been servants in the house before the emancipation: two gardeners and a maid. The other four included a man who’d been a weaver in town and a woman with her two teenage daughters, one of whom was visibly pregnant.
“We’d like to come back, if your lordships will take us,” said the maid, a middle-aged woman named Yrani.
“As I’ve told the others, you can live here as family,” said Seregil.
“We’ve been talking with Mistress Rose—Khiria, that is, and the others, my lord,” Yrani replied. “If you’ll accept our service, we’d like to keep at our occupations and be useful.”
“Of course. Choose whatever rooms you’d like and make yourself at home.”
“If you have a little cottage, I’d be much obliged to set up and make cloth for the house,” said Anri, the weaver.
“And we’ve got rooms in the servants’ wing, my lords,” the gardeners told him.
“Settle in as you like. Master Anri, consult with the housekeeper or my steward on the cottage. I’m sure we can find you something.”
The seven thanked them profusely, and Seregil thought he saw the not-pregnant daughter making long eyes at Alec, who was, as usual, oblivious.
The evening meal was simple but satisfying. Spring greens and vinegar, pan-fried trout with wild sage and thyme, a casserole of winter vegetables from the root cellar, and jamtarts. The servants chose to eat in the kitchen and Seregil left them to it.
He sat up late with Alec and Micum in the small dining room over wine and nuts.
“That steward of yours is an odd character,” Micum said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I don’t think he cares for your plan to make this house a refuge for displaced ’faie.”
“He’s a ya’shel himself,” Seregil mused. “That must have been a difficult thing for him, under the occupation—a mixed blood but not a slave. Did you see the look on his face when he realized that one of his new masters was a pure-blooded ’faie?”
“I did,” said Alec. “Why would he hate other ’faie?”
“I suspect someone beat the shame of it into him from an early age. For all his life, it was slave blood.”
“The rest of the household is nice, though, and they seem to like us. How many people can the house accommodate, I wonder?”
“As many as come to us,” Seregil replied.
“You’ll have your own village here in no time,” said Micum, puffing away on his pipe.
“That’s my hope.”
Micum blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Are you anxious to go off hunting for ghosts?”
“Murderers,” said Seregil, reaching for the wine.
Micum smiled. “I think I’d like to meet up with a ghost or two. Friendly ones, anyway.”
“You can have my share,” said Alec.
They lit the candles Dorin had left for them and made their way upstairs to their quarters.
As Alec stepped into their room, he was surprised to find it dark and damp, with the smell of guttered candles heavy on the chill air. The small side-hinged window near the bed had been left open, and the sea mist had found its way in. He pushed it shut and latched it.
The bed had been turned back for them and Seregil ran ahand over the sheets. “Damp, damn it. Who in Bilairy’s name lays a fire and leaves the window open?”
There were no fire chips to be found, so Alec made do with flint and steel over the wood that had been laid in the fireplace. He struck sparks half a dozen times before the tinder caught, and even though the kindling was cedar, it was slow to burn. He blew gently on the flames, trying to coax them higher. The wood caught at last, but the fire was dull and smoky.
“What’s wrong?” Seregil asked from the couch, where he’d curled up in his cloak.
“The wood must be damp, too.” Alec joined him, legs stretched out toward the hearth. Without much hope of the bed drying anytime soon, he pulled his cloak over him and went to sleep.
A loud knocking woke them both sometime later. The fickle fire had burned down to embers, the candles
“We’d like to come back, if your lordships will take us,” said the maid, a middle-aged woman named Yrani.
“As I’ve told the others, you can live here as family,” said Seregil.
“We’ve been talking with Mistress Rose—Khiria, that is, and the others, my lord,” Yrani replied. “If you’ll accept our service, we’d like to keep at our occupations and be useful.”
“Of course. Choose whatever rooms you’d like and make yourself at home.”
“If you have a little cottage, I’d be much obliged to set up and make cloth for the house,” said Anri, the weaver.
“And we’ve got rooms in the servants’ wing, my lords,” the gardeners told him.
“Settle in as you like. Master Anri, consult with the housekeeper or my steward on the cottage. I’m sure we can find you something.”
The seven thanked them profusely, and Seregil thought he saw the not-pregnant daughter making long eyes at Alec, who was, as usual, oblivious.
The evening meal was simple but satisfying. Spring greens and vinegar, pan-fried trout with wild sage and thyme, a casserole of winter vegetables from the root cellar, and jamtarts. The servants chose to eat in the kitchen and Seregil left them to it.
He sat up late with Alec and Micum in the small dining room over wine and nuts.
“That steward of yours is an odd character,” Micum said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I don’t think he cares for your plan to make this house a refuge for displaced ’faie.”
“He’s a ya’shel himself,” Seregil mused. “That must have been a difficult thing for him, under the occupation—a mixed blood but not a slave. Did you see the look on his face when he realized that one of his new masters was a pure-blooded ’faie?”
“I did,” said Alec. “Why would he hate other ’faie?”
“I suspect someone beat the shame of it into him from an early age. For all his life, it was slave blood.”
“The rest of the household is nice, though, and they seem to like us. How many people can the house accommodate, I wonder?”
“As many as come to us,” Seregil replied.
“You’ll have your own village here in no time,” said Micum, puffing away on his pipe.
“That’s my hope.”
Micum blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Are you anxious to go off hunting for ghosts?”
“Murderers,” said Seregil, reaching for the wine.
Micum smiled. “I think I’d like to meet up with a ghost or two. Friendly ones, anyway.”
“You can have my share,” said Alec.
They lit the candles Dorin had left for them and made their way upstairs to their quarters.
As Alec stepped into their room, he was surprised to find it dark and damp, with the smell of guttered candles heavy on the chill air. The small side-hinged window near the bed had been left open, and the sea mist had found its way in. He pushed it shut and latched it.
The bed had been turned back for them and Seregil ran ahand over the sheets. “Damp, damn it. Who in Bilairy’s name lays a fire and leaves the window open?”
There were no fire chips to be found, so Alec made do with flint and steel over the wood that had been laid in the fireplace. He struck sparks half a dozen times before the tinder caught, and even though the kindling was cedar, it was slow to burn. He blew gently on the flames, trying to coax them higher. The wood caught at last, but the fire was dull and smoky.
“What’s wrong?” Seregil asked from the couch, where he’d curled up in his cloak.
“The wood must be damp, too.” Alec joined him, legs stretched out toward the hearth. Without much hope of the bed drying anytime soon, he pulled his cloak over him and went to sleep.
A loud knocking woke them both sometime later. The fickle fire had burned down to embers, the candles
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