but she did. She had to. He really didn’t think he could bear it otherwise.
SIXTEEN
The hunt for the missing bird didn’t go spectacularly well, mostly because my mothers were so excited about the thought of Gregory and me getting married, they couldn’t focus for long on anything else.
That word kept chiming in my head like the deep note of a large bell. Gregory wanted to get married. He loved me. And what was more, he wanted me to love him.
“Which of our wedding dresses do you think she should wear?” Mom Two asked Mom as we headed to their tent. “Mine was pretty, but I think yours would go with her coloring better.”
Men had said they loved me before, but with Gregory it was different. He wouldn’t say it unless he really felt it. And I had a feeling by the somewhat shocked expression that he had worn, it wasn’t something he’d felt very often.
“Yes, but yours was made of old lace, and that never goes out of style,” Mom told Mom Two.
That thought pleased me. I told myself to stop being idiotic—what Gregory did or felt before I knew him was absolutely none of my business—but all the same, I couldn’t help a smug little sense of pleasure that it was me he loved, rather than anybody from the great herds of women who I was sure had tramped through his life.
“It was my mother’s lace, too,” Mom Two agreed. “Lovely handmade stuff.”
When a squire bumped into me as he tried to get around us, I realized that I was just as guilty as my mothers of wasting valuable time.
“I repeat: the sooner we find the bird, the sooner we can leave Anwyn and I can wear the lace.” I grabbed a passing squire by the arm when he tried to sidle past. “Hi, there. Would you happen to know anything about a bird that Ethan stole several hundred years ago?”
“A bird?” The boy shifted the long mail coat draped over his forearms and scrunched up his nose. “What kind of a bird?”
“Lapwing.”
“Never heard of it,” the lad said, and wresting his arm away from me, he hurried off on his business.
I sighed. “Someone somewhere has to know something about that bird. It doesn’t help that I don’t know what a lapwing looks like. Do either of you know?”
The moms shook their heads. My mother took my arm and tugged me toward the tent. “But we have the books from the woman who used to live here, and they are full of all sorts of historical notes, so perhaps something is there about it.”
“All right, but while I’m looking at her books, I want you two to get packed up.”
Mom stopped dead. “Why should we pack? We aren’t done here. We have a batch of frogspawn potion evaporating down to just the essence, and you know how long that takes.”
“Eleven days exactly,” Mom Two said with a nod.
“I want you both to come with me over to Aaron’s camp. My tent is big enough for all of us, and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe with me.”
Mom Two bridled. “We’re perfectly safe here! Ethan would never let anything harm us.”
“Yes, indeed!” Mom gave me a stern look and proceeded to their tent. “We’re very happy here, Gwenny. Very happy. Even Mrs. Vanilla—Hello, dear, did you have a nice nap in your chair? Cup of tea? With extra honey? —even dear Mrs. Vanilla here is happy. Aren’t you, dear? Happy here?”
I followed my mothers inside, wearily wondering how on earth I was going to persuade them to come with me. Mrs. Vanilla, who had been dozing in her chair, suddenly perked up and squeaked at us, her hands moving in the quick little way she had when conversing. Or when she was doing what she thought of as conversing. I eyed her critically, wondering if I could use her as a way to get my mothers over to Aaron’s camp, but I had to admit she did look pretty chipper.
She gratefully accepted the cup of tea, liberally laced with honey, that Mom handed her.
“Gwenny?” Mom held up the big cast-iron teakettle from the coal stove that resided in the corner.
“No, thanks. And I’m sorry, but you are not safe here, Mom Two, as that episode with Irv and Frankie demonstrated to a degree that will give me nightmares for years to come.”
“Bah,” Mom Two scoffed. “I wasn’t harmed, and your young man said he would remove them. I have faith in him.”
I stared at her in surprise. Since when did my mothers fall under the spell of a man? Even one as charming as Gregory? “I’m glad you believe he can protect you, but he can’t be everywhere at the same time. And if that bastard lawyer sent two hit men after us, then he might send more. No, it’s not safe for you to be here without someone to watch over you.”
“We’ve been taking care of ourselves for centuries, Gwen,” Mom Two said as she and Mom bustled about, obviously preparing to start a new potion. “No, Mags, the dried lion’s ear, not the fresh.”
Mom handed over a glass jar containing dried ferns. “And besides that, we’re learning ever so much from the trees.”
“You’re what?” I backed up when Mom shooed me out of her way. She tied an apron around her waist and got to work with a couple of small vials of colored liquid.
“I’m so glad the apothecary had a fresh shaved spikenard root. I do so hate to have to make dominator oil with lesser materials. What was that, Gwenny?”
“You said something about learning from trees.” I rubbed my forehead. I could feel a headache starting, and I had a feeling it was going to grow with every second that my mothers fought my reasonable request.
“Yes, we are. We’ve always wanted to learn field magic, and who better to learn it from than trees and shrubs?” Mom Two answered for her.
“Yup, headache definitely getting worse.” I considered just sitting down and giving up, but the thought of remaining in Anwyn forever because we couldn’t find the bird gave me enough of the willies to keep me on my feet. “Are you talking about someone who’s teaching you field lore, or are you going out and learning from the trees themselves? Because if it’s the latter, I’d like to remind you that there are plenty of trees outside of Anwyn to learn from.”
“It’s both, actually,” Mom answered, her finger tracing a line of text in her recipe book. “The trees here in camp have many things to teach us. Especially that spruce. What was his name, dear? Denver?”
“Colorado,” Mom Two answered.
I sat down. It was a moment or two before I could speak. “Are you trying to tell me that Colorado, the warrior who looks like a young Hugh Laurie, is a tree?”
“Yes, of course he is. All of Ethan’s warriors are trees. Alice, oil of hyssop or oil of angelica?”
“For dominator oil? Myrrh and sweet flag.”
“Oh, that’s right, how silly of me. I was thinking of the uncrossing oil. What was that, Gwenny?”
“Nothing.” I stood up again, figuring if I stayed there to find out why Ethan’s warriors were really trees, I’d never get anything done. “Where’s this history book that has a picture of the bird?”
Mrs. Vanilla chirruped in her strange, wordless way and waggled her hands so that the massive spread of crocheted horse jacket wobbled across her lap.
“Hmm? Yes, dear, that’s right, the nice book is next to you, isn’t it? It’s in the chest there, Gwenny. The one to the left of Mrs. Vanilla.”
I smiled at the old lady and, moving a few bound bundles of dried herbs, uncovered a small wooden chest. Inside it were three books, two of which appeared to be grimoires. The bottom one smelled of mildew and long- dead moths. Its binding was wispy, but held together enough for me to leaf through its pages. I have a profound love for old books, and was sorely tempted to sit there and read this one, but other than pausing for a few minutes on a page that had me exclaiming, “Well, I’ll be damned. They
