Chapter 13
That evening, Gwen stopped by Ceridwen’s room before dinner. Heavy, shimmering fabric in shades of blue hung from her arms. Her eyes sparkled more than the cloth, matching the wide grin on her face.
“I know you have dresses of your own and some recent new ones,” she began. “But I made this one just for you. With a little help from the maids.”
Ceridwen gaped as she laid the dress out across the bed, displaying the layers of luxurious material, more costly than anything she could ever afford. A tight bodice embroidered with birds reminiscent of the ones on Lord Winterbourne’s favored jacket topped a flowing layered skirt. Tight sleeves fanned out at the elbows, accented with the same navy and silver threads that matched the bird’s design.
“It’s so beautiful. But for me?” She shook her head. She was just a guest, a paid musician, and they’d given her so much already. She didn’t deserve anything like that.
Gwen chuckled. “It’s a gift, dear. You’ve livened up this tomb and brought the young lord as close to his old self as I’ve seen in years.”
Years… How long had he been this way? But a better question. “How long have you served him?”
Her laughter softened into a motherly smile. “Since he was a small child.”
“Has he always been so…” She couldn’t find the right word. Secretive? Unkept? Odd? No matter how much she poked around the manor or casually asked of the servants, she could learn little about the Lord Protector. In fact, much of what she had learned, about his magic, his love of plants, came from the time she spent with him the past few days.
“No,” Gwen replied over one shoulder before turning back to the dress and fluffing out the sleeves. “Not always. Would you like to try it on? We measured it off one of your other dresses, so it should fit, but we have a little time if I need to make any quick adjustments.” She reached into the pockets of her apron and pulled forth a pin cushion bearing sharp bone needles and spools of thread.
Ceridwen carried the dress behind the screen to change. “Lord Winterbourne has been in Teneboure for less than a year. Where did you live before coming here? The capital?”
Most nobles did, preferring to remain among each other’s company and near the royal family—or so she’d been told. She’d only visited the capital once, when Mother died, and that trip was best not remembered. Nothing good had come of it, just like nothing good so far had come from her poking about the manor. The more she tried to learn about Lord Winterbourne or about the monster haunting the city, the more the secrets seemed to close in on themselves, even if she had gotten a few tidbits more from Lord Winterbourne in the gardens today.
Her attempt to scour the tower base for some hidden entrance or other storybook-fueled nonsense? What a disaster. She’d promised Bronwyn she’d try to learn about the monster, see if there was anything that she could garner to earn the mayor’s reward, but on that front, her time in the manor had been completely fruitless. Even the library was oddly devoid of anything useful—at least, in the books she’d looked through so far. Her tendency to get distracted with fanciful stories didn’t help.
No response came as Ceridwen pulled on the new dress over her shift and corset, reveling in the feel of the cloth under her fingertips, along her arms, and around her legs.
She assumed Gwen ignored or missed the question until finally, she said, her voice somber, “Yes, the capital.”
A tickle of unease raised gooseflesh along her arms. The rumors of death and dark magic… “I heard rumors of monsters in the capital. Is it true?”
Gwen clucked her tongue. “It’s bad luck to speak of such things, especially tonight as we honor the Goddess in preparation for the winter snows. What you sow today, you reap the whole way through.”
A sigh stuck in her throat. Just like that, she dodged the question.
Again.
A frown still painted Gwen’s features when Ceridwen emerged from the screen, but it changed into a blinding smile as soon as Gwen beheld the dress.
“Oh, it is marvelous!” she exclaimed.
Ceridwen motioned toward the back of the dress and pulled her blond braid in front of her. The style of dress and complex laces were impossible for her own hands. This wasn’t a commoner’s outfit, not like the others she could fasten on her own.
“Of course, of course.” Her deft hands secured the dress around her middle, ensuring it would not slip or gape. “It fits well, don’t you think?” Gwen asked.
The low-cut bodice exposed more than Ceridwen would have preferred, and she fought the urge to tug it up. While stylish, it did not suit her usual preference, but even so, the rest of the dress fit like a dream. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“I was so worried,” Gwen said. “It’s been years since I’ve made such a dress.” She opened her mouth to continue but slammed it closed again and abruptly looked away.
The extra bit of knowledge added more questions to the ever-growing list than it answered. How could one household conceal so much? And why?
“Anyhow,” Gwen continued. “I thought the dress might be perfect to celebrate tonight. You all honor the first snow here in Teneboure, correct?”
Ceridwen bobbed her head. “Yes, we do.”
The whole city would celebrate tonight—her family included. It was a tradition the day after the first snow of the season. Candles would be lit in windows all night, a prayer to the Goddess and her Eidolons for warmth and protection amid the upcoming heavy snows. The crispness in the air already teased their approach. It’d been the same in the countryside too, where a harsh winter storm could be even more punishing.
“Will we light the candles?” Ceridwen asked, attempting to push away thoughts of her family.
Gwen’s smile dimmed. “Not in every window. I doubt Lord Winterbourne would approve of that, but if you want to light some here”—she gestured to the wall of windows along one side of her room—“I will have some extras brought up.”
