Jo Beverly (22 page)

Genova looked around slightly dazed, even sick, as
if she’d been out in the hot sun too long. All the ladies had baskets, all the men had knives. She thought vaguely that armed men could be dangerous.

She couldn’t bear any suggestion of danger to Ash. If she could, she’d wrap him in flannel and never let him take a risk again. She was mad.

People spread through the trees, stripping long lengths of ivy, and snipping holly. Genova did her part but felt distanced, as if she had a fever. Ash joked, teased, and flirted as if among friends.

Everyone wanted to get to the mistletoe, but Lady Arradale stood firm until the cart was full. “Now,” she said, “we can go on to the orchard.”

There was a great cheer and someone started the mistletoe song again.

“But beware,” said Ash when the song died, “for the mistletoe can slay even invincible heroes.”

They were emerging from the wood by then, in small, laughing groups. The house stood massive some distance away, and they would have to go partly around it to reach the orchards and kitchen gardens.

Genova and Ash were with Lord Rothgar, Damaris Myddleton, and the ever-hopeful Lieutenant Ormsby. Genova was again between two marquesses. Was she unbalanced to be braced for danger? It was probably the effect of evening creeping early upon them.

The sky had darkened, and somewhere behind the clouds the sun was beginning to set. She didn’t think she was imagining that the air had turned colder, that a damp chill was creeping through shoes and under cloaks.

Or perhaps the shiver on her skin was because of Ashart’s comment about dead heroes and the tone in which he’d spoken.

“Because it’s poisonous?” she asked.

Lord Rothgar answered. “Because the mistletoe killed Balder, and he was not a mere hero but a god. That’s what you meant, isn’t it, Ashart?”

“Precisely. But one could say that Balder was killed because of the actions of his mother.”

Mother.
Genova knew then that a new duel had begun.

“What actions?” demanded Miss Myddleton, who had placed herself on Ash’s other side.

“First Balder’s mother begged the gods to let her swear every living thing not to hurt him.”

“How could that be bad?” Genova asked. “Any mother would do that if she could.”

“But she ignored the mistletoe because she thought it too feeble to be dangerous. Typical female idiocy.”

“And on idle evenings,” Rothgar said, “the gods amused themselves by trying to kill him. Typical male idiocy.”

“What happened?” Genova asked, wondering what hidden dangers this conversation held.

“Imagine if you will,” Rothgar said, a raconteur amusing an audience, “a night in Asgard, Hall of the Gods. Mead flows and spirits soar. Lacking better amusement, the gods fire arrows at the fortunate one, and even hack at him with sharp blades.”

Ash laughed. “How reminiscent of the Court of St. James.”

“Hush.” But surely Lord Rothgar’s lips twitched. “Balder does not suffer—”

“May I express doubt?”

“—until Loki, envious of Balder’s good fortune…”

Loki.
Genova almost gasped.

“The good fortune, note,” said Ash, “of being subject to constant attack. How very like the life of a favorite at court.”

“The fortunate must always be on guard,” Rothgar agreed. “Balder lacked this insight, and see what became of it. Loki—I believe you remember Loki, whose sole purpose was to ferment strife…?”

“We all recognize the type.”

“Name no names, cousin.”

Genova’s head was whirling.

“Loki cut a mistletoe branch and shaped a spear of it. Did he intend to kill, or was he ruled only by mischief?”

“But,” Genova interrupted, “no one could make a spear out of mistletoe. It’s a vine.”

“Relentlessly practical,” said Ash. “This was before the modern age, before Christ. One story says that the Cross was made from the mistletoe tree, which was then cursed into its present feeble state, required to suck life from other trees.”

“In that case, Balder’s mother wouldn’t have ignored it.”

“
Relentlessly
practical. The point of the story won’t be affected by logic, Genova.”

She had been arguing because she sensed something unpleasant coming. She made herself stay silent.

“Loki made his weapon,” said Rothgar, “but he did not launch it himself. Instead he persuaded Balder’s blind brother to do it by telling Hodur that Balder wanted him to be part of the game. Then he guided his arm. Balder died, and all the gods wept into their mead.”

“None considering, we assume, that the disaster rose entirely from their own foolish actions.”

