Dearest (11 page)

Friday’s eyebrows raised. “You paint, sir?”

She sounded like a princess just then, and not an amused one. The twins ceased their playing. Rene’s usual boldness fled. Instead of answering the question, he resumed his study of the crumbling stones in the wall behind him.

“As boys we wanted for nothing,” Tristan explained. “We made our own adventures; we didn’t need to seek solace in the tales of others.”

“Oh, but reading and writing are so much more than that,” Friday said, in the same tone a woman might use to describe her lover. Tristan suddenly felt jealous; as one who gave and received love so easily, Friday certainly must have a legion of suitors. Where did his affections fall among the others? Did destiny and Wednesday’s binding magic work in his favor here, or against him?

He was getting ahead of himself. After so many long days and nights of waiting, everything was happening so fast. It hurt Tristan’s head to think about it. It did not, however, hurt Tristan’s head to think about Friday. “I would learn, if you would teach me.”

Did he really just say that? Did he really mean it?

“The reading or the weaving?” Friday asked in a mocking tone.

He could have made a joke in kind, but he didn’t. “Both,” he said. “I’m willing to learn.”

“Would you mind sewing? Or spinning?”

“I have nothing but time.” Tristan lost himself a little in that gaze full of silver linings, and Friday let him. It felt like there had been a much greater conversation than the few words they’d just uttered.

Sebastien interrupted the blissful reverie. “Interestingly enough, I find myself in the same boat.”

“Me too!” said Christian. “What a coincidence!”

“It’s a fairly large boat,” said Bernard.

“A
crowded
boat,” added Rene.

“Fools, all of you.” Philippe crossed his arms and leaned back against the ruined wall of the room. Spoilsport. Well, Tristan and the rest of his brothers would not shy from work, even if it was work meant for women.

Friday smiled, that dazzling smile, the one that looked as if she’d just been handed the world on a silver platter. “It’s a lovely offer. A
surprising
offer, I must say. But I only brought enough materials for three people to weave.”

Tristan moved to help her, striding over to the stack of picture frames. “One is for Elisa.” Elisa took the frame from him gratefully, upended the sack of yarn, and made a selection. “The rest of us will take turns with the others while you instruct. How does that sound?”

For a moment, the glow of Friday’s happiness wiped away the shadows of exhaustion around her eyes. Tristan wanted to bask in that glow, to pay tribute to it in gold coins and flowers, to sweep her up and carry her off to a castle full of laughter and adventures they made up all their own . . . but he did none of these things.

Not yet.

“It sounds like a dream come true,” said Friday.

“Excellent. You get us started, and we’ll let you get to dreaming.”

7

T
HEY LET HER REST
a while, as promised. The youngest brother fashioned her a pallet out of the empty sack, the extra yarn, and what blankets they had. Tristan planted himself at her side, as much between her and his other brothers as he was between her and the perilous drop to the ground far below. His presence was a comfort, and she let herself enjoy it. If one of the tenets of the Earth Goddess was to celebrate life, how could her acolytes eschew love?

Friday heard Sister Carol’s voice echo in her head. “Love is born of the earth, and so we return our love to Her. Loving other people is a distraction.”

If that were truly so, then Friday was doomed from the start. She almost wished she had it in herself to stop trying to please Sister Carol.

The rain had come in full force as Friday began her weaving lessons, but it had not impeded their process. Elisa’s protective bubble—furnished by her own natural magic and reinforced by that of the Four Winds, the patron gods of their family—became visible as the heavenly barrage hit silently and slid down the sides, as if the room they were in still had four full walls and a roof, all made of rain.

Friday stared up at the candlelit droplets, listened to the raucous sounds of refugees below enjoying their long-awaited bath, and willed herself to sleep. She would need all the energy she could muster in the next few days—there were too many things that required her attention and not enough of her to go around. Perhaps in trade for reading and weaving lessons, Tristan and his brothers would tell her how to lead an army. If she could properly give commands, perhaps she wouldn’t feel compelled to take on so many tasks herself . . . just like Mama . . . though Mama could command anyone . . .

