Prestige covers many wrinkles, her father would say. She was still nobleborn. She was still desirable, even with Mauritane's weight hanging from her neck. It was even possible that Purane-Es knew her past and did not care, saw only her. Perhaps he had even spied her during the tribunal and loved her from afar, awaiting just this time to begin wooing her. It was possible, certainly. It was possible.
She drank more, danced more. She whispered with the ladies as they fanned themselves by the bandstand. She let herself become lost in merri ment, as she once had in happier times, as she once had even with Mauritane, long ago.
The night sped past, a swirl of music, dancing, and wine. Finally the musicians packed up their instruments and the clockwork rabbits were retired. The guests disappeared in twos and threes and fours, their laughter carrying up from the road as they vanished into the night. She and PuraneEs were locked in conversation, talking of music and dancing and poetry and the intrigues of the court. When she looked up, she realized that they were alone on the huge terrace. The torches in the lawn had begun to burn out, one by one, and now only a few remained, casting long stuttering shadows on the far wall of the terrace.
'They've all gone,' she said sadly.
'Perhaps,' he said. 'But you are still here, and that is all that matters.'
'You've decided not to have me turned out after all?'
'No, I would not do such a foolish thing.'
The Lady Anne suddenly felt too close, nervous. She took a step backward. 'I must admit,' she began carefully, 'I was surprised to receive your invitation. We have never met, and…'
'And you wondered why I would invite the wife of my brother's murderer to a party. Is that what you meant to say?' Purane-Es leaned in, his arms folded across his chest.
'Well… I suppose so. Yes.'
'I have a confession to make,' he said. 'I do not know how or why, but I feel as though I can trust you with anything. This evening we've spent together is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Do you feel the same?'
Astoundingly, she did. 'I… yes.' She looked away.
'The truth is that I lured you here under false pretenses,' he said. 'I brought you here hoping I could ply you with wine and music and make love to you and in some way exact revenge on Mauritane for what he did to my brother.'
She gasped, holding her hand to her mouth. 'You didn't!'
He nodded. 'I did. At least, that was my plan.' He balled his hands into fists and held them at his side. 'I tell you this because I want you to believe what I say next. I have never met anyone like you. I find that, despite my prior motive, I am moved to strong emotions toward you. I find I want to pursue you in the courtly ways of love, write sonnets for you, sing ballads beneath your window. Those are the things I was made for. Not revenge. Not malice. I only want to be with you and the rest be damned. Vengeance be damned. Hatred be damned!'
'Mauritane be damned,' she whispered.
'What?'
'Mauritane be damned,' she said. 'I am still his wife, and I still suffer his shame. I don't know if I can believe you. I want to, but I cannot.'
'My lady,' he said. 'I am yours. Only let me prove it and I will.' He was fearful, plaintive. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, pressing his mouth against hers. She kissed back, searching for the truth of his words in his touch. If there was deceit in him, it was hidden from his hands and his mouth.
'If you want me,' she said, 'then marry me. That is how you shall prove your love.'
Purane-Es released her and stood back. 'Are you serious?' he said.
'I am, if you are. Marry me tomorrow and we will let all else pass away.'
'I would give anything that it be so. But your marriage to Mauritane…'
'He is not of noble birth. I have only to say it and that marriage is over. Have a witness brought forth and I will say it before him. Then let us never speak that name again.'
Purane-Es wrapped her in his arms. 'Can this be?' he said. 'That out of such anger can come such love?'
'Let it be so, darling,' said the Lady Anne. 'Let it be so.'
She fell into his arms and they stayed that way, clinging to one another, until the sun returned and cast out the remaining shadows.
Chapter 27
Satterly was unable to judge his emotional response. Amid the dread of being led single file at gunpoint toward an unknown destination, he felt a peculiar elation, the comfort of human voices and faces, almost a feeling of kinship. Only the red-haired man, Broward, spoke. The other two men and the young girl with the bandaged ears walked in silence through the wood. The girl, who had introduced herself to Satterly as Rachel, skipped ahead of them, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
'Tell your friends that the first one of them that makes a sudden move gets buckshot in his face,' said Broward. 'Tell them that if anyone moves their hands funny or reaches for a weapon, or starts to chant or anything like that, we shoot first. Tell them.'
Satterly repeated Broward's words to the others in Common, translating awkwardly.
'Where are they taking us?' asked Mauritane, his face grave.
'He hasn't said.' Satterly turned and spoke to Broward in English. 'Where are we going?' he asked.
'You'll find out,' said Broward, urging him forward with the barrel of his shotgun.
Satterly turned back to Mauritane and shrugged. 'He won't say.'
'Are those weapons dangerous?' said Mauritane.
'Very. One shot at this range would take off your head.'
Raieve walked beside Gray Mave, letting him put weight on her shoulder. 'How are you, Mave?' she asked.
'I'll manage,' he said, but his face was pale and he'd begun to breathe in ragged, wet puffs.
'He can't take much more of this,' Raieve said.
Mauritane looked back at her and said nothing.
Silverdun walked at the front of the line, his eyes downcast.
After two or three hours of marching, the forest trail opened onto a clearing at the base of a tree-lined hill. Inside the clearing was a row of three small wooden huts, with simple open windows and roofs of thatch. A large fire pit was in the center; several more humans sat around it, one of them turning food on a spit. The clearing was empty of snow, floored with packed earth, and was surrounded by a fence made of dark, corrugated metal rods bound together with some kind of rope. One of the humans, a boy scarcely out of his teens, ran forward and pulled open a wide gate constructed of the same materials.
Behind the huts was a low structure, again of the corrugated metal rods, that reminded Satterly of the lion's cage in the circus. Taking the place of the lion, however, was a solitary Fae man, dressed in the robes of a scholar, seated in meditation at the cage's center.
Something in the clearing caught Satterly's eye. It was a machine; a short, wheeled contraption with a metal bar that rose from the chassis to make a handle. It was covered in rust. Satterly racked his brain trying to figure out what the thing could be, his mind settling on the single, narrow point of reference rather than try and comprehend the situation at large. He'd seen the thing before, or something very like it. A long time ago. What was it? He pondered the problem for the space of a few breaths, utterly confused. Then the answer hit him with an almost physical force.
It was a lawn mower.
Satterly stood in the center of the noise and activity around him, trying to take in the scene at once and failing. The girl Rachel was one of three children, all girls, all about the same age of nine or ten. All three of the children wore the same bandages on their ears. Everyone Satterly could see was dressed in a bizarre combination of tattered human clothing, animal skins, and cheap Fae cloaks and boots.
