3 Clare
3 Clare
For the third time this month, Clare Grandhart recognized neither the bed in which he woke nor the woman who slept next to
him. When his eyes fell on brassy curls splayed on white sheets, his heart leapt.
Beatrice?
No. He remembered now, the feeling not unlike falling from his horse. Last night had not gone at all the way he had hoped.
Two days ago, when he’d heard Beatrice de Noughton was divorced, Clare had used the revelation to push past the grudges they held against each other—hers callous and unjustified,
his entirely reasonable, of course—and do what he knew the queen’s wedding invitation demanded. He jumped on the first wagon
to Elgin.
When Beatrice met him bitterly on the stairs, he let his worst impulses grab hold of him. They were easier than... whatever
other feelings she might provoke in him. Feelings she certainly would never share, never even entertain. Very well—he could
un-entertain them the same way. If Beatrice wished, they could exchange remarks like they were crossing swords.
Had he expected she would run into his arms after so many years apart?
Ghosts, no.
Had he thought the years of silence between them might have resulted in Beatrice missing him even a little?
Possibly.
He shouldn’t let her rejection sting. Clare was no stranger to Beatrice’s disdain. He had everything he could possibly want—fame,
wealth, companionship both sexual and friendly, a lovable eagle named Wiglaf. So what if one woman in all of Mythria despised him!
She was his decade-old—no, he would not say heartache. Beatrice was his decade-old headache . How dare she hate him , when Clare’s callousness or promiscuity was nothing compared to the way she’d wounded him? It wasn’t the end of the realm,
especially to someone who had literally faced down the end of the realm.
And yet... to Clare, it might as well have been.
He hadn’t expected the knifelike urge in him the moment he saw her. How much he wanted her, even when he couldn’t forgive
her. How desperately a part of him hungered for her forgiveness, her pride, her care. He wanted her to be the living proof that he was worth loving.
He needed to put her out of his mind. Focus on everything he did have. Like the lovely lady currently in his—or someone’s —bed. With hungover effort, he connected the naked shoulders half exposed from the coverlet with the woman who’d refilled
his drink after Beatrice had walked into the night. He’d been hurting. She’d promised to distract him.
They’d had fun. Or, she’d had fun. Clare Grandhart always made sure his partners had fun.
Him, on the other hand...
He exhaled, hating the discontent quietly pervading his chest, spoiling the golden morning.
It wasn’t this lady’s fault, of course. It was him. It was Beatrice . It was how he had everything except what he wanted. Who he wanted. It was how, in ways he could not fully understand, he’d started to feel he was only playing the character of Clare Grandhart, protector of Mythria and one of the Four.
He was forgetting his lines more and more these days. Which wasn’t good, not when he clung on to one consolation every day
of his unexpected life.
Clare Grandhart was a hero.
He held on to the idea when everything he wasn’t caught up with him. If he wasn’t the man he hoped he would be—horseball player, healer, father? Never mind. He was a hero.
If he wasn’t sure he was happy?
If Beatrice didn’t want him? Fine. He was a hero.
If he wasn’t good enough? If he wasn’t loved?
It didn’t matter. He was a hero.
He needed to be a hero, especially with the anniversary coming up. He needed to make up for Galwell’s absence. Galwell was who Mythria
deserved. He was the brave one, the gallant one, the kind one. The one people followed.
The one people loved.
Clare knew he was a badly drawn copy, but he was trying. It was why—as Clare had nearly confessed in inelegant, fumbling phrases—he
had made his way to the de Noughton manor. Inventing noble reasons for forgiving Beatrice in order to pretend he didn’t want
to, deep in his wounded heart. Galwell would have forgiven her, Clare reasoned. He would have put his friends first, his queen
first.
And then Clare encountered Beatrice herself, and his desire deepened. The unbidden, insatiable need to prove himself to her, even while he could not forget every reason he had to hate her. He didn’t know why the esteem of the woman he’d devoted the decade to resenting meant everything to him, no more than he knew how the realm’s magicians had mastered sending conjurations from coast to Mythrian coast.
He just knew, if he could prove himself to Beatrice , the woman who’d once known him best, he might finally feel like the hero the rest of the realm deemed him.
He wrestled the familiar feeling down. He’d dealt with worse. Dragons, nightwalkers. What was a little existential uncertainty?
