Chapter 50 #2
“The handsome immortal? Oh, yes. He is really the prettiest man I’ve ever seen in all my days.”
“Ma, he’s eight hundred summers old.”
“I don’t care a whit!” her mother cried. “Have you noticed the cut of his jaw?” She made a clucking sound with her mouth.
Magdala retched. “He’s ancient, Ma.”
Cressida patted Magdala’s hand, and her smile lines deepened. “Lie down and rest. It’ll be dark soon, and I’ve left soup in the kitchen."
Cressida left and Magdala settled back on the soft bed to watch the wind toying with the curtains. Gentle rain pattered on the grass outside the window, and Magdala drifted into a contented sleep. She awoke when Asherton returned.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Magdala rubbed her eyes. Her aches were already fading.
“I’ve brought salve for your bruises,” he said, holding up a green jar. Asherton kicked off his boots and climbed into the bed beside her. “Take off your nightdress and let me rub some on.”
Magdala raised her eyebrows. It occurred to her, with a shock, that they had been married for more than three weeks and hadn’t yet consummated their marriage.
Slowly, she lifted her nightdress and found she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She clutched the sheet against her chest as Asherton scooped some of the salve on his fingers and rubbed it on her back. It was cold, and it stung her skin in a strangely pleasurable way.
She turned their situation over in her mind for a moment and then said, “I feel very well.”
“I’m so glad,” he replied, concentrating on her bruises.
“No, Ash.” She turned and let the sheet slip away. “I feel very, very well.”
Asherton’s eyes lit and he set the jar aside. “Are you sure? We can wait until you’ve recovered more.”
She gripped his shirt and lay down, drawing him over her. “I am so very sure.”
“Very well, then, my perfect goddess wife.”
His arm wound around her back, and he lifted her gently into a deep, warm, exploratory kiss.
Morning dawned cool and smelling of approaching autumn. Magdala awoke curled against Asherton’s side, the covers pulled to her neck.
After all the long nights watching him sleep, this was the first time she’d woken without a knot of anxiety in her chest. She cuddled into his warmth and let out a long, cleansing sigh.
Asherton stirred, drew her closer, and kissed her brow sleepily. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning.” Magdala felt a little giddy. “Did you sleep well?”
“Never in my whole life have I slept that well. How are you feeling?”
“So-so.” Her eyes sparkled. “You weren’t dreadful last night. It was satisfactory.”
“Not dreadful?” he cried. “Satisfactory? Oh, you were not calling it merely satisfactory when I …”
“Alright, alright, I’m joking!” She laughed. “You are a very talented man, I admit it.”
“I am indeed,” he said with a curt nod. “And you”—he pulled her against his chest—“are a goddess.”
She beamed. “I am indeed.”
She sat up and stretched. Asherton watched her with a look of pure astonished adoration. “I want to see the rest of the house.”
Asherton smiled. “The house is ‘satisfactory’ as well.”
“Is it?”
“If satisfactory means ‘perfect in every respect’, as it did a moment ago, then yes.”
Laughing, she stood and was pleased when her legs held her weight and the room remained a nice, grounded room that didn’t spin like a top. She found a plaid woolen dress and a white blouse in the bureau, and Asherton dressed in his Russuli clothes.
Leaving her shoes—she preferred going barefoot now—Magdala took Asherton’s hand and tiptoed into the cottage.
It was modest and simple and perfect. It boasted a snug living room with a small sofa and a deep, blackened fireplace.
Zephyr had already scattered an assortment of binoculars and books on local flora and fauna on the mantlepiece, along with glass cases of leaves and pressed flowers.
Adjoining the living room was a low kitchen, the cedar beams in the ceiling hung with dried herbs and copper pots and pans.
A scrubbed wooden table stood in the center of the room, hosting some rustic-cut potatoes on a butcher’s block.
A kettle sat on the cast iron stove. Everything smelled of woodsmoke and sage. Tears welled in Magdala’s eyes.
“It’s nice,” she said.
Asherton chuffed. “It’s nice and I’m satisfactory. You are the queen of understatement today.”
She bumped him with her hip. “I love it.”
“You need to come outside and smell the Wildland air,” he said, taking her hand again and leading her to the front door.
Magdala stepped outside, her bare feet sinking into the warm grass. The wind caught up her hair and danced with it before whisking away over the moors.
“Oh.” She pressed her hands to her chest. “I do love this place.”
“Then welcome home,” Asherton said, looping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her cheek. “My wild bird.”
“Welcome home,” she replied. “MoCrida.”
Perhaps someday they would find their way back to wars and crowns and disputed thrones, and by then she might be ready for another adventure, but for today, Magdala was content to shut her eyes, lean her head against her soul-match’s shoulder, and breathe in her freedom.