servants hovering in the candlelight and watching her every move like owls ready to pounce on a vole, even though they stood quite motionless with their backs to the wall and their eyes seeming elsewhere . . . more or less.
The next day Blanche took her out on a tour of the grounds, and they followed along white-stone pathways wending among the many gardens, with their chrysanthemums and roses and violets and tulips and entire spectrums of flowers that Camille could not name, their blossoms all nodding in a gentle summer breeze. They strolled past ornamental grasses alongside ponds of still water with flowering lily pads afloat. In some, golden-scaled fish swam lazily; in others, the fish seemed bedecked in many-colored calico. Streams burbled across the estate, lucid in their clearness, singing their songs as they tumbled over rocks. One stream was quite broad and fairly deep, and here did Camille see the black swans aswimming. She and Blanche passed by deliberate arrangements of large and small boulders sitting here and there, with vines growing between and spiralling up and ’round the rocks. And now and again to Camille’s wonder, they came across stone sculptings and metal castings and various other imaginative placements: small figures of toads and frogs sat on the banks of ponds; stone mice and voles peeked out from ’neath the bases of boulders; here and there were scattered burbling fountains and slow-flowing basins in which birds bathed and mayhap other diminutive beings as well; small footbridges crossed over rills, stanchions for lanterns along the rail, and in places only large, flat stones spanned the running streams.
Everywhere they went, gardeners and groundskeepers and other such bowed or tipped their hats to the Lady Camille. As she had been instructed by Blanche, Camille responded with a nod, though she also added a smile.
They passed by a long queue of empty stables to come to a smithy, where a fairly young and portly man with grey eyes peering out through a hanging-down shock of dark hair stepped forth and bowed low. “This is Renaud, my lady,” said Blanche, “blacksmith and farrier.”
“Smith I may be, Blanche, or at least I think so, for in these last several years, I have learned much about the blending and heating and hammering and shaping and molding and quenching of metals, bronze and brass in particular.”
“Bronze and brass and not iron?” said Camille.
“Oh, no, my lady, not iron,” answered Renaud. “There are those in Faery who cannot abide iron, and so we keep it out.”
“No iron whatsoever? Not even for nails or horseshoes?”
“Wooden pegs make splendid nails . . . likewise brass. Brass for shoeing horses, too—shoes and nails alike—not that I am much of a farrier these days, for there are no horses at all in the stables.”
Camille laughed and said, “Horses or no, it matters not, for I know not how to ride.”
Renaud grinned and thrust out a hand of negation, saying, “Not true, my lady, for did I not see you riding to the great house yon on the back of the”—Renaud frowned—“on the back of the—”
“The Bear,” supplied Blanche.
“Yes, the Bear,” agreed Renaud, nodding at Blanche.
“Ah, but, Master Farrier,” said Camille, “I would think that quite different from riding a horse.”
Renaud smiled and said, “And so would I, my lady. And so would I. Still, I think you’ll not get a chance to learn, for, ever since the Bear came, the horses are all gone away.”
“Bear? My Bear? Why would that ever make a difference? He’s quite gentle, you know.”
“Aye. We know—you and I and Blanche and all folk here at Summerwood Manor—however, try telling that to a horse.” Renaud sighed. “We simply had to send them away.” He glanced over his shoulder to the red coals in the forge. “But now if you will excuse me, I have fittings in the fire.”
Camille nodded, and Renaud rushed back into the smithy, leaving the ladies to go
The next day Blanche took her out on a tour of the grounds, and they followed along white-stone pathways wending among the many gardens, with their chrysanthemums and roses and violets and tulips and entire spectrums of flowers that Camille could not name, their blossoms all nodding in a gentle summer breeze. They strolled past ornamental grasses alongside ponds of still water with flowering lily pads afloat. In some, golden-scaled fish swam lazily; in others, the fish seemed bedecked in many-colored calico. Streams burbled across the estate, lucid in their clearness, singing their songs as they tumbled over rocks. One stream was quite broad and fairly deep, and here did Camille see the black swans aswimming. She and Blanche passed by deliberate arrangements of large and small boulders sitting here and there, with vines growing between and spiralling up and ’round the rocks. And now and again to Camille’s wonder, they came across stone sculptings and metal castings and various other imaginative placements: small figures of toads and frogs sat on the banks of ponds; stone mice and voles peeked out from ’neath the bases of boulders; here and there were scattered burbling fountains and slow-flowing basins in which birds bathed and mayhap other diminutive beings as well; small footbridges crossed over rills, stanchions for lanterns along the rail, and in places only large, flat stones spanned the running streams.
Everywhere they went, gardeners and groundskeepers and other such bowed or tipped their hats to the Lady Camille. As she had been instructed by Blanche, Camille responded with a nod, though she also added a smile.
They passed by a long queue of empty stables to come to a smithy, where a fairly young and portly man with grey eyes peering out through a hanging-down shock of dark hair stepped forth and bowed low. “This is Renaud, my lady,” said Blanche, “blacksmith and farrier.”
“Smith I may be, Blanche, or at least I think so, for in these last several years, I have learned much about the blending and heating and hammering and shaping and molding and quenching of metals, bronze and brass in particular.”
“Bronze and brass and not iron?” said Camille.
“Oh, no, my lady, not iron,” answered Renaud. “There are those in Faery who cannot abide iron, and so we keep it out.”
“No iron whatsoever? Not even for nails or horseshoes?”
“Wooden pegs make splendid nails . . . likewise brass. Brass for shoeing horses, too—shoes and nails alike—not that I am much of a farrier these days, for there are no horses at all in the stables.”
Camille laughed and said, “Horses or no, it matters not, for I know not how to ride.”
Renaud grinned and thrust out a hand of negation, saying, “Not true, my lady, for did I not see you riding to the great house yon on the back of the”—Renaud frowned—“on the back of the—”
“The Bear,” supplied Blanche.
“Yes, the Bear,” agreed Renaud, nodding at Blanche.
“Ah, but, Master Farrier,” said Camille, “I would think that quite different from riding a horse.”
Renaud smiled and said, “And so would I, my lady. And so would I. Still, I think you’ll not get a chance to learn, for, ever since the Bear came, the horses are all gone away.”
“Bear? My Bear? Why would that ever make a difference? He’s quite gentle, you know.”
“Aye. We know—you and I and Blanche and all folk here at Summerwood Manor—however, try telling that to a horse.” Renaud sighed. “We simply had to send them away.” He glanced over his shoulder to the red coals in the forge. “But now if you will excuse me, I have fittings in the fire.”
Camille nodded, and Renaud rushed back into the smithy, leaving the ladies to go
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