What he needed was something at which Clare Grandhart excelled—distraction. Perhaps he could spend the day with—
With...
Fuck. He was forgetting more than his lines now. He looked down, focusing on the woman’s pretty freckled shoulders, her curly hair.
Horrible realization opened up in him. He could not remember her name. He was mortified. Morgana? No...
While at heart he knew himself best suited to the role of dashing rogue, Clare valued the women he slept with. He never considered
them just people to fuck. He learned their names, where they were from, what they enjoyed reading or what sports they followed.
Forgetting this woman’s name was damning proof he wasn’t himself.
Isabella? No. Velaria? No.
He was frustrated with himself. How goddamn often would he make the same mistake? Leaping into other women’s arms when the
one he wanted left him heartsick?
“Good morrow,” his companion said sweetly.
“Mm,” he returned.
With his mortification mounting, wisdom he recalled from debauched drinking evenings with friends from his banditing days
entered his head.
If you can’t remember her name in the morning, take her to the brewshop. She’ll give them her name to call out for her order.
“Morning brew?” he suggested.
The woman paused just long enough to imply she might be interested in morning something-else. When Clare pretended to be sleepily oblivious, guilt
gnawing his insides, she smiled.
“I’d love to,” she purred.
Only a little relieved, Clare dressed himself, lacing his tunic while the woman wrapped herself in the elegant dress hung
from the wooden hook on one wall of the room. “I assumed you would sneak out with the morning light,” she commented.
Following her to her door, he scoffed. “Most of the rumors about me are wild exaggerations. I’ve even been known to make brunch
on occasion,” he said.
In moments like this, he found it unnervingly easy to put on the charm. A half-grin, a rolled-up sleeve, a hand run through
his hair. Mixing truth with what felt like lies. He’d perfected the moves over the years, using them to hide from the mistakes
he made a decade ago.
Of course, his looks didn’t hurt. Or didn’t help, depending on how one viewed things. Clare Grandhart was well over six irons
in height, sculpted of lean muscle checkered with scars over which women liked to run their fingers. His sweep of golden hair
was deceptively cheerful to his enemies, charming to his romantic pursuits. His crooked smile was legendary.
It worked now. Her cheeks flushing with delight, his companion laughed while she led him out her home’s front door.
The greenery surrounding Elgin’s small homes hurt his eyes in the morning light. The village was not large, and he had walked its main roads on his way to the de Noughton party. He couldn’t keep himself from imagining Beatrice here, wearing her usual smirk, in Elgin’s shops or on the same roads.
He would never know peace, would he?
The village didn’t suit her, in his opinion. The Beatrice he had known was social, vibrant, even unruly—someone who preferred
her wine from seedy taverns, not stuffy estates.
She should have lived somewhere like—for instance—Clare’s home in the flourishing city of Farmount. Clare had moved there
after saving the realm, knowing he could make his living handsomely by lending his name to vendors who wanted his endorsement.
Weaponeers, drinking halls, fancy cigars. Perhaps this made him shallow—well, no news to him. Beatrice had told him years
ago he would never be noble, not like Galwell, the first man she ever loved.
She was right.
Elgin did, however, have what he was looking for this morning. Recognizing the street they were on, Clare directed them toward
the brewshop. The heads of passersby swiveled in his direction. Whispers started. Glances of lust or envy from men and women.
Unsurprised, Clare nodded respectfully in return. Even existential dread aside—not to mention his hangover—he couldn’t muster
more enthusiasm for the renown.
“Pardon me, sir,” came a small voice next to him.
Clare paused. He was used to recognition, especially from children like the one standing in his square-shouldered shadow,
holding—
“I, um,” the boy started. “My father said you could, um, sign my collectible Clare Grandhart card.”
Clare smiled. Now this part of fame, he genuinely liked. Making people happy. Inspiring the young.
What was more, the request in itself delighted him. Clare had, in his youth, collected Hero Cards with the painted likenesses of great Mythrians. There were points on them, skill levels, so on. You could play games, engaging your cards in pretend combat with other collectors. It was one of the greatest honors of Clare’s life when he was notified that the card craftspeople were putting Clare Grandhart cards into circulation. “Your card,” he repeated. “Yes, I would be honored.”
