4. I’M NOT FIGHTING AN OTTER
I’m not fighting an otter
‘That beast!’ Isobelle fumed, as she stormed into her quarters, Gwen close behind her.
‘I can’t believe him. I hope …’ Her eyes narrowed as she searched for insults vile enough to vent her fury.
‘I hope his trousers split at a moment of great importance. I hope his feet are always cold at night. I hope … I hope he gets lice!’
Gwen leaned back against the closed door, rubbing one hand across her mouth. Isobelle formed a dreadful suspicion that her beloved was hiding a smile.
‘Gwen!’ she scolded. ‘How can you be laughing?’
Gwen raised her hands to protest her innocence, but her lips quirked. ‘Those are just particularly enjoyable insults. I hear you, though. He’s vile. He’s awful. But he holds all the cards, at least for a little longer.’
Isobelle deflated. ‘And Olivia told us to keep our heads down while she’s away. I can’t imagine she’d be happy about us trekking leagues and leagues to fight a stray otter.’
‘I’m not fighting an otter,’ said Gwen firmly. ‘But no. She wouldn’t like it. It’s just that she’d be even less happy about us outright defying Whimsitt.’
‘I hope he falls in his own moat,’ Isobelle muttered. ‘Let the crocodiles have him.’
Gwen walked over to look at their bags, which still lay where they’d dropped them less than an hour before.
But when she reached them she simply stood there, staring down as though she couldn’t quite think what to do next.
Gwen must be so very tired. And now they didn’t even have Olivia to help them pack for tomorrow.
Well. Isobelle drew herself up taller. She had seen it done. This would be fine. She could pack the bags. How hard could it be?
She found herself missing the girls, Jane and Hilde and Sylvie.
Her friends spent most of their time on Sir Ralph’s estate – well, Sylvie’s estate now, after the timely death of her husband.
After all, Isobelle was mostly away with Gwen on patrol.
But Isobelle could have used their quick wits and humour, their skill at buoying her against the buffets of her guardian’s whims and dictates.
Isobelle walked slowly into her bedroom to pick up the note Olivia had left on her pillow, tucked in among the lace and pink ruffles. It said no more than her maid had, before she’d disappeared into the night. Only a few words, under an address where she might be reached: Family business. Urgent.
Well, Olivia was certainly entitled to go. She’d never taken any time off, not in all the years she’d been with Isobelle. Her business must be truly urgent. Which meant that Isobelle would have to sort things out on her own. She would simply have to pull herself together.
She raised her voice to address Gwen, who was still in the next room.
‘You know, I think my father used to holiday in Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea in his youth. I’m sure I remember him mentioning visits to the seaside, and the name’s very familiar.
Perhaps it will be picturesque. There are worse things than a trip to the beach. ’
‘In winter?’ came Gwen’s dubious reply. ‘I have some questions about …’
It was at that moment that Isobelle saw the second letter resting against her pillow. Olivia’s note fluttered to the floor. Gwen kept talking, but Isobelle couldn’t make out her words over the rushing sound in her ears.
She saw this handwriting only once or twice a year, but she knew it instantly.
This was it. Whimsitt hadn’t found her parents’ letter. She and Gwen had outfoxed him. They’d won. Nobody was going to the seaside today, tomorrow or any other day. Certainly not until summer, anyway.
With trembling hands, she broke open the missive and began to read.
Dearest Isobelle,
As you can imagine, your mother and I were most surprised to receive your …
A minute later, she heard Gwen calling, possibly not for the first time. ‘Isobelle? You all right in there?’
‘What?’ Isobelle’s voice came out sounding all wrong. Her throat felt like it was closing. Her lungs wouldn’t seem to expand when she tried to drag in a breath. In an act of pure will she tensed her stomach, gulped for air, and forced the tremble away. ‘What did you say?’
‘I was asking if you know where Olivia keeps those little herb sachets that make the clothes smell nice. Since we won’t have time for laundry …’
‘Oh,’ said Isobelle. ‘Oh. I … I don’t know.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Gwen said slowly.
Isobelle heard her champion’s footsteps approaching, and moving on instinct, she hurriedly shoved her parents’ letter underneath her pillow, then used the heels of her hands to rub away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
She turned towards the door. And by the time she saw Gwen’s tired, familiar, beloved face, her decision was made.
Gwen’s father loved her. He wished her nothing but happiness. How could Isobelle ever tell Gwen that her parents had … had …
As you can imagine, your mother and I were most surprised to receive your letter. Even taking into account your usual embellishments, we can only conclude that extraordinary events have been taking place at the castle.
At times like these, the guidance of your guardian is more important than ever. Releasing your dowry to you is out of the question – it is not a sum intended to fund wild undertakings, but rather to secure your future with …
Gwen gave Isobelle everything. She had risked her life for her.
Isobelle couldn’t bear to tell her that she had nothing to offer in return. She needed more time. She’d write another letter. She’d find a way out of this.
She always did. She must.
‘Isobelle?’ said Gwen gently.
‘Yes,’ said Isobelle, only a little too brightly, as she reached for ink and parchment.
‘Yes, everything’s quite all right. I was thinking that I should write a letter to Olivia, letting her know where we’re going in case she returns before we do.
Get some rest – tomorrow’s the start of our next adventure. ’
It is a well-known truth, dear reader, that the hardships of travel have a deleterious effect on one’s mood.
Less than a day of riding from Darkhaven Castle, the heavens open up and let loose a deluge of legendary duration and intensity.
Envision our lovely heroes soaked to the skin, plodding through grey, freezing rain, curling up at night without even a fire to warm them for days on end …
and you will begin to form an inkling of how quickly an annoying chore can devolve into abject misery.
There is a delightful trope in stories of this sort about wet, cold conditions, a solitary cave or shelter, a fire, a single bedroll, and the need to huddle together for warmth.
But what the stories don’t often dwell upon is that shivering through the night and riding using stiff muscles all day long does not exactly stoke the desire for … huddling together.
The beginning of a relationship, any relationship, is a fragile thing under the best of circumstances.
It is a delicate undertaking to get close to someone even when one is not sodden and half frozen.
But as the days pass, and their arrival at Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea grows near, the distance between our lady and her knight seems to grow, rather than shrink.
And while Gwen regards yet another night of huddling near a smoky, damp fire with grim determination, and a wistfulness about what she might like to do if she and Isobelle weren’t quite so cold and sore …
Isobelle is uncharacteristically silent, the weight of the past days settling on her shoulders like a blanket of chainmail.
For far more insidiously miserable than rain sliding down the neck of one’s cloak, is the cold, cutting clench of a secret.