Chapter 5
The house erupted in sound once the guests left. Jaina nearly fainted, collapsing onto the sofa. Father waved his cane in front of the fire and berated his daughter’s foolishness. Each time he spoke Lord Winterbourne’s name, Father pointed to the chair as if the Lord Protector still stood there, and he could condemn him with each accusation.
“We need money,” Ceridwen protested. “I can help.”
“You are of help, Ceridwen. Every day you help us here around the house and—”
A heavy breath fled her lungs as she twisted away from him. Didn’t he understand? This chance would never come again. Not for them. And they needed it. He knew that. Surely he did. The two small pouches of coins Lord Winterbourne had given the family today were a blessing, to be sure, but they wouldn’t last. Loans and taxes would eat them up before they even thought of spending them.
“The mayor is offering a reward for anyone who slays the beast,” Father said. “It came here once. Maybe it will again, and we’ll be ready for it.”
Ceridwen rolled her eyes before glancing at him. He wouldn’t be slaying anything. None of them would.
“That’s a bit…unlikely,” Gerard said from the doorway.
Ceridwen gasped, turning toward him.
“Apologies,” he said. “I just got back and didn’t want to interrupt.” He must have come in the back entrance. A good thing, too, as the fishy scent of the docks still clung to his stained work clothes. Such a thing might have put off the Lord Protector even more than their shabby home.
“It’s all too much like that gossip in the capital around the time Alis…” Jaina trailed off and looked away.
Mother.Ceridwen’s chest grew tight. How long had it been since someone said her name? Or even mentioned their old home? It was like they tried to pretend that part of life never existed.
“What gossip?” Bronwyn cocked her head, hands on her hips.
“It’s nothing,” Gerard said before settling next to his uncharacteristically downcast and silent wife.
Father wouldn’t look at anyone. Ceridwen hunched in, hugging her arms around herself. Of course not. It’s my fault Mother died after all. She couldn’t fix her mistake, couldn’t bring her back, but she could help now. Ceridwen shook off the painful memories and stomped, garnering the family’s attention. “I’m going. We need this.”
“But then you may never get the chance to marry,” Jaina exclaimed, suddenly back to her old self. “Not a real gentleman anyway. If they learn you lived unmarried with a man, even a noble, for who knows how long…” She shook her head, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“I don’t care,” Ceridwen replied. It wasn’t entirely true. She cared more than she’d like to admit, but she might never find the love she longed for. That was an uncertainty where their need for money was all too sure.
“You might,” Jaina insisted with a sniffle. “Someday.”
“I won’t be around forever, you know,” Father added, looking wearier than ever with his eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. His health had been in decline ever since Mother passed. At first, Ceridwen believed it simply sorrow, but now she knew it to be something worse, something no healer couldn’t find a name for and that no medicine had yet to mend. As the money thinned, he’d refused to let the family spend it on him. His condition had only worsened until the random coughs and fits became a constant plague.
Ceridwen steeled herself against the remorse in his eyes. “That’s why it is even more important that I do it.”
“Ceridwen…”
“We could finally get you decent medicine. And that loan to Mr. Charles comes due soon. How will we pay it if not for this? Besides, If I don’t go, Lord Winterbourne might take back what aid he’s already given us.”
Saying his name aloud sent an odd fluttering through her, as it had when he’d spoken hers. Her name had rolled off his tongue like honey. Thick, sweet, and slow. The memory of it alone almost made her shudder.
Shame clouded Father’s eyes. A low blow, mentioning the debt he tried to keep his girls unaware of, but hiding from the truth wouldn’t change it. Not for him. Nor for any of them. She didn’t bother to mention the others waiting to be paid. Even if he borrowed what little Adair had, Ceridwen doubted it would be enough.
“We’ll tell them you’re ill,” Bronwyn spoke up, breaking her uncharacteristic silence. “Should anyone ask, you’re staying indoors and not seeing anyone while you recover your health. I’ll make excuses for you.”
“It could work,” Gerard piped in, scratching at his gray-flecked beard. “No one visits the manor anyway.”
Father sighed in resignation and collapsed farther into his chair. “Fine.” He waved his cane in defeat. “But I don’t like this, Ceridwen. We know nothing about him. Lord Winterbourne is a noble, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s a just one. You must be careful at all times. Be wary of him and his household.”
She nodded. He didn’t need to tell her that. Already her stomach tied itself in knots at the thought of what she’d committed to, so much time in the house of a man she didn’t know and had never truly seen. Even today, he wore a hooded cloak that obscured much of him from sight. No amount of elation could temper that uncertainty.
Ceridwen had yearned to crane her head and stare into his hooded face to see the man beyond. His voice carried power, a hint of youth, and the richness of culture and learning. His frame spoke to strength as well—broad shoulders, steady legs, and a height that reached above every other person in the room. So why hide his face? The quandary picked at her and would certainly only worsen if she lived under the same roof with him.