With a flourish, he produced from his tunic the thick-nibbed quill he was never without. In handsome letters over his likeness,
he enthusiastically inked the name everyone in Mythria knew.
Sir Clare Grandhart
“Now,” Clare went on, his smile conspiratorial, “if you’ll pardon me, good sir, I’m with someone this morning.”
The crowd, of course, followed his cue to glance at the violet-eyed woman. Like he expected, she preened, enjoying the secondhand
fame. Good , he said to himself. It was the least he owed her in return for his dreadful issue with her name. Clasping her hand in his,
he returned her smile. He was determined to prove to her he was decent.
The noble pleasure of this resolution offered him only moments’ relief, until his companion asked with poorly feigned innocence,
“So, what are you doing next week?”
He stiffened. He understood instantly the intent of the question, one he’d heard from the lips of plenty of lovely women. Clare Grandhart didn’t do second dates. He wasn’t suited for second dates—not with Beatrice, not with the woman he’d woken up with this morning. He could only pull off the performance of noble hero for so long before those close to him saw through to what he really was. Not good enough. One fun, drunken night was all he was worth.
“I travel to Queendom for the festival, of course,” he replied, grateful for the honest excuse.
His date’s eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to see the festival in the capital.”
“You should attend,” he replied hastily. “I’ll unfortunately have no time to myself, but I would be very happy to see you
in the crowd.” Once more, not a lie. Just a ploy. Keep the door ajar and people will glimpse enough to never want to come
all the way in.
Or so he hoped.
Fortunately, they had reached their destination. Forcing the winningest smile he could muster, Clare held open the door for
her. He followed her in, the spicy smell improving his mood instantly.
Harpy & Hind was Clare’s favorite brewshop. Everyone’s favorite brewshop, really. In the years since their founders first
set up shop in Queendom, the women had expanded their enterprise, opening up nearly identical locations of their shops in
villages everywhere in Mythria.
While every brewshop could craft the usual varieties of dark brew, foamy milkbrews, or sugared brews, Harpy & Hind was known
for the creative whimsy of their concoctions. Pumpkin brews, nut-spice brews, holiday flavors. Right now, however, the promise
of their delicious potency was not what drove him. In moments, he would know his mystery woman’s name.
Her hand in his, he strode decisively for the open counter—only to abruptly pivot, yanking his date’s arm forcefully toward
the other brewmaster. “Apologies,” he said. “This line is, uh, better.”
She eyed him, but if she saw the cause of Clare’s change of mind, she stayed silent.
Clare positioned his date so he could turn toward the wall to speak to her, keeping his back toward the rest of the room—and the all-too-familiar brunette waiting for her drink.
Beatrice. Here.
Of fucking course she was here, he chastened himself. Yes, Clare could perhaps have foreseen she might come to the one Harpy & Hind in Elgin, the most popular brewshop in the realm , on this summer morn like every other villager here.
Perhaps she didn’t see him, he hoped ridiculously.
Calling on the stealth that saw him through the Grimauld Mines, he turned just enough to catch Beatrice in the corner of his
vision.
Only to find her looking directly at him. Their eyes locked. The corners of her lips flickered in victory. Her eyebrows rose
imperiously.
It was almost comical, Clare could admit. Last night, he had caught her in mismatched boots and a pink robe, which, for the
record, was unfairly hot given how fuzzy it was. Now the scales were even once more. She was catching him fresh off a one-night
stand.
Not that Clare wasn’t entitled to one-night stands. He certainly owed Beatrice nothing. Still, he hated how the impression
of him she was getting here would only fit the opinion she had of him—rake, scoundrel, disgrace.
He stepped up to the counter, determined to ignore his ex. “One large nut-milk caramel foam brew, please,” he requested. He
unleashed his usual smile. “For Clare Grandhart.”
Clare knew other men disdained the sweet, intricate brews they considered ladylike . Not him.
“Of course, sir,” the hand magician said.
Clare nodded, waiting.
No one spoke for a moment.
Realizing, Clare faltered, glancing to his companion. The whole point of this Ghosts-forsaken errand.
“Oh, nothing for me,” she said.
What?
No. Sir Clare Grandhart didn’t give up this easily. He’d saved the realm once, with resourcefulness and persistence. He needed
only call on them now.
