Chapter 3 Brook #2
“Very well. I’ll bring the wine; you bring the conversation.” Brook winked and turned to exit through the back door. She paused and glanced over her shoulder though. “Uh, and if anyone should ask—which I’m sure they won’t, but just in case? You have no idea where I’ve been all day.”
“Who would be asking for you?”
“I’ll tell you tonight.” Because Brook knew the value of a little intrigue.
When Brook returned early that evening, Aisling had her stall shut up and her dough for tomorrow covered. She pulled her apron over her head, leaving her delightfully askew, and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.
She looked lovely, happy, but also tired.
Brook hesitated, bottle of summerapple wine in hand.
Aisling woke every morning before the sun to bake most of her goods for the day, then toiled in that hot little stall for hours.
Brook’s plan had been to keep her up all night.
It suddenly struck her that this idea would not be in Aisling’s best interest.
“Brook!” Aisling waved. “I’m almost done here.”
Brook held up the bottle and waved it.
Aisling laughed and ducked beneath her counter.
By the time Brook got to her door, Aisling was closing it behind her. “I closed a little early.”
Brook felt a small pang but had to admit, “You deserve a break.”
“I do.” Aisling nodded and then stuck out her little chin. “Shall we?”
They started toward the campground, falling into step easily, though Brook had a much longer stride. Aisling moved like she worked, like she did everything; efficient, neat, and with a little bounce in her step.
Brook wanted to eat her up just like one of her pretty little cakes.
“Tell me about growing up in Emberleigh,” Aisling said.
Very well, then. It had to come out sometime. “I go by Brook more often than not, but my full name is Britheue Fyreham-Graymalkin. If that tells you anything.”
Aisling’s brow knitted. “Fyreham. Like Fyreham-Aethelan?”
Ah, yes, so she did know about Emberleigh royalty, then. That was Prince Aldian’s surname. “Yes. We’re the Graymalkin branch of the same family.”
“So you’re royal.” One of Aisling’s eyebrows rose, now.
Was that a look of disbelief or… no, Aisling was certainly not impressed. Not that Brook expected her to be; Gearwickians more often thought royalty was a silly concept. They weren’t wrong, either.
Brook nodded. “In a manner of speaking. We’re royal cousins.”
“Ah, no wonder your mother is after you to marry. Isn’t that how you all grow your social circles?”
“Effectively. Otherwise, we’d just sit in our magnificence and decay, I imagine.” Brook snorted. “I will say that for the marriage market, it keeps the blood moving through the centuries.”
“I knew those leathers were too nice for a regular elf.” Aisling smiled a little, though.
“What’s a regular elf?” Brook wondered.
“Me.”
“You are not the least bit regular.”
“Ah, you won’t get out of it that easily,” Aisling said with a little cluck of her tongue as they entered the campgrounds.
It was quiet in the still-bright early evening, orange light glistening on the jumping surface of the Braleigh River to their right and the smooth Glaesflod off to the left.
The two came together at the southernmost point to form the Portage River, which went all the way to the southern sea.
It felt right, somehow, that the birthplace of their people—the stone monument at the central shrine in the marketplace—should be in such an important place for commerce, life, travel, being.
“Tell me what it’s like to be from an old, royal Emberleigh family,” Aisling prompted.
“Irritating,” Brook admitted.
“I wondered. Seeing as you developed your magic escaping nannies and such.”
Unexpected warmth spread through Brook’s middle at the realization that Aisling had been listening.
Normally, being perceived meant duties and pleasantries, each duller than the last. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to be seen when someone didn’t want anything from her.
“I did. I suppose I never fit in very well. My brother is the picture of duty, always working to further family concerns. He even married appropriately, to an elf from Dun Steorran nobility. Because of course he did.”
Aisling chuckled softly. “I understand. My sibling is the perfect one, too.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older. I often joke that I’m an afterthought, even though it annoys my parents.”
Brook shot her a sideways look, trying to gauge how Aisling truly felt about that. She was still smiling, though, as if she had a secret. And perhaps she did.
