put too much stock in old tales,
Madeline. A marriage is what man and wife make of it, and Rhys has spent
sufficient coin that his attentiveness should be assured.”
It
was not the most reassuring thing Rosamunde might have said, but she departed
in a swirl of silk afore Madeline could ask for more details of Rhys.
Not
that it mattered overmuch. Madeline would be gone before the morrow, gone
before her nuptials, gone before Rhys could claim her hand forevermore. First
she would look into the gem, though, and hope for some assurance. She held her
breath, unfurled her fingers and let the firelight touch the gem within her
hand.
The
Tear might have been wrought of obsidian, so dark was it. The gem was black to
its very core, with nary a flicker of light within its depths. Madeline’s heart
froze, then raced. She pushed the stone back into the small velvet sack with
shaking fingers, secured it, then looped the cord around her neck.
She
had to flee. She had chosen aright, for even the stone forecast an ill fate if
she remained at Ravensmuir and wed Rhys FitzHenry.
* * *
Chapter Four
Ravensmuir
was silent, save for the snores of men and hounds. Madeline could hear the
patter of rain upon the stones, and the lap of the sea against the shore. The
wind had died down, though still it rained mightily.
Her
sisters slept deeply, their pallets surrounding her own. The younger girls had
been particularly excited this night at the prospect of a wedding, and had
taken cursedly long to settle onto their pallets. Elizabeth in particular had
insisted upon talking to herself, as if she was truly talking to the invisible
fairy. Madeline had been certain that the girl would never fall asleep.
But
now, in the quiet of the night, the sole obstacle to Madeline’s departure was her
aunt Rosamunde, who had declared herself sentry over them all.
Madeline
rolled over and peered through her lashes in the direction of her aunt. That
woman sat on a bench by the portal. Rosamunde yawned fully, then folded her
arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Madeline
bit her lip, considering her course.
Neither
of them saw the spriggan Darg, who danced around Rosamunde with vengeful
delight. Neither of them saw Darg snarl and knot and tangle the golden ribbon
emanating from Rosamunde - which neither of them saw either - and neither of
them heard the fairy’s spiteful little song.
Perhaps
it was just as well. Darg did not have a melodious voice.
Madeline
had just decided to lie to her aunt, and claim that she had to go to the privy,
when there was a light knock upon the portal. It was so faint a sound that
Madeline barely heard it. She saw her aunt turn, saw the heavy wood door open
slightly.
“Surely
you do not mean to sit here sleepless all the night long?” someone asked in a
soft whisper. It was a man’s voice, though Madeline could not see who spoke.
She watched Rosamunde smile and knew she had seen that smile afore.
It
was Uncle Tynan, Madeline would wager.
Unobserved
by all of the mortals present, Darg pounced upon Tynan’s silver ribbon and
began to shred it, as well as put knots in it worthy of a rat’s nest.
“And
what else would I do?” Rosamunde murmured, her tone mischievous. “I have no
other way to fill the hours of the night.”
“How
tragic,” Tynan mused. “I would be a poor host to not offer better circumstance
to a guest.”
Rosamunde
laughed lightly. She reached through the gap of the open portal, her smile
broadening. “And what do you offer to me, Laird of Ravensmuir?”
“There
is one soft bed that is broad enough to be shared.”
“With
whom shall I share it?”
Rosamunde
gasped as her hand was evidently tugged. She disappeared in a flurry of skirts
through the open door and Madeline closed her eyes at the sound of a very
affectionate embrace. She thought of Rhys kissing her with such gusto and her
face burned.
“But
the girls...” Rosamunde protested, her voice oddly
Madeline. A marriage is what man and wife make of it, and Rhys has spent
sufficient coin that his attentiveness should be assured.”
It
was not the most reassuring thing Rosamunde might have said, but she departed
in a swirl of silk afore Madeline could ask for more details of Rhys.
Not
that it mattered overmuch. Madeline would be gone before the morrow, gone
before her nuptials, gone before Rhys could claim her hand forevermore. First
she would look into the gem, though, and hope for some assurance. She held her
breath, unfurled her fingers and let the firelight touch the gem within her
hand.
The
Tear might have been wrought of obsidian, so dark was it. The gem was black to
its very core, with nary a flicker of light within its depths. Madeline’s heart
froze, then raced. She pushed the stone back into the small velvet sack with
shaking fingers, secured it, then looped the cord around her neck.
She
had to flee. She had chosen aright, for even the stone forecast an ill fate if
she remained at Ravensmuir and wed Rhys FitzHenry.
* * *
Chapter Four
Ravensmuir
was silent, save for the snores of men and hounds. Madeline could hear the
patter of rain upon the stones, and the lap of the sea against the shore. The
wind had died down, though still it rained mightily.
Her
sisters slept deeply, their pallets surrounding her own. The younger girls had
been particularly excited this night at the prospect of a wedding, and had
taken cursedly long to settle onto their pallets. Elizabeth in particular had
insisted upon talking to herself, as if she was truly talking to the invisible
fairy. Madeline had been certain that the girl would never fall asleep.
But
now, in the quiet of the night, the sole obstacle to Madeline’s departure was her
aunt Rosamunde, who had declared herself sentry over them all.
Madeline
rolled over and peered through her lashes in the direction of her aunt. That
woman sat on a bench by the portal. Rosamunde yawned fully, then folded her
arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Madeline
bit her lip, considering her course.
Neither
of them saw the spriggan Darg, who danced around Rosamunde with vengeful
delight. Neither of them saw Darg snarl and knot and tangle the golden ribbon
emanating from Rosamunde - which neither of them saw either - and neither of
them heard the fairy’s spiteful little song.
Perhaps
it was just as well. Darg did not have a melodious voice.
Madeline
had just decided to lie to her aunt, and claim that she had to go to the privy,
when there was a light knock upon the portal. It was so faint a sound that
Madeline barely heard it. She saw her aunt turn, saw the heavy wood door open
slightly.
“Surely
you do not mean to sit here sleepless all the night long?” someone asked in a
soft whisper. It was a man’s voice, though Madeline could not see who spoke.
She watched Rosamunde smile and knew she had seen that smile afore.
It
was Uncle Tynan, Madeline would wager.
Unobserved
by all of the mortals present, Darg pounced upon Tynan’s silver ribbon and
began to shred it, as well as put knots in it worthy of a rat’s nest.
“And
what else would I do?” Rosamunde murmured, her tone mischievous. “I have no
other way to fill the hours of the night.”
“How
tragic,” Tynan mused. “I would be a poor host to not offer better circumstance
to a guest.”
Rosamunde
laughed lightly. She reached through the gap of the open portal, her smile
broadening. “And what do you offer to me, Laird of Ravensmuir?”
“There
is one soft bed that is broad enough to be shared.”
“With
whom shall I share it?”
Rosamunde
gasped as her hand was evidently tugged. She disappeared in a flurry of skirts
through the open door and Madeline closed her eyes at the sound of a very
affectionate embrace. She thought of Rhys kissing her with such gusto and her
face burned.
“But
the girls...” Rosamunde protested, her voice oddly
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