“Please,” he insisted, leaning charmingly on the counter, coating his voice in sugar. “It’s on me. It would be my pleasure.
You must”—he glanced at the menu, improvising—“you must have the pumpkin-gingerroot cream. It’s the only thing I’ve ever tasted
half as sweet as kissing you.”
The line was risky. He hoped his date wouldn’t roll her eyes. Distantly, he heard a familiar snort of derision from the other
side of the shop.
Instead— yes . “Fine. One small pumpkin-gingerroot cream, please,” she said.
He paused, waiting for her to give her name.
She did not.
The brewmaster smiled pleasantly.
“I must step outside quickly,” he commented, thinking fast, then placing farthings from his pocket on the counter. “I need
to check on my eagle. Could you collect our drinks?”
She blinked, no doubt surprised by his sudden urge to see a bird. Celebrities were often eccentric, though. She turned to
the brewmaster. “Of course. Put it under Sir Clare’s name and I’ll collect them both.”
Clare hesitated.
“Go. See your eagle. I’ll be right out,” she said happily.
This was the dark night of the soul. All was lost. His quest would fail.
“He wants you to give your name for the drinks, Viola.”
Viola! He was saved! By the most lovely voice, one belonging to a majestic Ghostly visitation, no doubt, to—
Beatrice?
She walked up beside them, her own drink in her hands. “He’s forgotten your name, and he’s brought you here in hopes he could
learn it without you ever realizing,” Beatrice said, her tone thick with gloating.
Not waiting for a reply, she strode off. A conquering hero who has laid waste to all her foes.
Clare turned to Viola. “So sorry. Would you excuse me for just one moment, Viola?” Wincing, he followed Beatrice.
On the street, Clare gave up subtlety entirely. “Beatrice,” he called out.
Of course, she ignored him. She strode into the middle of the road.
Groaning, Clare ran to her side. “Stop,” he demanded when he caught up to her.
He was, he’d discovered on his way out of the brewshop, furious once more. Fuck heroism . He had much, much more to say to her than posturing pleasantries.
“Is there nothing you won’t ruin?” he found himself exclaiming.
Lo and behold, Beatrice did stop. He recognized the moment the same spark struck in her. Fuck civility. Fuck silence.
She held herself rigid. Her hair was loose and wild, the way it always was after her baths. She was beautiful. The angles of her face stood out strikingly in the morning light. Were her lips always a shade shy of purple? He’d forgotten
in the ten years since he’d last tasted them.
“I offer my deepest regrets, Sir Clare . Your discord gives me not inconsiderable grief,” she replied, her voice deathly low.
Was she... mocking the way he spoke last night? In hindsight, he knew he’d overemphasized the courtliness of his phrasing.
“I would never have intervened had I known your liaison with my former neighbor Viola was serious,” his ex continued. “I wish
you lifetimes of happiness. She’s lovely.”
Headache was not the word, either. She was his everythingache . “It’s—not like that,” Clare retorted.
“Like what?” She crooked the arm not holding her drink onto her hip. Waiting for him to say it.
He looked to the skies, wishing his eagle really was nearby. Wiglaf followed Clare at a distance, preferring to hunt on his
own, then swooping onto Clare’s shoulder in hopes of some salted meat from the market. It was very cute, and frankly, he set
Clare at ease in stressful situations.
“It was only one night,” he said, letting his breath out in defeat.
Beatrice grinned. “Just like old times, right?”
“No.” His voice was tight. There was too much history in their words. Too much they weren’t saying, too much he so desperately
wanted to say. Years of resentment covering over pain from which neither of them had healed, like wounds dressed with heavy
stone instead of silk.
“Clare, it’s fine,” Beatrice said, finally dropping some of her spite. “Really. Go. Take Viola to the wedding. She’d make
a great date. I’ll even share a drink with her and give her some words of wisdom on being with Clare Grandhart.”
“We were never together— Wait.” He stopped himself, realizing what she’d said. “You’re coming to the wedding?”
Beatrice looked to the side, clearly frustrated to have betrayed herself. “Don’t make this a thing. I’m coming to the wedding.
We’ll hardly see each other.”
The sun seemed to shine brighter. Was that Wiglaf in the clouds above? From fury, Clare glimpsed the shimmering filament of... hope. Beatrice is coming to the wedding.
