table. “Oh, sorry. So clumsy of me.” Garth smiled and swept the dust back into the dish, the side of his hand blackened.
“May I go?”
He turned back to the fire. I rushed from the room, took a little water from the kitchen bucket. Behind my door, I breathed hard. Why run from the library like a coward? Cramps came as I drew. My courses would be here tonight. I would have to gather rags to catch the blood, find a private place to wash them out. I supposed this huntsman was not familiar with women’s troubles. The cramps strengthened as I filled the parchment page, but I was soon lost in the picture forming under my hand.
I was halfway into the first sketch before I saw I was drawing the great old dragon rescuing the burning girl. He winged over the sea, dipping her in the water to put out her burning gown. I showed her flailing in his claw, screaming, as I remembered her, though he meant to help her and not harm her. I added the dragon’s long tail and arched neck with its jagged scar, the moon above, the fishing boats to his left, the harbor. I did not sketch the fey man Poppy saw.
I still did not understand how Poppy spied a fey man on dragonback when I did not. I was the one who’d slipped into the sanctuary night after night, hoping to glimpse a fairy or a dragon.
When the page was full in every detail, I quickly hid the work behind the wardrobe. All the art I’d done back in Harrowton was in the witch hunter’s hands. Had she kept the dragon sketches, the drawing of the green man?
One page left. My hand knew what to do if my mind did not. A man sprawled comfortably before the fire with his faithful dog beside him. Garth’s face was less challenging in side view. I caught the way his brow tipped when he was deep in his own thoughts, the small ridge high on his nose, his strong chin and cheekbones, his mouth, which turned up a little. He could go very quiet, then of a sudden, rush into action. He is like the deer that way.
My hand flew. But I found I could not capture the man’s mysterious nature, his readiness and ease. Some ink pooled near his boot as I drew his long legs crossed by the fire. I paused, not completely happy with my sketch.
You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now? Why presume that? What I did next confounded me. Did I mean to prove I was not writing a lover? Why else would I find myself again at the library door with the parchment in my hand. Garth was gazing out the window. I nearly ran off again, but he turned and crossed the room.
“It’s not finished,” I said, blushing. Then why did you bring it here?
“You’re an artist, Tess,” he said. There was no jest in his tone. He took the drawing and set it up on the mantel above the hearth. “Look Horace, you’re in it too.” Horace lifted his head, tail thumping at the pleasant sound of his master’s voice. I leaned up against the wall by the window. Garth’s brown eyes questioned. You didn’t want the quill to write to a lover?
Only to draw with . “I’d write to my mother if I could, and tell her I am safe, but a letter from me would only endanger her. There’s no way to send her one anyway.”
He joined me at the window. “You’re right to protect her.”
Even if her worry over me is breaking her heart?
He was standing close enough for me to catch the scent coming off his skin and clothes, a mix of wood smoke, horses, and evergreens. A goodsome smell and not at all like my singed, ale-breathed father. New beard growth darkened his cheeks. I’d shadowed his face to show this in my drawing. He’d skipped his morning shave to ride out early after the leech.
“I’ve meant to thank you,” I said.
“For letting you use a little parchment?”
“For fetching Mistress Aisling.”
“A fine healer,” he said. “I hope we’re not too late.” We were quiet a moment, thinking of Tom. Garth pointed above the trees. “Look.” He opened the window. “There.”
Stars hung
“May I go?”
He turned back to the fire. I rushed from the room, took a little water from the kitchen bucket. Behind my door, I breathed hard. Why run from the library like a coward? Cramps came as I drew. My courses would be here tonight. I would have to gather rags to catch the blood, find a private place to wash them out. I supposed this huntsman was not familiar with women’s troubles. The cramps strengthened as I filled the parchment page, but I was soon lost in the picture forming under my hand.
I was halfway into the first sketch before I saw I was drawing the great old dragon rescuing the burning girl. He winged over the sea, dipping her in the water to put out her burning gown. I showed her flailing in his claw, screaming, as I remembered her, though he meant to help her and not harm her. I added the dragon’s long tail and arched neck with its jagged scar, the moon above, the fishing boats to his left, the harbor. I did not sketch the fey man Poppy saw.
I still did not understand how Poppy spied a fey man on dragonback when I did not. I was the one who’d slipped into the sanctuary night after night, hoping to glimpse a fairy or a dragon.
When the page was full in every detail, I quickly hid the work behind the wardrobe. All the art I’d done back in Harrowton was in the witch hunter’s hands. Had she kept the dragon sketches, the drawing of the green man?
One page left. My hand knew what to do if my mind did not. A man sprawled comfortably before the fire with his faithful dog beside him. Garth’s face was less challenging in side view. I caught the way his brow tipped when he was deep in his own thoughts, the small ridge high on his nose, his strong chin and cheekbones, his mouth, which turned up a little. He could go very quiet, then of a sudden, rush into action. He is like the deer that way.
My hand flew. But I found I could not capture the man’s mysterious nature, his readiness and ease. Some ink pooled near his boot as I drew his long legs crossed by the fire. I paused, not completely happy with my sketch.
You have a lover you wish to send a note to telling him you’re safe now? Why presume that? What I did next confounded me. Did I mean to prove I was not writing a lover? Why else would I find myself again at the library door with the parchment in my hand. Garth was gazing out the window. I nearly ran off again, but he turned and crossed the room.
“It’s not finished,” I said, blushing. Then why did you bring it here?
“You’re an artist, Tess,” he said. There was no jest in his tone. He took the drawing and set it up on the mantel above the hearth. “Look Horace, you’re in it too.” Horace lifted his head, tail thumping at the pleasant sound of his master’s voice. I leaned up against the wall by the window. Garth’s brown eyes questioned. You didn’t want the quill to write to a lover?
Only to draw with . “I’d write to my mother if I could, and tell her I am safe, but a letter from me would only endanger her. There’s no way to send her one anyway.”
He joined me at the window. “You’re right to protect her.”
Even if her worry over me is breaking her heart?
He was standing close enough for me to catch the scent coming off his skin and clothes, a mix of wood smoke, horses, and evergreens. A goodsome smell and not at all like my singed, ale-breathed father. New beard growth darkened his cheeks. I’d shadowed his face to show this in my drawing. He’d skipped his morning shave to ride out early after the leech.
“I’ve meant to thank you,” I said.
“For letting you use a little parchment?”
“For fetching Mistress Aisling.”
“A fine healer,” he said. “I hope we’re not too late.” We were quiet a moment, thinking of Tom. Garth pointed above the trees. “Look.” He opened the window. “There.”
Stars hung
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