it on in front of me, but retreated to his dressing room, muttering curses that would make even Mom blush. And I think I heard him throw a few things.

When Micah finally emerged in his skirted glory, he proclaimed that our lessons should take place in the gardens, as much for the open space as the soft ground to land on. And, you know, the fact that it was somewhat removed from the manor so no one would see his bare knees. Being that I had no reason to dispute his logic, off we went.

The walk through the manor was entertaining, to say the least. We encountered no one but silverkin, yet Micah's eyes darted after every noise. Who would have thought the confident Lord of Silver could be so undermined by a simple garment? I felt like I'd won already.

The ideal sparring location turned out to be the far side of the maze, that had no stone benches to stumble over, or potential onlookers to witness Micah's humiliation. It really was a shame that we didn't have an audience; what with Micah's sword, black boots, and white lace-up shirt, he was totally rocking the sexy pirate look.

“You'd make a great pirate,” I teased.

“Pie rat?” Micah repeated. “First, you trick me into donning this humiliating garment, and now you compare me to a rat that eats pies?”

“No, not a rat.” I sighed; he was just tormenting me. I hoped. “A pirate. Buccaneer. Sailor of the high seas.” Silver eyes stared blankly at me. “Have you ever been to an ocean?”

“Of course.”

“A pirate drives a boat on the ocean.”

“Sara, one does not drive a boat. One sails a ship.”

So he did know what I was talking about. “Can you start teaching me now? I don't want your legs to get chilly,” I added, smiling sweetly.

Micah's eyes narrowed, but he began my first real sword fighting lesson. First, he glided his hand along both of our blades, his palm flush to the edge. I shrieked when he did this with his own sword, but after he showed me he wasn't bleeding, he explained that he'd added an enchantment to our weapons, to make them safe for our little practice session.

“Did you blunt the edges?” I asked, watching intently as he repeated the procedure with my sword.

“They are as sharp as ever,” he replied, to my relief. I wanted to have a sword for at least an entire day before it was wrecked. And I wanted to do the wrecking. “I merely asked the blades to harm neither me nor my consort.”

Magic just seemed to get cooler by the day. “And they agreed?”

“They did.”

“Huh.” I flicked the pad of my thumb against the edge; it still looked sharp, but it felt smooth, almost like the edge of a porcelain plate. “How long does the spell last?”

“Not a spell, love,” Micah clarified. “The metal has agreed to abide by our terms. Treat your sword well, and you will have an ally for life.”

“I like allies,” I murmured. I stroked my thumb against the not-sharp-to-me edge again, then I grinned at Micah. “Well? Let's get started.”

After a few brief instructions about the proper way to hold a sword, and a few terrible (even for me) pirate jokes, I stood back and affected the stance Mom taught me. Based on Micah's expression, it was quite an improvement from the yoga pose.

“En garde!”
I waved my new sword with a flourish. At that, Micah shook his head and smiled, and our lesson began.

Perhaps it was because the sword was made for me, or maybe I really had inherited some of my mother's warrior-queen blood, but swordplay seemed to come naturally. Before the wars, and our lives taking the express route to hell in a hand basket, I'd taken classical dance lessons. Swordplay turned out to be quite similar, with the feints and jabs like a graceful dance between opponents. Micah said as much, complimenting my fast learning after a successful parry that neither of us thought I'd make.

“It must be the skirt slowing you down,” I teased. “What have you got on under there, anyway?” I used my sword's point to lift the edge of his makeshift kilt, but Micah knocked the blade away. “Oh, so you're modest now?”

“I am nothing of the sort,” he snapped. “This is… unnatural.” He gestured at his decidedly unmanly getup.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you! Really, Micah, this dress obsession of yours has got to go.”

“A wager, then?”

The man in the skirt wants to make a bet. Intriguing. “What sort of wager?”

“One more bout. If you win, I will never speak ill of your man's clothing again.”

“And if you win?”

“You'll wear that dress for each and every one of our lessons.” He was grinning as he spoke, and, being that I was panting like I'd just run a marathon, I couldn't figure out why. Then I followed his gaze to my heaving, sweaty, pushed up by a corset bosom.

The poufy-haired bastard really
was
having a damsel in distress fantasy.

Oh, now I was mad.

I came at him in a flurry, swinging and striking like a madwoman. In fact, I was acting like such a madwoman that Micah had no trouble fending me off. He even laughed as he parried my ineffectual blows.

“If you could only see how lovely you look,” he said, executing another parry that left our hilts locked together.

I'll show him what's lovely
. I dug my heels into the soft ground and braced myself, shifting the brunt of his force onto my shoulder. Grinning wickedly, I slipped my free hand underneath his skirt, grabbed him, and squeezed. Micah's eyes went big as saucers, but he did not admit defeat. Instead, he ducked his head and bit my breast. Hard!