No. Beatrice and hope couldn’t overlap in his mind.
Not when he knew her heart held nothing except poison for him. The event would only remind him of the hatred that endured
in their relationship. Beatrice and him, side by side, witnessing declarations of undying love, expected to share wine and
dance together, while she loathed him and he determinedly returned the resentment...
The wedding would be torture.
“I’m not going for you,” Beatrice warned him, “and we’ll never have peace between us.”
Clare was good at withstanding torture, though. He could do this. For Galwell. Yes, it was only for Galwell that he would
force himself to take Beatrice’s arm while the harps played. Only for Galwell would he compliment her dress. For Galwell,
he would hold her close, brush his nose along her neck, lose himself in her dark eyes.
“I’ll see you at the wedding, Beatrice,” he promised her. “Save me a dance.”
He turned back to Harpy & Hind, feeling strangely light.
“I certainly will not!” she called behind him.
He raised his hand in farewell. He would see Beatrice again. He would see Beatrice again.
When he walked into the brewshop, Viola was waiting for him, her expression pained. She handed him his drink.
“Clare...” she began ominously.
“Viola, I’m so sorry for... all of that. Truly, you didn’t deserve it.” He put heart into his words, no longer seeking
to charm, just to be sincere.
She smiled weakly. “I had a really fun night last night. But I think I’m going to skip the festival.”
He nodded. “I understand. I’m sorry. Again. I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have forgotten your name. It’s no excuse.”
She blinked, the apprehension in her eyes replaced with confusion. “You didn’t forget my name,” she said simply. “I never
gave it to you. Honestly, it’s very sweet how much effort you put in to learn it this morning. Under other circumstances I
would love to see you again.”
Clare felt his mouth open unbecomingly. His quest was... in vain? He had to hold in a laugh. Let Galwell see him now. Sir
Clare, the hero no one actually needed.
As Viola started to walk away, a thought seized him. He didn’t want to make things work with Viola. He was grateful she was
moving on from him.
Yet, if it wasn’t forgetfulness of her name, why didn’t Viola want to see him again? Was it something he did? Was his morning breath bad? His skills in the bedroom diminishing?
Ghosts, please let it not be that one. He had to know. Knowing Beatrice would be at the wedding made it, for some inexplicable reason, pressing to learn. He hurried
after her, catching up to her at the door.
“Can I ask why? Why don’t you want to come to the festival?” he asked. “I respect your choice completely. I just... want
to know.”
She smiled and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I thought everything that happened between you and Beatrice was in the
past, but seeing you two together... I can’t be the woman to get in between Claretrice .” She patted him like he was an eagle with a wounded wing, then walked off.
Claretrice?
Clare watched her go, confounded. He considered the gos sip pamphlets’ couple name no different from the legends of Old Mythria that historical scribes would recount. Captivating? Perhaps. Lost to the past? Certainly.
He sipped his nut-milk caramel foam brew. What Claretrice? There was no Claretrice , never—
His wondrous brew distracted him. It was delicious .
The simple pleasure calmed his nerves and eased his hangover. What couldn’t the Hind do? In the reprieve, he found his focus
sharpening like steel under the weaponeer’s whetstone. He remembered what was important.
He’d woken this morning wanting the chance to prove his character to Beatrice. Whether he enjoyed the celebration of love with her mattered not. What the wedding offered was exactly the opportunity he wanted. Indeed, the Ghosts could not have presented him a more ideal one.
Finishing his drink, Clare left the shop. When he stepped outside, Wiglaf descended from the skies, making the delightful
ka-kow sound that Clare, when completely alone, had been known to repeat to his dear pet.
While he fed Wiglaf from the bag of jerky he always kept on him, Clare hummed, realizing he found Elgin beautiful. Was there
really a chance three of the Four could reconvene, even for just one night? Thessia had assured him Elowen would come. Now, with Beatrice’s notice, Clare had reason to hope. What if he, Clare Grandhart,
with nobility and grace, could reunite them peaceably?
The very idea made him feel... like he could face down any evil in the realm. Ever since the Four separated, he’d struggled
to compensate for their absence, to fill the emptiness that losing friends closer than family left in him.
If he could rejoin them, maybe this week he would not find the role of hero so difficult after all.