“Please. Wide ones.” No point in risking one falling over and setting the drapes ablaze.
The hem of the dress swished against the stone floor as Gwen escorted Ceridwen to the dining room. Jackoby stood outside the doors, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. The expression stripped away the years and gave a hint to times of joy and laughter that had faded or been hidden behind a thick mask of formality. He dipped a bow to them as they approached.
Ceridwen curtsied in return, careful not to let the flower Lord Winterbourne gifted her during their tour of the gardens slip from behind her ear where she’d placed it before dinner. It felt right to wear it, as if the outfit were incomplete without it. Besides, she couldn’t waste such a gift.
Roasted ham tickled her nose and sent a rush of saliva to her mouth, though the door to the dining room remained closed.
“Dinner is served.” Jackoby pushed open the door behind him, giving Ceridwen a view of the room beyond.
A tall candelabra stood in the table center with deep-blue candles, the traditional color to honor the Goddess after the first snow. A rich array of foods already steamed in their dishes, more than two people could ever consume, but none of those things were what caused her mouth to gape open and her eyes to fly wide.
At first, she didn’t recognize the young man who rose to his feet from his chair and walked the short distance of the table to hers. His unruly shocks of dark-brown hair had been trimmed and styled, falling around his ears. The beard, too, had been tamed, revealing smooth skin marred by a few scars along his chin and right cheek. Without the mass of hair, she could make out his lips as they pulled up in one corner.
Air filled her lungs as she remembered to breathe. Lord Winterbourne looked like the noble he claimed to be and, though she was loath to admit it, was quite handsome. The strong jaw and cheekbones, lips that—
Behind her, Gwen chuckled, breaking Ceridwen out of her reverie. Even so, her feet refused to cross the distance to where he waited with the chair pulled out like a gentleman. “There’s so much for just the two of us,” she said instead.
“Don’t worry,” Gwen replied. “We won’t let it go to waste.”
Jackoby nodded along. A smile still pulled at the corners of his mouth.
With forced steps, Ceridwen entered the room, her heart racing much faster than the slow pace of her body.
“Ceridwen,” Lord Winterbourne said. “May the Goddess keep you warm in winter.”
The traditional blessing brought a surge of fire to her cheeks and nearly caused her to stumble.
“May the Goddess keep you warm in winter, Lord Winterbourne,” she said, stopping just before him.
“Drystan.”
“Drystan,” she echoed, daring to meet his mirthful gaze. His name rolled over her tongue, more delightful than the scents that had her mouth watering before she entered.
His answering smile stole her breath. For a moment, she almost forgot who he was, seeing something past the wild man she’d once thought him, the noble she knew him to be, or the reclusive lord who’d appeared to disregard the people he’d been assigned to watch over.
For the first time, she saw only Drystan.
He coughed gently, clearing his throat. “Would you like to be seated?”
Ceridwen accepted the offered chair and let him settle her at the table before he returned to his own.
Often they ate in companionable silence. But tonight, Ceridwen’s gaze kept wandering up from her plate to the man across from her. And though they sat on opposite sides of the table with a mountain of food between them, his nearness unnerved her. Especially each time she found his gaze lingering on her as well, stirring up a mess of butterflies in her chest that fluttered faster than her racing heart.
“You wore the flower,” he said.
A blush touched her cheeks as she squirmed under his attention. “It didn’t match the dress at all, but I… Well, I wanted to.”
“I’m glad.” His smile mirrored his words. “It’s one of my favorites.”
He’d carefully trimmed the violet rosebud of its thorns before handing it to her earlier that day, a treasured piece of his most prized rosebush.
She tried to focus on the rich delicacies, but the feast didn’t prove a sufficient distraction. Unable to focus on her food with the feel of his regard pushing against her ribs from the inside, she broke the silence the only way she could think of. “Do you have a favorite song?”
Safe. Music was safe. Though he’d requested a few songs, she’d never asked if he preferred one above all others.
Drystan’s jaw worked as he finished a bite of food. “I have enjoyed all the ones you’ve played. Do you have a favorite? One you love to play?”
That was easy. “The Nocturne of the Moon.”
His brows rose as he replaced his silverware with care. Chair legs scraped on stone as he stood and moved his chair. Her body tensed as he moved it around the table, closer to her, until his elaborate armrest nearly nudged hers.
“Tell me about it,” he said as he sat.
Too close. Too…much. Her chest grew tight. Her neck flushed. All thought of food vanished as she focused on the servants quickly rearranging the place setting to accommodate their lord’s sudden move. And he sat directly next to her, like they were a couple or something far different than they actually were.
“It’s a rather dark tune,” she admitted once the shuffling of plates and silverware concluded, if only to distract her racing thoughts and the almost palpable tension leaping the short distant between their bodies. “It’s full of emotion. But I love the words that accompany it, the story of how the moon spirit wanders through the night, always searching for his love, the sun. Every night he almost finds her but retreats just before she appears. I suppose it’s quite sad since the lovers are always kept apart, but the lengths they go to find each other are so moving, and the words that go with the tune are so fitting.”
He rubbed his chin. “I had no idea it had words to it.”