“There’s one person your excuse will not work on,” Father said, dragging her back to their little parlor.
Adair. His name hung unspoken in the room, as heavy as his explosive personality. Bronwyn groaned, expressing Ceridwen’s sympathies perfectly.
“He’s on patrol,” Father continued. “But once he’s back and learns of this arrangement, we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t storm the manor himself.”
Ceridwen packed her meager belongings in an old chest that might sooner come apart and spill her dresses into the street rather than carry them to the manor gate. Afterward, she found Bronwyn, who wielded a paintbrush against a new canvas with all the delicacy of their goat Nell.
She would have been famous if anyone knew the works were hers. There were tales of women artists in larger cities and the capital, but in Teneboure, as in the countryside, most people still frowned on it. So when Father or Gerard sold her paintings at the market, one of the few sources of income keeping the family afloat, the name of the artist wasn’t mentioned. When pressed, Father claimed the work as his own.
A thick band of blue streaked across the canvas as Bronwyn attacked it with a huff. Painting was her great pleasure in life. Her true love. It was a wonder that she’d mentioned it to Lord Winterbourne at all rather than keeping it carefully tucked away in her heart as she often did.
“Are you mad at me too?” Ceridwen asked from the door.
“No.” Bronwyn’s hand dropped away from the painting. “No, not you. I’m terribly proud of you, actually.” She gave a weak smile. “But I wish he’d chosen me. Not because I want to go, but to save you from this.”
Ceridwen twisted her hands in her skirts. If the situation were reversed, she’d feel the same way.
“I can’t stop worrying or being angry with Lord Winterbourne for his uncouth offer. Nor can I sit still. And this”—she poked the brush tip at the canvas—“is a complete disaster too.”
Bronwyn set aside her palette and brushes with a clatter and wiped her hands on the stained apron over her dress. “I’m sorry. Here I am complaining when you’re the one walking into the demon’s den.”
“Maybe it won’t be that bad…” Though Ceridwen didn’t quite believe her own words.
“He hid his face. We know nothing about him. He could be hideous, disease-ridden, deformed.”
Ceridwen swallowed her nerves and sat on the edge of her sister’s bed. “He only asked for my music, something I do every day.” Once, it hadn’t been the flute she had turned to daily to create music. As much as she loved to play, she’d loved to sing even more. But that was years ago, before Mother died. Before her voice refused to make the lovely lilting sounds it once had. She’d buried her singing voice with her mother, and why shouldn’t she? Her singing had led to her mother’s death after all. It was only fitting it rest in the planes of the Goddess with her.
Bronwyn crossed the room and took Ceridwen’s hands in her paint-stained ones. “I pray that’s the case. But if he tries anything, stab him with a dinner knife.”
Ceridwen’s eyes flew wide.
Bronwyn grinned.
“This isn’t the time for jokes.” Ceridwen pursed her lips in mock disapproval.
Her sister’s smile dimmed. “It wasn’t entirely a joke. But hopefully, he’ll be a gentleman, and it will never come to that.” The seriousness in her eyes didn’t reflect the optimism of her words.
Ceridwen trailed her fingertips along the twisting vine of red roses stitched into the quilt atop the bed. Mother had made it long ago.
The quilt had a twin once, one with pink roses instead of red. The scratches on her pregnant stomach bled onto it after Gerard carried her into the rented house in the capital. Ceridwen never knew if the injury caused the screams or if it was the early labor that ripped her apart from within. Dragon, Mother mumbled in her fevered haze. But dragons didn’t exist. They were children’s tales. If only I hadn’t sung for her. Ceridwen lamented in silence. I wouldn’t have upset her. She wouldn’t have gone outside. She wouldn’t have—
“She’d be proud of you,” Bronwyn said, a sad smile on her face.
“Mother?” Ceridwen asked in a cracked voice.
Bronwyn nodded.
How could she, when Ceridwen was the reason Mother was gone?
Her mother’s death, the bed of blood, reminded her so much of the thief who’d died on the street. She couldn’t save either of them, but perhaps she could save others. “The monster,” she whispered.
“You’ll be safe inside the manor walls, surely,” Bronwyn replied.
Ceridwen nodded. If anywhere in Teneboure was safe, it should be there. “Maybe I can learn about it.”
The Lord Protector must know something, even if he did nothing to stop it. The payments for her music would help, but they already had an end date, and Goddess knew they needed all the money they could get.
Bronwyn raised her brows as she sat next to Ceridwen on the bed. “It’s not a bad idea. If the mayor is offering a reward…” She shrugged. “Every bit of information helps.”
“Don’t tell Father. The last thing we need is him worrying more or trying something foolish.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she replied.
Ceridwen pulled in a deep breath. She could do this. Perhaps help save the city or some innocent soul and become someone others thanked and applauded rather than overlooked. This would be her chance to do some good for once, and she couldn’t squander it.