There would be no letter sent to the sages of her original Keep announcing her death—not until they knew with certainty such was the case.
Or so the histories made it sound when she had read them.
Her belly made an empty, furtive clench as she glanced into their shared stew. Grimult had made most use of the knife-work when tending to the vegetables, but he had claimed that her frequent stirrings were helpful as the pot was a new one and unfamiliar, and likely prone to charring rather than giving a proper cook.
There was even a generous joint of meat, preserved and readily prepared to add to their stew, and even now the smell of the juices mingling with the herbs and liberal helping of salt had her mouth watering.
She would have liked to have a soft roll to accompany it, something to soak up any lingering sauce and devour accordingly, but she had no skill in such matters, and evidently neither did Grim.
If she was to indulge his fantasising, she might say that she would like to learn. That she would fill their home with the scents of freshly baked bread, and that he would bring fresh golden butter from his work with his animals, and they would share it between them when dusk fell and there would be no more chores for the day.
But she bit her lip, the ache too great in her heart that it might be real, and she feared how angry and disappointed she might become if her worries were correct and that life was not for her after all.
None would acknowledge their marriage in any case, so it would have to be held a careful secret between the two of them. Their touches would have to be suspended, giving no hint of what they truly shared.
The prospect of such a future was enough to draw her to his side now, to tuck her hand into his while she could freely do so, her grip perhaps a little tighter than it should have been.
He glanced at her, uncertain of what had come over her, but gave her a soft smile and leaned forward and kissed her briefly. “I think we are ready,” he informed her, lest her sudden closeness be the desire for food to come more quickly.
She nodded, satisfied to push away the worries of what had yet to come and instead take pleasure in the current. She brought over the bowls and Grimult put steaming portions into each, wielding the ladle as if he had as much experience with it as his sword.
Perhaps he did, if his mother had relied on him to dish up for their family while she tended to other chores.
There was no need for envy, not with him, but prickles of it still came now and again. “You are very fortunate,” Penryn murmured, taking her bowl over to the small table and placing it there carefully so as to keep it from spilling and burning her fingers.
“I am,” Grimult agreed, although she had not specified in which particular regard. But perhaps it did not matter, not when he took his seat beside her, pushed there so they might indulge together. Both sat, content to hold the other’s hand while they looked longingly at the too-hot dish, until finally Penryn could stand it no longer, pulling her spoon through the contents and blowing on a small bite until the steam was banished and she was fairly certain no harm would come to the delicate tissues of her mouth.
She hummed, pleased with their creation, and she was a little over-hasty with her next mouthful, and she gave Grim a glare at his knowing smirk when he took his own bite, thoughtfully cooled and carefully eaten.
“You are a wretch,” she complained, but could not help her smile when he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to the back of it.
The wretch did not even bother to apologise, but then, she supposed he did not truly need to.
◆◆◆
If muscles could ache pleasantly, then Penryn’s did.
Parts of her bordered on a true sort of soreness, new and unused to her new activities, but she did not regret a bit of it. But it did coax her into a hot bath, leaving Grimult asleep upon the bed. She crept quietly, thankful for the well-oiled hinges as they did not creak as she left him to his slumber. She could not control the sound of the pipes at work filling her bath, but she waited and heard nothing from her husband, so she allowed herself to relax. There was nothing to be ashamed of, no need to hide from him, yet she found herself skulking and careful all the same. She did not particularly want him to know of her soreness, did not want to give him even a moment’s doubt that he had been less than gentle with her, but she supposed they had been rather vigorous on a body unused to such activity only the day before.
Her cheeks warmed and she bit her lip, wondering how her life had taken such a lovely turn when she had expected so fully to know only despair.
She peeled off her shift and left it hanging on a hook, allowing the heat to seep in her, coaxing any tension from her limbs. It was a lovely bath, one she would miss when she was gone, and she watched her hair float about her, swirling as the tap continued to feed more water over her. She shut it off as soon as she could, lest it waken Grim or worse, have woken him and was now a persistent thrum that kept him from returning to the sleep he dearly