Ceridwen braced for mockery, for him to tease her about her girlish infatuation with the piece. Instead, he said, “I wish you could sing it for me.”
A soft gasp caught in her throat. But she couldn’t. Not anymore. Her voice was her first instrument, her most treasured—even beyond the flute. But her mother’s last day on this plane had been the last she sang. When she left, she took Ceridwen’s voice.
Old memories turned the food within her stomach. Sometimes she thought it was only fair after what she’d done, but that didn’t make the loss—either of them—easier to suffer. Oh, what it would be like to sing again, especially for him!
“You’re sad again.”
She blinked up at him and did her best to smooth out her features and not let the sorrow leak through. “I’m all right.”
He gave a slight shake of his head, seeing her words for the lie they were.
“Is there something you would like?” Drystan set his hand on the table, so close she could reach out and take it if inclined.
A flicker of hope lit within her. “Could I visit my family?” It’d been weeks since she’d seen them, and the steady ache for their company grew each day. She might have lost her mother and her songs, but there were others she loved, and being cut off from them for the first time in her life was harder than she envisioned.
He withdrew his hand abruptly. “No.”
“But why?” she pressed. “It’s not far, and I’ll come right back.” He’d given her expensive and exquisite dresses seemingly without thought or concern, but this simple request, this one that cost him nothing, he always declined.
“It’s better this way.” He straightened the napkin in his lap, not quite looking at her. “Safer for everyone.”
Her brows scrunched together. “Safer?”
“You think I haven’t noticed you sneaking around the manor?” he said, an eerie calm to his voice as his gaze slowly panned back to her. All trace of the warmth and joy of moments ago had vanished.
Breath caught in her throat. She’d tried to be discreet, never venturing into his forbidden tower, but it wasn’t in her to be idle and pass up the opportunity to potentially learn something about the monster and earn the mayor’s reward to help her family.
“Even today in the garden. You were trying to climb that wall before you fell, weren’t you?”
She gaped at him, heat rushing to her neck and face. He’d seen her. Oh, how foolish she’d been. Worse, he’d deduced what she was about.
“And then I showed you things today, told you things, that should not be shared. At least not while I am still in residence.”
“I’m not a gossip,” Ceridwen snapped in return. Of all the things to accuse her of. “I only wish to see my family. Surely that cannot be harmful. I will not say anything. Not about you, the manor. None of it.”
“There’s so much you don’t know,” he grumbled, almost to himself. Though he still sat next to her, he shifted in the chair, pulling away. The casual grin and friendly facade he’d worn all night was long gone.
Without thinking, she touched his sleeve. “What are you so worried about? Tell me. Please.”
A gloved hand ran through his dark hair, mussing it up. Emotions she couldn’t quite place flickered across his face. His mouth worked in his jaw. “I can’t.”
She snatched her hand away. “Can’t or won’t?”
When he refused to respond, to even look at her again, Ceridwen slid the chair back from the table. “Excuse me.”
He reached for her, but she ignored him, hurrying toward the door.
“Ceridwen.” More panic than demand colored his voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let him see her cry. She only wanted to see her family. Why was that so wrong? How could it possibly hurt him?
“Ceridwen, please.”
That word.It struck hard in her gut. The tone threatened to crack her stubborn heart despite his callous comments. She paused and looked over one shoulder. He’d risen from the table. Something flickered in his eyes, or was it the candles?
Suddenly, he lurched forward with a groan of pain. Drystan’s hands slammed onto the table as his body knocked into it, rattling the dishes and sending the candles swaying precariously on their stand. One hand grabbed at his chest. The other latched on to the tablecloth.
“Drystan!” She rushed for him.
The doors burst open. Kent advanced from his place at the side of the room. Another set of quick footfalls sounded at her back.
Someone grabbed Ceridwen around her middle just as she reached his side, pulling her away from Drystan where he practically collapsed onto the table. “Wait, don’t touch him,” Jackoby said.
She wiggled in his grip, but he held firm. Kent whispered to Drystan words she could not hear.
Her heart beat rapidly against her chest. “What’s happening? Is he hurt?”
“Take her. Room,” Drystan bit out, ignoring her plea.
“Of course,” Jackoby replied. “I’ll return shortly. Hold on.”
Jackoby tugged on her hand, his other arm coming around her shoulders to steer her away.
“Is he? What can I—” Her words tripped over themselves as she twisted toward the table. His denial of her request had hurt, but the sight of him hunched over, gasping in pain, broke something within her.
“No time to explain. Come. Quickly.”
With one last backward glance at the man still grimacing, she fled with Jackoby. When they turned a corner, he released her. “Go back to your room. Straight there. Do not leave.”
“But he—”
“Now.” His command rang with authority in the empty hall, a flash of emotion running across his face with the words.
Ceridwen’s spine stiffened as the order sank home, but worry still twisted within, urging her to return and offer whatever aid she could. She stepped toward the dining room. However, the look of true concern in Jackoby’s eyes firmed her decision. He needed to get back, to help, likely in ways that she could not.
Instead of trying to interfere, she swallowed her concern and nodded in consent.
Jackoby rushed toward the dining room, while Ceridwen hurried in the opposite direction.