“Who ever does?” Lord Rothgar asked. “Instead they turned on Loki.”

“It was his fault,” Genova pointed out.

“But sometimes an action has deep roots, Miss Smith, and the final hand is not the only guilty one. As for Loki, the gods hunted him down, then chained him beneath a serpent whose scalding venom drips on his face for eternity. There are none so harsh as those weighed down by guilt.”

Guilt? Whose guilt? Rothgar’s mother’s? His father’s? This wasn’t all about ancient myth.

A silence ran and in the end Genova couldn’t stand it. “Why are mythological mothers so careless? Achilles’ mother left his heel unprotected. Balder’s mother
neglected the mistletoe. A little thoroughness would have solved all.”

Ash gave her a “relentlessly practical” look, and she wished she’d held her tongue.

“Thoroughness would give us invincible heroes,” Lord Rothgar said, “and it’s our vincibilities that make us human.”

“Or perhaps,” said Ash, “it is merely that since Cain and Abel, children have borne the burden of the sins of their parents.”

“It would explain a great deal,” Rothgar said, apparently unaffected by the reference, “but the cruel gods are dead, and we live in the reign of the Prince of Peace. He who commands us to forgive our enemies.”

That was direct.

Ash made no response. Did he really see himself as Loki? Was he threatening to destroy Rothgar with some mysterious weapon?

They had crossed the meadow with her scarcely aware of it, and come to the orchard, protected from the deer by a fence.

“Onward to mistletoe,” Rothgar said, opening the gate. “In these enlightened times it can only slay us through kisses.”

Ash guided Genova through and closed the gate behind them. “But remember,” he said, “that the Prince of Peace was betrayed unto death by a kiss.”

G
 enova expected something more, some climax, even a violent one. Part of her wanted it as one longs for the storm that will break oppressive weather. Lord Rothgar left them, however, to chat to other guests, taking Miss Myddleton and Ormsby with him.

She frowned at Ash, wishing she could drag his thoughts out of him like rope out of a hold. All sense of knowing him had gone. He was an enigma.

It was Christmas, time of peace, but she’d lived among war and knew how it could run mad in the blood. She’d seen men attack others simply for their nationality, or uniform, or name, as if hatred for certain groups was burned into their soul.

“Aha,” Ash said.

Genova looked up and saw a lushly berried branch of mistletoe almost brushing her head. She couldn’t believe he was trying to play games now and stepped back.

He sighed. “I warned you not to get involved.”

“How can I help it?”

He cut the sprig and gave it to her. “Let me arm you, at least. I’m sure you know my vincibilities by now.”

She put it carefully in her basket, preserving the berries. “I will never hurt you if I can help it, Ash. Please believe that.”

“But as we’ve seen, the best intentions can be disastrous.”

He used a ladder propped against the tree to harvest it with brutal efficiency. “This stuff’s a parasite,
you know. It lives off the tree. If allowed, it will suck all life out of it, and thus die itself. A very stupid plant.”

“Tell me a clever one.”

He looked down at her, startled, then laughed. “You will never let me get away with an idiocy, will you, Genova?”

She should make a light rejoinder, but she said, “I’ll try not to.”

He cut the last branch of mistletoe and climbed down. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“A guinea. No, ten.”

“Agreed.”

She glanced at him, then across the misty, darkening orchard, where laughter and chatter were clear, but where everyone but Ash beside her looked like a wraith.

“I was thinking that I feel on an edge. Scarce able to hold my balance. I don’t even know what the edge is, what lies to either side.” She pulled a wry face at him. “These wanderings are not worth even a penny.”

But he was looking at her seriously. “I know what you mean about an edge. Sometimes it feels that I live on the edge of a sharp sword.”

She shivered, but said, “Not for me. For me the danger comes from what’s on either side. Often everything is shrouded in mist, so it’s unclear which side is safe, which is dangerous.”

“But do we always want the safe side?”

“Ah.” She inhaled it, understanding at last why she’d felt such turmoil. “No, not always. It feels wrong not to want safety, but the edge is where everything happens. The edge is where things change. It’s decision, and action, and creation. It’s birth and death. It’s life. Doesn’t everyone live on the edge, anyway?”

