girl, and Annalise felt in no position to offer such a service.
Yet she wasn’t utterly without heart, so she said quietly, “All things in their time, Tansy.”
Tansy said naught in reply, and after some time Annalise fell to sleep.
K ellen. What is this?” Cassian spoke more severely than he’d intended, but the boy had near run him over as he rounded the corner.
The boy held something behind his back, face a guilty mask, mouth smeared with what looked, suspiciously, like tumbleberry jam. “I don’t have tarts in my trousers!”
Cassian crossed his arms and pressed his lips together so as not to laugh. “Indeed?”
Kellen shook his head but couldn’t look Cassian in the eye. Cassian, however, had been a boy, and even though it felt like a hundred score years ago, he could still recall how grand an idea stealing a tart might be until the thief were caught.
“Show me your hands.”
They were dirtier than the lad’s face. Cassian sighed, shaking his head. Kellen hung his, scuffing a foot along the bare wooden floor of the hall.
“Kellen, you know I’ll have to ask you to turn out your pockets.”
Kellen looked up, eyes wide. Raised in a house of women, he’d had no shortage of coddling, this Cassian knew. He’d been disciplined as well, never harshly and always with love . . . but never by Cassian.
“Sir?”
“Turn them out.”
Kellen did, reluctantly. The left held naught but a few stones and bits of paper folded into boats. The other, several tumbleberry tarts wrapped in a napkin. Falling apart, oozing jam, they smelled delicious and probably tasted so, but they’d made quite a mess.
“Not only did you take what wasn’t yours without permission, Kellen, but you made a mess of your trousers, and they’ll have to be washed. I know you don’t launder them. You’ve created work for someone else with your foolishness. But worse than that,” Cassian said sternly, “you lied to me. And that, lad, is what I find most deserving of punishment.”
Kellen swallowed hard. His eyes glinted with tears, but he didn’t cry. He looked into Cassian’s face bravely, then nodded. “Your mercy, Master Toquin. I . . . I shall prepare for my beating.”
“What?” Cassian stepped back, appalled. “Mother Above, Kellen. I don’t intend to beat you!”
“You don’t?”
“Lad, have I ever raised a hand to you? Has anyone in this house ever?”
“Mother Harmony once washed my mouth out with soap,” Kellen confided.
“For what reason?”
Kellen sighed and looked shamefaced. “For cursing.”
Cassian’s own mother had done the same to him when he was about Kellen’s age, and more than once to Calvis. He sighed. “Walk with me.”
They fell into step. Cassian looked down at the lad, who’d clasped his hands behind him in an identical fashion, whether in direct mimicry or by natural inclination, Cassian didn’t know. He took the boy into the kitchen, where Cook was dozing by the fire. She startled to consciousness when Cassian cleared his throat.
“Ah, Master Toquin. And you,” she said with a jabbing finger at Kellen. “Didna I chase you and yon companion out of here already once tonight?”
“Kellen. Return the tarts.”
“But sir!” Kellen looked distraught, small face turned up, eyes wide.
Cook snorted. “What? Stole some tarts, did he? Well, think you I’d want them back after them grubby hands has been all over them?”
She narrowed her eyes and heaved herself up from the chair to put fat fists on her hips. “It was the other one put you up to it, eh? Don’t tell me it wasn’t, I heard him whispering to you, when I’d have given you summat to fill your bellies, eh? But he wanted the tarts, not my day-old biscuits.”
Cassian looked at the boy. “Is this true? Was it Leonder who put you up to it?”
Leonder, a year or so older than Kellen and another of the Order’s Blessings. Kellen shook his head. Cook tutted.
“Kellen, remember what I said. It wasn’t
Yet she wasn’t utterly without heart, so she said quietly, “All things in their time, Tansy.”
Tansy said naught in reply, and after some time Annalise fell to sleep.
K ellen. What is this?” Cassian spoke more severely than he’d intended, but the boy had near run him over as he rounded the corner.
The boy held something behind his back, face a guilty mask, mouth smeared with what looked, suspiciously, like tumbleberry jam. “I don’t have tarts in my trousers!”
Cassian crossed his arms and pressed his lips together so as not to laugh. “Indeed?”
Kellen shook his head but couldn’t look Cassian in the eye. Cassian, however, had been a boy, and even though it felt like a hundred score years ago, he could still recall how grand an idea stealing a tart might be until the thief were caught.
“Show me your hands.”
They were dirtier than the lad’s face. Cassian sighed, shaking his head. Kellen hung his, scuffing a foot along the bare wooden floor of the hall.
“Kellen, you know I’ll have to ask you to turn out your pockets.”
Kellen looked up, eyes wide. Raised in a house of women, he’d had no shortage of coddling, this Cassian knew. He’d been disciplined as well, never harshly and always with love . . . but never by Cassian.
“Sir?”
“Turn them out.”
Kellen did, reluctantly. The left held naught but a few stones and bits of paper folded into boats. The other, several tumbleberry tarts wrapped in a napkin. Falling apart, oozing jam, they smelled delicious and probably tasted so, but they’d made quite a mess.
“Not only did you take what wasn’t yours without permission, Kellen, but you made a mess of your trousers, and they’ll have to be washed. I know you don’t launder them. You’ve created work for someone else with your foolishness. But worse than that,” Cassian said sternly, “you lied to me. And that, lad, is what I find most deserving of punishment.”
Kellen swallowed hard. His eyes glinted with tears, but he didn’t cry. He looked into Cassian’s face bravely, then nodded. “Your mercy, Master Toquin. I . . . I shall prepare for my beating.”
“What?” Cassian stepped back, appalled. “Mother Above, Kellen. I don’t intend to beat you!”
“You don’t?”
“Lad, have I ever raised a hand to you? Has anyone in this house ever?”
“Mother Harmony once washed my mouth out with soap,” Kellen confided.
“For what reason?”
Kellen sighed and looked shamefaced. “For cursing.”
Cassian’s own mother had done the same to him when he was about Kellen’s age, and more than once to Calvis. He sighed. “Walk with me.”
They fell into step. Cassian looked down at the lad, who’d clasped his hands behind him in an identical fashion, whether in direct mimicry or by natural inclination, Cassian didn’t know. He took the boy into the kitchen, where Cook was dozing by the fire. She startled to consciousness when Cassian cleared his throat.
“Ah, Master Toquin. And you,” she said with a jabbing finger at Kellen. “Didna I chase you and yon companion out of here already once tonight?”
“Kellen. Return the tarts.”
“But sir!” Kellen looked distraught, small face turned up, eyes wide.
Cook snorted. “What? Stole some tarts, did he? Well, think you I’d want them back after them grubby hands has been all over them?”
She narrowed her eyes and heaved herself up from the chair to put fat fists on her hips. “It was the other one put you up to it, eh? Don’t tell me it wasn’t, I heard him whispering to you, when I’d have given you summat to fill your bellies, eh? But he wanted the tarts, not my day-old biscuits.”
Cassian looked at the boy. “Is this true? Was it Leonder who put you up to it?”
Leonder, a year or so older than Kellen and another of the Order’s Blessings. Kellen shook his head. Cook tutted.
“Kellen, remember what I said. It wasn’t
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