These were not thoughts that would lead to slumber. Annoyed, Friday stared up at the cascading rain-roof again and tried to clear her head. She swept all thoughts of Mama, Arilland, and everything else into a mental cupboard and shut the door. Peace, at last.

Without warning, Tristan’s face popped into her mind.

Friday scowled. Thoughts of him weren’t restful either. If she couldn’t drift off, she should probably stop feigning sleep and go back to supervising her novice weavers.

Softly, serenely, the twins began to sing. It was a forlorn tune in a language Friday didn’t understand, but she could sense the feeling conveyed by the words, something akin to unrequited love, or longing for a faraway home. Whatever the subject matter, the lullaby was the missing ingredient to her peace. Friday was swept up in the melody and ushered off to dreamland.

She slept fitfully, half waking at a man’s laugh, a word, a snore, and her dreams were strange. Saturday and Erik rode giant waves that crashed against the Woodcutter house, the top room of its tower now a beacon, calling them home . . . or warning them away. She dreamt of a setting sun that threatened to set fire to the sky; to protect her family from the flames, she had to weave a carpet of thorns from the rose bushes planted around the Woodcutter house. Fires sparked and her fingers bled and the light engulfed them all . . .

In that light she saw Tristan’s face again, looking down upon her. Sadness, anger, confusion, and pain fell like the impotent droplets on the invisible ceiling above them. Buried deep beneath those feelings, Friday knew, lay some glimmer of hope—it was up to her to foster that spark with kindness and love. From that morass of emotions, she could not read his expression. Was he protecting her, or saying goodbye? Behind him now, the deep cerulean sky was peppered with the pink-tinged clouds of morning. And then suddenly it wasn’t Tristan, in the dream way that people are not: his face and eyes had gone dark and his hair had gone silver-white. But it wasn’t silver . . . or, rather, it wasn’t hair. Friday felt more pain, a surge of wind, a pull at her chest, a stretching of her tailbone, a prickling of her skin. A brush of feathers kissed her cheek, and the low thrum of wings became her own heart’s beat.

Friday sat up.

She wasn’t dreaming.

The sky tower room was empty now, but for Friday, Elisa, and a few stray silver-white feathers scattered about the room. Friday’s soul was empty too, but for a hum in her mind, the soft whisper of a frightened girl distracting herself from the tasks of the day, and the challenge of her life.

They have gone,
said the voice in her head.
It was time.
Elisa’s mousy scullery maid visage had also returned with the sun. Golden tresses and alabaster skin had been replaced with the scraggly hair and scrawny limbs of a young, malnourished scamp. Said scamp was currently folding her brothers’ clothes so that they might be fresh upon their return.

“You should have woken me earlier,” said Friday. “I could have seen them off.”

My brothers have always been proud,
said Elisa.
I do not believe they would like you to see the curse take power over them.
She finished folding the next shirt and plucked at her tattered apron.
I cannot do much in this state, but I will save them from what pain I can.

Speaking of pain . . . “How are your fingers this morning?”

Elisa bent her knuckles, made a few fists, and then shrugged.

Friday took the girl’s hands in her own and kissed the fingertips . . . now free of redness. She dropped Elisa’s hands, hiding what damage she had taken upon her own in the folds of her dress.

My pain. You have subsumed it.

“I promise to endure what I can, when I can. The god’s remedy said you had to bleed, but it did not say for how long.” Friday pretended the aching did not bother her while she helped Elisa tidy up the room. “Whenever you are not weaving, you should stretch out your arms and your fingers, just like that. Keep the muscles moving and the blood flowing. Cramps will only serve to hamper your progress.”

Do you really think we can do this?

“I think anyone can do anything,” said Friday. “There are miracles in all of us; we just have to find them.”

When Friday opened the Elder Wood door, Conrad was standing at attention.

“Good morning, my stubborn squire. Did you sleep at all?”

“You probably know that better than I do, milady.”

He was too right, the scamp. Up here, boosted by the magic Wednesday had woven into the stones, Friday could feel Conrad’s exact degree of lethargy, the sore spot in his left hip, the crick in his neck from sleeping on stones, and his determination to wear a brave face and ignore all these things for the sake of doing his duty.