“Probably wise people try not to.”

“Then I don’t think I’m wise,” she whispered.

“Nor I. But it doesn’t need to be dramatic, I don’t think. A man can live on the edge in one room, studying the stars, like Galileo.”

She turned to him, surprised by this whole conversation, but especially that he’d understood her unformed problem. “So he can. I was worried for a moment that I’d have to go traveling again or die.”

“One room and an idea will suffice. Everyone’s leaving at last,” he said, taking her basket and touching her to guide her across to the other side of the orchard.

“For you?” she asked.

“I am compelled to walk the perilous edge through many rooms. It is my destiny. I have to admit that I often enjoy the thrill.”

This let her say, “So do I. I have enjoyed much of my life, despite hardship and war. I am finding my new life tedious.”

“Really?” he asked, and she laughed.

“Not the last few days, I must admit.”

“Good. Above all, I would hate to be boring.”

“I need to find the edge,” she said, as much to herself as to him. “To do useful things and see tangible results.”

“Relentlessly practical.” There was no sting in it now.

“And you’re not?”

“Genova, my sweet, I’m a creature of whimsy and artifice of no practical use at all.”

“Rosemary!” someone called ahead in the gloom. A hinge creaked.

“Ah, rosemary,” he said, as they quickened their steps. “Sacred to Venus and reputed to replenish male vigor. Useful at this point.”

He’d slid from their discussion, and Genova knew it was wise. The conversation was another pearl, however, that she would consider deeply when she had time.

“Christmas is taking on a most unholy aura when seen through your eyes,” she said.

“But of course. Christ’s birthday was pasted on top of the Roman feast of Saturnalia, a time for wild revels. Add the Norse Yule, festival of light, and what
can we do but be wild? Rothgar must be demented to play these games.”

“He wasn’t expecting you,” she pointed out.

“How true. Do you think I should make peace?”

For a moment she didn’t understand him. When she did, she tried to read his expression in the vague, deceptive light. In the end she said, “Yes.”

“Without knowing the cause and details of the war?”

“Peace is always better than war.”

“A simplistic assessment.”

Sudden rage flamed in her and she stopped. “What do you know of war and peace, you creature of whimsy and artifice? Assist at an amputation, or try to hold a man’s body together as he cries for his mother before you speak lightly of war to me!”

His hand moved toward her, faltered.

Behind him, lights in the great house began to spring to life in random windows. They had reached the afternoon death of the light.

Genova whirled and almost ran after the group, into a walled herb garden, aromatic even in winter. Her shoes clipped on a stone path as she hurried to press in among the others.

She realized she had neither basket nor knife.

Ash appeared at her side and returned her basket. Then he cut sprigs. The pungent smell stung her nose.

“‘Here’s rosemary for remembrance,’” he said, passing a bundle over.

“And it means true love and weddings!” a woman cried.

“And fidelity,” said Damaris Myddleton, appearing at their side. “Here, Ashart, dare you wear a sprig of it?”

Genova thanked heaven she didn’t have a sharp knife in her hand. The great house glowed brighter and brighter, promising warmth, safety, and civilized restraint.

“It’s time to go,” Genova said, turning and leading
the way out of the garden, even though it wasn’t her place to do so.

Damaris Myddleton would drive her to violence, but the deeper pain was because Miss Myddleton would probably end up in the cage with the wolf. Despite all logic, Genova envied her that.

Why had she said what she’d said? People far from war never wanted to know what it was really like. War was a part of the edge that most people avoided, a part red with blood.

She’d simply been infuriated that someone with the chance of peace should contemplate throwing it away, and she still was.

E
 veryone caught up with her and she let herself be enveloped by the merry group as they entered through the main doors. She laughed with them, teased and flirted, as they all piled their mistletoe and herbs with the holly and ivy near the Yule log.

The marble hall was brilliant with vibrant life. Excited voices seemed to bounce off the walls and return threefold, and the light from hundreds of candles blazed off crystal chandeliers. A servant took Genova’s outerwear, and it was certainly warm enough with so many people and so many candles, even though the grate was empty, awaiting the log.