Chapter 29
It’s my birthday today—but no one says a word about it.
I stand as motionless as possible while the heavy-handed dressmaker pins a shimmery black material around my waist. Beneath it, I wear a thin summer chemise that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
It makes me wish that Lady Mari—or Mum, as she insists I call her—wasn’t lounging in an armchair, mere paces from me.
Delicately holding a cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the other, she watches the dressmaking process with intense curiosity.
I thought being under Mother’s very loudly opinionated scrutiny was bad, but Lady Mari’s silent observation feels weightier.
I’m suddenly self-conscious. All the criticisms I’ve heard about my body swirl in my head. Too muscular, too short, too—
“Dearest, has anyone told you that for one of such petite stature, you have quite … ample … attributes?” Lady Mari’s gentle voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I quirk a brow, but the demure look on her face makes me want to laugh. Ample attributes?
“No one has quite put it that way,” I say, still holding back laughter. “Have you seen Arionna? She makes ample an understatement.”
Her face pulls tight, but it’s amusement that glimmers in her eyes and crinkles at the corners. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound as laughter slips free. It earns me a sharp pinprick in my side. I suck in a quick breath and jerk away involuntarily.
The dressmaker winces. “Apologies,” she says, and Lady Mari’s dainty giggles flitter across the room. She has a certain tenderness to her that makes me wonder how she could’ve raised a man like Gruffud.
Sobering again, Lady Mari tilts her head as she regards me. “The muscle definition in your arms and legs is uncanny.”
I meet her gaze, trying to figure out if it’s an insult or a compliment. It seems to be the latter, so I tentatively thank her.
“My father used to train me,” I admit, sadness knotting my throat. “He tried to convince me to love sword fighting as much as hand-to-hand, but he wasn’t very successful.”
Lady Mari presses a hand over her heart. “Oh dear. Hand-to-hand? As in … fisticuffs?”
I smile and nod.
“That’s awfully odd for a woman of high standing.”
Everything is awfully odd for a woman of high standing. I shrug. “He wanted me to be able to defend myself.” Against pricks like your son. And yet I don’t do a thing about it …
Lady Mari sets her teacup and saucer on the accent table and runs her fingers through her blond hair, which has been steadily turning silver over the past year.
It reminds me of another platinum-haired woman from my past. Nimue.
Fear suddenly has me in a chokehold. I close my eyes to repress the memories of lies and pain.
I push away the thoughts only to land on last night’s attack.
The scent of blood returns to my senses.
The Peacekeepers shot down innocent travelers … who were simply having dinner.
“Are you well, dear?”
I open my eyes to look at Lady Mari again, forcing my lips to curve into a smile. “I am.” The dressmaker begins pinning fabric around the large swell of my bust, so I hold my arms out and remain still.
For a while, there’s silence save for the rustle of fabric and occasional clink of Lady Mari’s teacup. The dressmaker unpins all the fabric from me and jots down a few notes on parchment with a quill and ink.
Moments later, I head downstairs to brew a cup of tea, hoping to take it up to my room for some much-needed quietude. Instead, I run into Sage, who beams at me as soon as I enter the kitchen. “Lady Gwyneth,” she says enthusiastically. “I have something for you. From Neris.”
My interest piqued, I step closer. “From Neris?”
“Yes.” She marches toward the counter and lifts a small package of sorts.
With quick steps she returns to me, holding out something in beeswax paper.
Slowly, I unwrap the paper as the servant continues to speak.
“Catriona delivered it a moment ago. She said Neris wishes you a very happy twentieth birthday and owes you a big hug. Neris hopes this satisfies the craving for her hugs for now.”
I catch the buttery sweet aroma of caramel before I even finish unwrapping the confection. A smile splits my face at the sight of the flakey squares of shortbread biscuits layered with caramel and topped with chocolate.
“She also says she owes you a cake.”
I chuckle. What I’d give for one of Neris’s cakes, but the caramel-chocolate biscuits are more than enough. “Thank you. Would you like one?” I extend the parcel, but she shakes her head.
“Oh no, I couldn’t impose.”
“Please, you’re not imposing. I’m offering. I cannot eat all of these by myself. Or rather … I shouldn’t.”
She smiles and nods before delicately plucking one of the biscuits from the wax paper. “You are very kind, Lady Gwyneth. I hope that never changes.”
I smile.
“Oh, and Neris said to give you this.” She pulls out a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. Bobbing a small curtsy, Sage strides away with her treat.
