Chapter 42
“What would you like to do?” Pen blinked at Edmund.
He was lit by the sun, his hair a corona again.
He held out a hand, the sort of gesture that should have looked too grand but was just right in the moment.
They were standing in a quieter bit of the Midsummer Faire grounds on the last day.
She’d been out several times this week with friends, but that wasn’t the same.
It had been the easiest place to meet him, a bit after luncheon.
“What’s on offer?” Pen clapped her hand on her head to keep her hat on.
“Music, dancing, drink. Food’s trickier still.
Games of chance. Performances.” Edmund shrugged.
“Or if you prefer somewhere quieter, we could go to Trellech. Or Ytene.” He said the last almost off-handedly, as if it were always on his personal list. They’d planned on that for tomorrow, when his parents would be available, as well as various other people. Apparently.
Pen tilted her head. “Which would you choose?”
“That’s not fair.” Edmund was laughing, though, his eyes crinkling. “I like all those options. As long as they’re with you.”
“You, sir, are a romantic. Not even attempting to hide it.” Pen considered the choices while watching his expression.
The Faire had been wonderful, but it was also a trifle hot, certainly noisy.
It was absolutely full of people who had opinions about her, about Edmund, or about various topics she didn’t want to entertain right now.
She took a breath. “What happens if we go to Ytene?”
Edmund’s eyes nearly glowed to match his hair now, as if something was lighting him up from within.
Perhaps given his magic, that was true enough.
“I could show you the place. Most of the horses are here until tomorrow. We could walk around, have supper privately. Whatever you like. Mama and Papa and the rest won’t be back until late. ”
It did not take Pen long to decide. “Ytene, then.” Edmund blinked at her, honestly taken aback, then he offered his arm. Pen threaded hers through, squeezing once to reassure him, glad of the contact. She’d discovered over the last month that she simply enjoyed touching him.
Oh, the kissing had been excellent, and the enjoyment they’d found with hands.
But just touching him, the things they could do in public, even under the noses of the dons and proctors, those delighted.
It was warm, comforting, and made her think of honey and softly woven blankets.
They didn’t talk much as they threaded through the crowds, but the portal wasn’t too busy.
He went through first, and she came out in a suddenly quiet, verdant clearing.
Everything was green, with rosebushes on one side blooming and scenting the air gloriously.
Edmund was waiting a few steps back from the portal, but he immediately bowed, making it formal.
“Be welcome to our lands and all they hold.”
Pen took a step forward before stopping and blinking at him. She knew there were a dozen ritual welcomes, but she hadn’t actually studied the nuances. She managed a reasonable reply, “I appreciate and honour your hospitality,” before she looked up and met Edmund’s eyes. “What am I agreeing to?”
“That, Pen, is me giving you the most generous welcome of the lot. You have excellent manners.” Pen felt herself frowning, because that seemed an awfully large step.
“I consulted Papa about it. And Mama and Uncle Alexander.” Edmund offered his hand.
“It— like all the ritual welcomes— can be revoked, if someone abuses it. Though honestly adjusting the warding is even more practical.” His tone made her giggle, despite the seriousness of the moment.
“Do you want to put your bag down? Have some refreshment?”
Ten minutes later, she had left her bag, washed her hands and face, and been offered a glass of lemonade and a seat on the terrace.
The terrace itself was not terribly intimidating, but it looked out on a long garden, with various ornamental bits of stone at the far end. “What exactly are your plans?”
“A walk around the grounds. The garden, the stables, though it’s the younger foals and their mothers.
The mews, if you don’t mind hawks. Supper, if you like.
We can do that up in my rooms?” He made that a question, adding, “Or the small dining room. My rooms.” Something in her face had given her answer then.
Pen might have minded him reading it so quickly, but he was reliably accurate.
And he made a point of checking, like he just had.
Once she had finished her glass— tartly refreshing and sweetened with honey— he offered his arm.
They made a loop of the garden, then came to a stop by a large memorial stone that seemed remarkably out of place.
It had hieroglyphs on it, not something she’d have expected in the heart of the New Forest. There was a name in Roman letters along the top, Peredur Judson, and a date of death in August 1917.
Edmund, rather to her surprise, dropped her hand gently and made a little formal ritual bow, pulling a small vial from his pocket and pouring out a little water into a small red pottery bowl, before saying something, presumably in ancient Egyptian.
She thought it was. She was getting a bit better at telling when he was speaking Arabic, and it wasn’t that.
Then he turned to Pen, focusing on her again.
“I was born nine years to the day after he died. I think about that a lot. Uncle Alexander’s apprentice, before me.
His chosen heir, in many ways. Professor Fortier’s best friend, too.
” The words came out a little clipped, and Pen realised, suddenly, that this was an incredibly tender point.
“Thank you for sharing it with me. Do you do that often?”
“Most any day I’m home. But especially if Uncle Alexander isn’t.
It’s— his people, his mother’s side,” Edmund gestured at the lettering.
“They think that if you remember the name, the person lives on, in ways that matter. Papa gave Uncle Alexander space for the memorial, for something that will last.” Now he turned to look back at the house, waving a hand.
“And the old place holds up very well. House first, or stable?”
“Stable, please.” Pen thought about that as she went.
This was a place with all sorts of history, reaching far back and not so far, with people for whom that history was real and sometimes painful.
That got them making another loop, around several barns, before pausing in front of a field about half full of horses.
There were indeed mostly mares and foals who were still all legs.
One horse wandered closer, a darker grey with subtle dapples.
She seemed to be looking at Edmund pointedly. “Does that one have particular hopes?”
“Mmm.” It got another of those intimate little smiles from Edmund.
The ones he kept just for her, maybe. She’d have to do further data collection next term.
Perhaps being here had opened a door to them, in other places.
“This is Slate. She’s not at the Faire because she’s my pick as my next mount, though I need to do more work with her.
Here, do you want to feed her a treat?” He produced a dried apple from his pocket, and Pen obediently held out her hand.
“Is taking up riding an expected part of the conversation? I’m all right on a comfortable hack.” Though these horses looked less like the ones she had known.
“More pleasant, likely, if you enjoy riding. The New Forest is a glorious place for it. Our horses are crossbred, a mix of native ponies and larger mounts. Slate’s got Welsh cob in her. Bred for brains and manners.”
“Like you, then? And looks, though she’s not shining golden.” Pen said it quickly, before she got too nervous to.
Edmund blinked at her, as if it were a view of himself he’d not previously considered.
“As you like.” He then offered his arm. The mews were darker, and so less visually interesting.
Here, Edmund made it clear he’d trained up a hawk, and helped train his mother’s current bird, but that was not nearly as expected as the riding.
An additional option, apparently, if she were interested.
Pen felt she did not have remotely enough understanding to have an opinion yet, much like she felt about the estate as a whole. Once they had circled back around through other parts of the garden and grounds, she had time to explore the library for a bit before supper.
She knew what to do with a library, as well as what not to do.
While she’d not wanted to do it when she’d first been in his rooms, here he was present to encourage her.
Edmund, she thought, was even deeply enjoying watching her explore how the books were arranged— and the broad range of topics.
Looking at the patterns on which ones had been handled more often— or a couple that were recently rebound in newer leather or bookcloth— also started to give her a much broader sense of the family interests.
Supper brought them to Edmund’s rooms. Rooms, plural, though not as expansive as his college digs, since he did not have his own ritual room attached here.
It did have the same warm comfort, which rather suggested he had done that part on purpose.
The sitting room was done up all in lighter greens and golds, echoing some of what she’d seen outside, especially near the portal.