Dahilla Leonhardt was buzzing about their little kitchen, setting dishes, and stirring stew, utterly oblivious as her daughter crossed the room and stole a stool at the table. For minutes, Jael watched her. It was not unusual to stumble upon her mother escaped away in her own faerie-tale world. Dahilla seemed half a faerie herself, the way she flitted through the house on bare feet in her lilac, silk—weightless, like a girl of thirteen. She’d been about that age at the Summer Tourney eighteen years ago, and since then, little had changed. She was still slender as a knife and blonde and fair, her eyes like cloudless sky, and even her gown was the same. Every few years, Jael’s father would hire the tailor to undo the threads and sew her a new one—an expense they could hardly afford. It would be worth it, she thought, if he could remake her mind as well.
That there was a time when Jael loved her mother was hard to remember. Those memories seemed more like fantasies. Had they really all gone to market together to have a dress measured for Jael’s thirteenth birth year? Was it truly her mother who picked out the color—jonquil, like the garland she had worn on the day of the Summer Tourney. “The day I met your Father,” Dahilla told her years ago, “I was the prettiest maiden in sight of Castle Aestas, and you’ll be just the same. I know it. You’ll make a happy wife to a lord’s son or one of his noble knights.” They were promises which filled Jael’s girl-head with wonder. Only, the gown was never made.
“Oh!” her mother gasped, dropping the cook pot, its clangor snatching Leonhardt from her reverie. Stew spattered the floor. Both women stared breathless, panting. Dahilla was the first to speak. “Good Lord, Jael, you scared me. When did you come in? Is it that time already? I thought for sure I’d have the table set in time.”
“Gavin’s homily finished early today,” Leonhardt lied. It was her meeting with Zach that ended prematurely. Her eyes were on the spilled stew—a small mess. There was plenty left in the pot, and what was lost would be quick to clean up. But then she saw the splotch: a globule of brown clinging to a lilac fringe. Dahilla had yet to notice this stain on her dress, and Jael sought to keep it that way. When her mother turned to take a rag from the water trough, she flew from her seat to the beef and bay leaf puddle. “Let me,” she said, begging the cloth from her mother’s hands. On elbows and knees, she went to scrubbing, waiting, watching for the opportunity to sneak the splotch from the edge of her gown. Too far, too fast, and too flighty did Dahilla dance around the table, pouring stew into pewter bowls. Jael couldn’t reach the spot without being found. Then the roar of a man shook the farmhouse. Ricard Leonhardt stormed the rear door.
Jael had always thought her father was short for his voice—a deep, bellyful boom—though the rest of him fit it well. He was a stout wall of muscle and hair with a face for fighting: a broken, bulbous nose and an anvil jaw—though age had softened him. His chin and cheeks were rounder now, and crow’s feet clawed at the edges of his eyes.
At once, Dahilla darted for the door. “My love,” she cooed and tangled her fingers in Ricard’s brown curls. He parted his lips to speak. She kissed him—long, too long. Her husband retreated, and she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She would have wrapped her legs as well, Jael was sure, if only her gown would allow.
A moment passed, a minute, then Ricard finally pried himself free from his wife. He lifted her by the waist and set her aside, his smiling eyes fixed firmly for Jael. “You’re home early, Leonhardt.”
“Yes,” Dahilla inserted herself. “She thought it fun to sneak in and frighten me. Now half our dinner is wasted on the floor.”
Ricard marched inside and glanced at the table: three full bowls. He took a seat. “We’ve got plenty,” he said, then he turned to his daughter, “Leave that for now, Jael, and sit down. Your old man is starving after a long day’s work by himself.”
Leonhardt tossed the soiled rag into the trough and stole the seat across from her father. “You finished the acre by yourself? I would have helped if you waited till I got home.”
“I didn’t want to spoil your holyday. Today was the Babylon homily wasn’t it?”
Jael hesitated a moment before murmuring, “Yes.” He was on to her, she could feel it, like her soul was set upon a pair of scales, sinking.
“That’s a long one, and longer now that they flowered it up. God, how many times did we read the story when you were a girl? If I had a schill for every time, I’d be richer than Duke Stoltz. So, after another year is it still your favorite?”
“Yes,” she whispered, walking headlong into what could only be a trap.
Ricard picked up his bowl and slurped his stew. “So why did you leave early?”
“I didn’t leave early. I—” Suddenly, Jael stomach turned hard and heavy as stone. He had her. She stammered, “I…took a shortcut on the way home. I was in a hurry to tell you what happened after the homily.”
Dahilla sat on the last open stool, her face twisted with disgust. “She means she snuck off to meet with her pentless goatherder. I swear, Ricard. You need to