I set my birthday treat on the counter and open the letter of Neris’s almost-illegible scrawl.
My dearest sister-friend,
I love you, and I hope you have a great birthday. Don’t forget that you’re called to great things and don’t forget who you are.
Neris
The familiar feel of the paintbrush as it glides across the canvas quiets the unease I’ve felt for a while now.
My thoughts are stilled, my body settled.
As I’m mixing colors to get the perfect shade for the stag’s antlers, loud footsteps echo behind me.
I set my paintbrush down quickly and turn in my chair as Gruffud storms into the parlor.
“What in hells are you doing?” he asks.
“Painting …?”
He steps closer, something flaring in his eyes that presses my desire to run.
“I thought it would be nice to paint something as a gift of gratitude to your wonderful family for welcoming me. Your mother does like collecting art, doesn’t she?”
The harshness in his eyes slowly dissolves, but his body remains tense. He rubs his hands down his face and fixes a smile onto his lips. “Come with me into town,” he says.
A frown pulls at my lips. “Right now?”
“Yes. There is a new building that has just been evacuated. The Peacekeepers arrested the owners.”
Hesitant to take my eyes off Gruffud, I turn to put my paints away. I glance back at him several times, but he remains standing in place. “Do you know why they were arrested?” I ask. “Who were they? Do we know them?”
“That is none of your concern,” he snaps.
“Apologies. What was I thinking?”
“Of frivolity.” He jerks his head toward my canvas, and I fight to keep a neutral expression on my face.
In silence, I finish putting my paints away and swish my paintbrush in a jar of water, watching the colors bleed and trying not to think of making Gruffud do the same.
Notices are nailed to trees and lamp posts throughout the town center. As much as I want to stop to get a better look, I trek onward with Gruffud. He’s a man on a mission. His elbow is linked through mine, a smile plastered onto his face, but his grip is so hard that my arm is growing numb.
Gruffud’s gaze sweeps over the various buildings as we walk. More storefronts appear empty, but they’re clearly not the storefront that Gruffud is in search of.
As we approach a larger red brick building with a wide expanse of windows, Gruffud releases my arm and rushes toward it.
Left behind, I take the opportunity to rip a notice off a nearby lamppost and stuff it into the pocket of my cloak.
I’m back at Gruffud’s side in no time. “This is the place. Look how large it is.” He beams at the door.
“What a shame for Lord Myron. He was our biggest competitor with his bloody miniature clock towers.”
My hand moves to my dress pocket automatically, my fingers sliding over the warm brass of my pocket watch. Sometimes I fear that Gruffud would take it away from me. For no reason other than to remind me that he owns me now.
The door swings open just as Gruffud reaches for it, and out steps a broad man with grey hair and a warm smile. Gruffud startles, scrambling back. If I weren’t equally startled, I would’ve laughed.
I stare up at the man, at the fine lines at the corners of his cerulean eyes. “Lord Murtagh,” I say with surprise, while Gruffud clutches his chest.
Realms, if only his heart would truly give out. I shake the thought away, cringing at the immorality of it.
Lord Murtagh’s smile widens. “Nice to see you again, Lady Gwyneth. Lord Gruffud. How goes it with you two newlyweds?”
My stomach curdles, and I swear that Murtagh’s brows rise as if he’s sensed my reaction. “Swimmingly,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. I clear my throat.
Gruffud laces his fingers with mine and gives it a bone cracking squeeze. I wince, though I try to keep a well-trained smile on my face.
“What brings you here, Lord Murtagh?” Gruffud’s tone is clipped, but he manages to look pleasant.
“I’m considering relocating to Barr na Cahar. My daughters are excellent jewelry makers. What better a place for them to set up shop than in the greatest city in Erleya?”
I swear Gruffud’s eye twitches. “For them to set up shop?”
Lord Murtagh smiles. “Absolutely. My daughters dinna just excel in artistry, but in enterprise as well.”
An uplifting warmth fills my chest at this prospect. Women running a business in Barr na Cahar? Half the city would riot—the rest of us would gladly throw coin at them.
“Kenna, my eldest, would like to have painting classes for the wee littles. I’ve told her all about you, Lady Gwyneth, and she is just dying to meet you.” His gaze moves to Gruffud as he adds with exuberant charm, “If you could bear to spare your talented wife every so often, young lord.”
To my absolute delight, Gruffud trips over his words, then draws in a harsh breath and gives a tight-lipped “Of course.”