I yelped and hopped backwards, dropping my sword in the process. Being that I still had hold of Micah's most valued possessions, he moved with me, and we hit the ground as a tangled knot of limbs, thankfully with neither of us accidentally injuring the other. Once we stopped laughing, talk turned to who had won the bout.

“I made you fall,” Micah said. “And you dropped your sword.”

“I think the fight was done when I grabbed you,” was my retort. “After all, you wouldn't want to get hurt here.” Since I'd retained my handful of Micah, I gently traced all the places he'd rather not enjoy an injury.

“That would be terrible,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the pink impression his teeth had left in my breast.

“I can't believe you bit me.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked, now intent on unfastening my bodice. It was always much easier for Micah to get me out of these confounding outfits than it was for me to get into them.

“It does,” I murmured. “You should kiss it. Twice.” He did, and again and again, while his deft fingers worked on my corset. Once he freed me from my bone and satin cell, I sat up and shook out my hair, having decided that he owed me somewhat more of an apology. I was still in my gown, from the waist down anyway, and Micah was technically fully dressed, but my, that skirt of his did make things easier.

Afterward, we snuggled on the sheet that was recently a skirt, my dress folded into a pillow beneath our heads. “About my next lesson,” I began.

“Yes, love?”

“Can we get you a proper kilt for that one?” I asked, tracing small circles on his belly. “I'm beginning to see what you like about all these skirts.”

He laughed, hugging me a bit tighter. “I thought you were against this…how did you put it?…‘damsel in distress' nonsense.”

“Maybe it's not all bad,” I conceded. “After all, what if you were the one in distress, and I needed to rescue you?”

“What if, indeed.”

14

T
he day after our swordplay/wardrobe lesson, Micah was off somewhere, doing something important yet again, and I was once more trolling the manor trying to find new and interesting ways to amuse myself. This particular important event of Micah's had something to do with the annual tithe from the village. Yep, he used the word “tithe,” which I then learned was really just a fancy word for taxes. It also meant that I now knew one of the ways Micah managed the Whispering Dell, not to mention how he earned some of his money. Finally, I'd learned something about how Micah managed the village. It was just my luck that I learned the most boring part first.

It seemed that taxes really were unavoidable, even in the Otherworld. Being that I have no great love of tax payments or bureaucracy, I wasn't exactly pining to join Micah. I was just bored. Again.

Mom's advice echoed around in my skull, mostly because she was right. If I wanted to be happy here in the Otherworld, I needed more in my life than just Micah. I mean, even when (and if) I became his full-fledged wife, he won't always be around to entertain me, what with his many obligations as the Lord of Silver. Then I remembered that being his wife meant having babies,
lots
of babies, and realized that too much free time probably wouldn't be one of my problems. I hope this tithe was large enough for us to hire a few nannies. For the sake of the babies, of course.

I sighed and stepped outside the manor to walk in the gardens. I suppose I could have passed the time by helping Sadie set up her library, but with the exception of a few comic series and some trashy prewar paperbacks, I'd never been much of a reader. Of course, I'd never done much of anything in my spare time, except go to happy hour and watch television. So much of my life had been devoted to being unremarkable that I'd never bothered developing any hobbies, not even a lame one like stamp collecting. All of this unremarkableness had led directly to my current plague of boredom. Now, when I was finally free to do whatever I wanted, I couldn't think of a damn thing to do with myself.

Maybe I'll take up sculpturing
. My feet had led me to the knot garden, and I was contemplating the statue of Micah's mother that was its centerpiece. I was a passable artist, at least where drawing was concerned, even though all I'd ever really done was copy my favorite comics. While I didn't think that qualified me as an
artiste
, I figured that my metal abilities should give me an edge in sculpting; I remembered Max telling me how he had made tiny metal flowers for a girl he liked. I decided not to dwell on the fact that those flowers were what made him the Institute for Elemental Research's favorite science experiment.

I can start with roses
, I mused, fingering a velvety petal.
I can make the thorns sharp as needles, like barbed wire, and the petals will be so lush and—

“Sara.”

I turned to see my mother skulking behind the boxwood hedge, axe—or rather, one of the hatchets the silverkin used for chopping wood—in hand. Being that the boxwoods were only knee high, she looked utterly ridiculous, like an extra in a low-budget slasher film. Just like that, I wished for more boredom. “Yes?”

“Shh!” she hissed. “We've a boggart loose.” She motioned for me to follow, and we headed toward the orchard.

“One of Max's?” I whispered.

“Aye,” she replied. I wondered if Mom realized that, the longer she was in the Otherworld, the more her Irish accent returned. Before I could ask, she held up her hand. “Look, the wee beastie's eaten itself into a stupor.”

I followed her gaze and saw that the boggart was propped up against a tree, belly swollen and peach pits scattered around its feet. With its mud-colored skin, elongated snout, and pointy ears, it looked like a cartoonist's acid trip.