up a letter from the Marshal saying he had acquired a large and partially furnished house with a garden and stable, one left tenantless by the recent death of its owner.
The day before they left, Genevieve slipped away from the busy company of packers and folders to sneak down through the cellars of Havenor to that same remote, deep-pooled cavern where her mother had taken her. She shut the doors behind her, as her mother had always done, and then she memorialized her mother by doing the things her mother had taught her to do. Though the exercise was itself uncomfortable—she had become unpracticed—she was comforted that she still remembered how.
The journey to Havenor was made by carriage, with wagons behind bringing Genevieve’s clothing, books, and other belongings. Their route took them down the hill road to Sabique, and thence northward along the Reusel road, which climbed easily but steadily toward the pass leading into the cupped valley of High Haven. Five outriders accompanied them, to help with the wagon in the likely event of snow or the less likely one of brigands. Though brigands were endemic in Dania—stealing women seemed to be their main occupation—they rarely crossed the Reusel into Wantresse.
Genevieve had chosen to bring her own maid, the Lang-marshian woman who had tended her since she was a child: ruddy, red-haired Della whose strong arms had comforted Genevieve as they had her own children, long since grown and scattered. Genevieve, behaving most unlike herself, had insisted to the Marshal that she would have Della, not a maid hired in Havenor, since Della’s husband was one of the horsemen accompanying the Marshal. Della cared more about joining her John than going for any other reason, and Genevieve was well aware of this. SinceGenevieve preferred a known quantity to an unknown one, however, the arrangement satisfied them both.
The journey was accomplished before the first snows, just before, the last miles of it beset by freezing squalls that blew scattered needles of ice into their faces. From the top of the pass above Sabique, High Haven lay before them: a wide dun grassland with ivory Havenor set distantly upon it, like a fancy cake upon a platter. For a moment the sun broke through, and Havenor became an ephemeral toy, a play city full of sugary towers and icing plazas, all glittering in the cold light, and for that moment Genevieve regarded it with something like hope.
They spent the night uncomfortably at the only available inn. On the morrow, as they came closer to the city, Genevieve found the view less auspicious than she had hoped. The chill wind had driven everyone indoors, leaving the streets untenanted, dim and dreamlike behind shifting veils of snow. As they went through the residential area, Genevieve regarded the stern lines of city houses on either side of them with dismay. Their faces were shut up tight, the windows lidded with heavy curtains, the iron-bound doors locked-lip and stern. These forbidding visages became even more dour when they turned onto a broader boulevard where the houses were farther separated and set deeply behind walled and gated gardens beneath bare, black-branched trees. Dusk had come by this time, and though the wind had ceased, the snow was falling hard.
“The houses go on forever,” Genevieve murmured in dejection. “Miles of them. It’ll be dark soon.”
“The end of a trip is always the longest part,” soothed Della. “I’m sure we’re almost there.”
She spoke the truth, for they soon turned between great granite pilasters and heard the tall iron gates shriek open on corroded hinges. From there was only a short way to the house, where they pulled up as the last light left the sky. Della and Genevieve alit to be greeted by Halpern, the butler, while the wagon continued around to the stable yard and the protection of the carriage house.
The interior of the house was scarcely less cold than the courtyard, each cavernous room as
The day before they left, Genevieve slipped away from the busy company of packers and folders to sneak down through the cellars of Havenor to that same remote, deep-pooled cavern where her mother had taken her. She shut the doors behind her, as her mother had always done, and then she memorialized her mother by doing the things her mother had taught her to do. Though the exercise was itself uncomfortable—she had become unpracticed—she was comforted that she still remembered how.
The journey to Havenor was made by carriage, with wagons behind bringing Genevieve’s clothing, books, and other belongings. Their route took them down the hill road to Sabique, and thence northward along the Reusel road, which climbed easily but steadily toward the pass leading into the cupped valley of High Haven. Five outriders accompanied them, to help with the wagon in the likely event of snow or the less likely one of brigands. Though brigands were endemic in Dania—stealing women seemed to be their main occupation—they rarely crossed the Reusel into Wantresse.
Genevieve had chosen to bring her own maid, the Lang-marshian woman who had tended her since she was a child: ruddy, red-haired Della whose strong arms had comforted Genevieve as they had her own children, long since grown and scattered. Genevieve, behaving most unlike herself, had insisted to the Marshal that she would have Della, not a maid hired in Havenor, since Della’s husband was one of the horsemen accompanying the Marshal. Della cared more about joining her John than going for any other reason, and Genevieve was well aware of this. SinceGenevieve preferred a known quantity to an unknown one, however, the arrangement satisfied them both.
The journey was accomplished before the first snows, just before, the last miles of it beset by freezing squalls that blew scattered needles of ice into their faces. From the top of the pass above Sabique, High Haven lay before them: a wide dun grassland with ivory Havenor set distantly upon it, like a fancy cake upon a platter. For a moment the sun broke through, and Havenor became an ephemeral toy, a play city full of sugary towers and icing plazas, all glittering in the cold light, and for that moment Genevieve regarded it with something like hope.
They spent the night uncomfortably at the only available inn. On the morrow, as they came closer to the city, Genevieve found the view less auspicious than she had hoped. The chill wind had driven everyone indoors, leaving the streets untenanted, dim and dreamlike behind shifting veils of snow. As they went through the residential area, Genevieve regarded the stern lines of city houses on either side of them with dismay. Their faces were shut up tight, the windows lidded with heavy curtains, the iron-bound doors locked-lip and stern. These forbidding visages became even more dour when they turned onto a broader boulevard where the houses were farther separated and set deeply behind walled and gated gardens beneath bare, black-branched trees. Dusk had come by this time, and though the wind had ceased, the snow was falling hard.
“The houses go on forever,” Genevieve murmured in dejection. “Miles of them. It’ll be dark soon.”
“The end of a trip is always the longest part,” soothed Della. “I’m sure we’re almost there.”
She spoke the truth, for they soon turned between great granite pilasters and heard the tall iron gates shriek open on corroded hinges. From there was only a short way to the house, where they pulled up as the last light left the sky. Della and Genevieve alit to be greeted by Halpern, the butler, while the wagon continued around to the stable yard and the protection of the carriage house.
The interior of the house was scarcely less cold than the courtyard, each cavernous room as
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