Just like his mistress.

Could she still . . . ?

Friday put her fingers on Conrad’s neck and took the stiffness in the muscle there for her own. She was almost frightened by the ease with which she was able to make the transfer happen. The dull ache throbbed in the back of her skull as they started down the many flights of stairs; she was glad to have relieved her stalwart squire of this particular burden. The stitch in her own side had dimmed to a mere ache as well—none the worse for sleeping on stone herself.

“You did not need to do that.”

It was not a scolding so much as a comment, but she sensed that she had injured Conrad’s pride. And after Elisa had mentioned her brothers not wanting Friday to witness their transformation into swans! Friday should have known better.

“Please forgive me. I did not think it would work quite so well. It was not such an easy task the first time I took someone’s pain. I should have asked your permission.”

“As milady wishes.” Conrad shifted the empty basket over his shoulder. “If I may suggest . . . ?”

“Your insight is always welcome, my friend.”

“Perhaps the degree of difficulty increases with the severity of the wound.”

“I suspect you are right,” she said. “I also suspect the tower here has . . . well . . . stronger magic than a place like that should.”

“Indeed,” agreed Conrad. “To one with gifts such as myself, the stones here glow. I have only ever seen magic that strong in temples and churches: the places where your gods have touched the earth.”

“My sister may be a goddess herself.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Friday tousled his hair playfully. “That’s what I like best about you, Conrad. Nothing ruffles you.”

“It’s what I like best about being a messenger. I have seen many a strange and wonderful thing on my travels.”

“Are we distracting you? I would not keep you here against your will.”

“Nor would I stay, milady, if it was not my will. I assure you, as soon as the atmosphere here stops being strange and wonderful, I will return to the road.”

Friday considered her family and their fascinatingly complicated lives. “Then make yourself comfortable. You’ll be here for a very, very long time. But worry not; you are welcome in Arilland for as long as you wish, both now and in the future.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“I am curious, though. When the stones in the sky tower glowed, what color did you see?”

As soon as she finished asking the question, she regretted it. Some areas of the world did not welcome magical abilities as easily as a Faerie-bordered country like Arilland, Conrad’s among them. Friday stopped on the stairs and watched as Conrad’s mother gave her baby to the washerwoman who hid him from the raging sultan in a basket of laundry. The vision was fuzzy, and lasted only a breath, but it was enough to tell Friday that her squire’s gifts were a rare topic of conversation. She should have simply been honored that he’d spoken to her of it at all, and left it at that.

“The stones were blue. Vibrant, but dark . . . the indigo of midnight.” He nodded to Elisa, a few steps ahead of them. “Her magic is blue as well, but light and shimmering as the sky on a summer day. This is the magic of the gods of air. I have seen its like before.”

“And mine? Can you still see mine?”

“Yours is still red, like blood and fire. It was most vibrant at the top of the tower; it fades even as we descend. Why do you ask?”

“I saw those same colors, briefly, the night I healed Tristan. I have not seen them since, but I wanted to be sure.”

“That tower room is a truly powerful thing.”

“Yes. It was quite a feat that my sister was able to save it.”

“It’s a wonder that she saved it at all. In the country of my birth, its presence would not be a good thing.”

Friday pondered this. It was true, certainly—such power really did have no right to exist outside the realm of the gods. But the way this year had been going . . .

“My mama always says that everything happens for a reason,” said Friday. “I think, in some way, Wednesday knows those reasons.” She thought about Thursday and her always-timely trunks full of gifts for the family. “A few of my sisters have the ability to anticipate catastrophe. When the ground beneath your feet turns to mud, you might find a stepping stone they put there years earlier, for no particular reason at the time.”

“They have wisdom,” said Conrad. “My Omi also possesses such wisdom.” Friday knew instantly that this “Omi” was the washerwoman in Conrad’s vision, and not his mother, as she’d previously suspected.

“We are lucky to have such people in our lives,” said Friday. “Just as I am lucky to have met you, my young squire.”