Weather Witch

“He will be implicated in murder,” Catrina insisted. “Rowen. If you will not think of yourself, then at least think of Jonathan; he will be an accomplice if you succeed, a victim of lawlessness if you fail.”

Rowen nodded. “Wise words, Catrina.” He stepped to his nightstand and pulled something out of the drawer. Holding it in his fist, he crossed to Jonathan and took his hand, placing the thing in his palm instead. “Regardless of the outcome once the deed is done, you must take a horse—”

Jonathan retrieved his friend’s sword and pistol from their usual places and set them on the bed.

“Good God, you’ll be stealing horses from the militia stalls to do this, too?” Catrina howled, her voice reed- thin.

Rowen’s eyes widened briefly and returned to their normal appearance. “Regardless of the outcome you must take a horse and leave. Get as far away from the city as you can. Go and pack your things now,” he suggested, and Jonathan turned on his heel and left, walking quickly back to the servants’ quarters to obey what might very well be the last request his young lord would make of him.

“Rowen, you cannot do this,” Catrina said.

“You mean to say: Rowen, you cannot succeed at this. That much I know. Do you not realize what I have lost already? I had a friend in Jordan. Not a perfect friend, but a suitable one. A match for me. A friend I was beginning to court. Do you know how few men of any station can say they were fortunate enough to wed a woman they were friends with first? Look at my parents. Most days they barely make it through without throttling each other. There is no love lost between them because there was never any love between them.”

“You can find love elsewhere. If you just look,” Catrina said.

“I do not want to look. And, frankly, I do not care that much for love—if it comes, it comes. But compatibility…” He shook his head. “I had that. Jordan may not have loved me, but she knew me. She understood me.”

“I know you, too…” She reached out a hand and he shook it off.

“No. Not like she did. I cannot explain it. But I had something that was growing—something that was good…”

“And that—what you had—is worth dying for? That—the past—is worth ending your life?” She grabbed his sleeve. “Do not die for something that no longer exists—do not die for the sake of memory or of what might have been. Live for what might yet be. Write the damnable letter! There is still a way out.”

He pulled back from her, hearing the rip of fabric as the seam on his shirtsleeve gave way. “Dammit. As if the day could not get worse…” He pushed past her, brushing the hair back from his eyes and examining the sword lying beautiful and still in its scabbard. His finger traced the length of the metal and leather case hesitantly, pausing on the weapon’s crossguard before he snared the hilt in his hand and yanked it free. “A pretty thing, is it not?” he asked, looking across the blade at her. “I have never truly fought someone with one. I fence, yes. What man doesn’t? But truly fight?” He shoved it back into its scabbard so that it clicked, metal meeting metal. “Perhaps we will not even come to blows with swords … Perhaps it will end before that…” He set the sword down and opened the wooden case that held his pistol, powder, patch, and ball.

“You must stop thinking that way,” Catrina insisted. “You must think of the act itself. Of aiming. Of firing. Of ending a man.”

“A highly unlikely outcome,” Rowen muttered.

“It is possible. Hold that thought in your head. Kill him so that you might yet live.”

“Say I do. Then what? I win, I’m a murderer. I lose, I’m a dead man. I asked for first blood.”

“Write the blasted letter!”

He snorted and raised his chin. “My penmanship is godawful. No one should be subjected to reading what I write.” He attached the scabbard to his belt and, picking up the gun case, thrust it into her arms. “Let us do this thing. Now.”

“No,” she said flatly, refusing to hold the case. “I am not giving up so easily. I am telling your mother.” She turned on her heel and strode out of his room.

“As if the day could not get worse,” he said through a grimace, steeling himself for the next fight of his day.

* * *

Lady Burchette was waiting at the door for her son, hands on her hips like a scullery maid, Catrina standing right beside her, chin tipped up in what surely approximated victory.

“My coat and hat, Jonathan,” Rowen said.

Jonathan obliged.

“Just where do you think you are going, young man?” his mother shrilled.

“Most likely to my death, but I daresay it will be far more peaceful than this household.” He slipped on his coat and took a moment to appreciate her stunned silence.

“You cannot,” she finally croaked. “I will not let you…” Her face was turning red.

“Mother. You cannot stop me,” he said.

“I most certainly can!” She turned to Jonathan. “Stop him!”

Jonathan choked a little at the command. He clicked his heels together and gave a gracious bow, but rising from it, he said, “Dear lady, your good son is three inches taller than I and a half stone heavier. I daresay if he wishes to go somewhere I am not the man to stop him.”

Rowen gave him a small bow of acknowledgment. “I do tend to agree. Although, if Mother insists, we could at least give her a good show…” Rowen bent his knees, widened his stance, and put his arms out at his sides in a braced position, a sharp smile on his lips.

The square’s bell struck the quarter hour.

“As much as I agree regarding the value of a good show, I fear if we pause too long we will miss your date with destiny. And quite possibly muss your outfit. Or your hair.”

Rowen straightened suddenly at that thought. “I do intend to look my best. Less to be done in burying me.”

Lady Burchette stomped her foot. “Stop this madness at once.”

Rowen paused, the sly expression slipping off his face for a moment.

“I have no choice. I said I would do this thing. My word is attached to this—my oath—my value as a man.”

“You were drunk,” Catrina snapped.

“Shut your mouth, Catrina,” Rowen advised, his tone a low rumble.

She did, and he briefly marveled at the fact.

“Mother,” Rowen continued. “I am a man. This is one of the things that matters to a man such as myself. You must respect my decision.” He turned back to the door.

“You are mine,” his mother snapped. “I love you,” she whispered.

Rowen stopped dead at her words. He turned back to her. “It is for that reason that I must go. Because I am your son and I represent our shared name.” He watched her for a moment, and then a strange expression crossed his face and he bounded over to her and laid a kiss on her forehead before settling his hat on his head and pushing the door open.

* * *

The bold stride Rowen had adopted to leave his family home became a sliding creep as soon as he and Jonathan had stepped off of the Burchette estate. Together they moved quickly and quietly in any of the areas the morning light flowed across and then slunk through the remaining shadows on their way to the stables.

They paused beneath the shade of a tree and Jonathan raised one finger to his lips before leaving Rowen to walk toward the large sliding double doors that opened on parade days and the smaller worker’s doorway.

Jonathan looked about and, spying no one to raise questions about his presence at the stables, tried the door.

It opened easily and, startled, Jonathan flashed a grin over his shoulder at Rowen. He disappeared inside a moment, and then stuck his head and one arm back out just enough to signal his young lord.

Rowen hurried across the yard and slipped into the darkness of the unlit stables. He rubbed his nose at the pungent smells of warm horseflesh, hay, and straw. His father might be in charge of the military stables in