Brook said, “Mine’s older too. What did yours have to do to become the golden child?”
“Well, they also married into a good family—one with connections in Gearwick, which is helpful for getting funding and materials.”
“What for?”
“Mostly steam engines. Mum and Dad have been working on them almost all their lives, but Darra—that’s my sibling—has grand plans for a rail system between Copperford and Gearwick. They just need to fine-tune the actual mechanics of the thing.”
“A rail system?”
“Like they use in the mines to get the metal out. They run little carts on rails, pulled by animals or magically propelled, depending. Some places even use engines of some kind, wind-up clockwork or steam. That’s Darra’s dream.”
“They sound mildly intelligent,” Brook allowed.
Aisling barked out a laugh. “Exactly. And that’s really why they’re the golden child. Here’s my wagon—can I just change?”
Brook bit back an inappropriate quip and nodded. “I’ll be here.”
While Aisling went into the canvas-topped wagon, Brook arranged further questions in her head.
Aisling emerged moments later, her face was bright and flour-free (though there was still some in her hair).
She wore a new shirt that slipped off one freckled shoulder and tucked into a wide corset belt, plus the same utilitarian skirt as before.
Under one arm, she carried a folded blanket.
“You look lovely,” Brook said sincerely.
“I look exhausted, I know, but I deserve a drink. Come on, let’s go to the bank. I love running water.”
Brook let Aisling take the lead. They ended up on the low bank of the Braleigh, where the water tripped over rocks and sticks in the shallows, making it sing. Aisling spread her blanket and settled on it, tail curling around her like a cat’s.
Brook sat beside her, popped open the bottle, and offered it.
Aisling accepted gratefully and tipped it back, throat moving as she took a few swallows.
What a pretty neck she had, quite short, like all of her, but pale as a swan’s. Little bit of a double chin that begged to be kissed. Brook watched happily before accepting the bottle back. Then began again with, “They must be very proud of your oven though? Your family?”
“Did I mention that they refer to it as my little oven?”
“Oof.” Brook took a long swig of the tart, crisp wine. “I know that feeling. Not that I’ve ever actually done anything worth being proud of, to be fair to my family.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“Not really.” Brook winced at the admission, which suddenly felt a little too sincere. “I don’t have much education—not useful education, anyhow. I know all about bloodlines and traditions that I couldn’t care less about. I’d make a wonderful noble society wife but not much else.”
“You can move invisibly through a crowd of elves,” Aisling said, nose wrinkled up adorably. “That’s the most singular skill I’ve ever seen.”
Which was saying quite a lot, for a Gearwickian. That said, Brook didn’t find it so impressive. “I was born with magic.”
“But you had to cultivate ways to use it. And I’ve never even heard of someone using it like that.”
“I haven’t either,” Brook admitted, chuckling at the proud flush it gave her. “But I’m sure someone has.”
“Someone else always has the same idea. But no one else can execute it in quite the same way,” Aisling said.
“Very philosophical. Mind if I use that?”
“Not at all.” Aisling chuckled too.
“I suppose I could use my magic for something productive,” Brook added.
“You could. But you’re young. It’ll come to you.”
“I’m older than you!”
“Are you? I’m forty-two.”
Brook frowned. Then admitted, “Forty-one.”
Aisling leaned over and bumped Brook’s arm with her bare shoulder.
Brook glanced down. “Your freckles are very charming, you know.” She passed the bottle back.
Aisling flushed bright pink. “Well, so are your…” Her gaze trailed from Brook’s lips down her body, her legs stretched out before her, and then to her boots. “Legs.”
They both laughed at that. “You don’t do this often, do you?” Brook guessed.
“Clearly.” Aisling snorted and swigged from the bottle again. “But you… do?”
“I do, I confess. A wastrel has to keep herself amused.”
Aisling’s laugh was lighter that time, almost a giggle. “On your travels?”
“And trips to the market.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Though I might’ve chosen the wrong paramour last summer. He’s still after me.”