He held it out toward Beryl suddenly.
Her delicate hand raised, hesitated, and then took hold of the leaf.
“But I believe that truth must always be spoken, even when it is of things that have long since passed,” he said. “For in that truth lies hope for the future.”
Beryl dropped her eyes to the miraculously random design in the center of the leaf, her perfect lips parted in wonder and surprise. When she looked back up, Padraig leaned his face toward hers.
She didn’t pull away as his lips brushed her mouth, and so Padraig brought his hand to the side of her face.
But she stopped him then, her fingers wrapping around his wrist.
“Padraig, look,” she whispered, her gaze focused on something over his shoulder.
He turned his head and saw the small figure of a child crouching at the edge of the wood, his little hand held out, as Satin crept toward him.
“One of Darlyrede’s?” he asked.
“I don’t think so—he’s not dressed as one of the village children.” She pulled away from him and stood, stepping around the oilskin toward the brook. “Hello, there! Hello! Is your mother with you?”
The boy’s head raised, and Padraig could see the surprise on his little oval face beneath his red hair from where he sat. Then the child skittered back into the shadows and was gone, leaving Satin standing in the berm between brook and forest, his tail slashing at the brisk breeze.
“He’s likely afraid of a hiding, being beyond the brook,” Padraig said.
Beryl hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Any matter,” she said briskly at last, “we should return. It has been a generous hour, Master Boyd. And although I would hold you to your promise of continued lessons, I fear that there are tasks I simply cannot put off.” She began gathering up the remnants of their meal and placing them in the basket.
Padraig didn’t want to go. He felt that, just for the short time they had sat together in this quiet place beyond Darlyrede’s walls, everything else had ceased to matter. He reached out for the red leaf lying on the oilskin and stood, stepping toward Beryl and sliding the stem into the scallop of her hair.
“So you doona forget,” he said.
Her eyes were star-filled as his fingertips grazed the side of her face, but only for an instant.
She reached down for the handle of the basket, the leaf a blaze of jagged color in her properly coiffed hair. “Don’t you forget your fitting. Good day, Master Boyd. Satin!”
Padraig watched her climb up the hill in her gray skirts, her little white familiar following after her.
Aye. He might be winning her indeed.
Chapter 10
The greenery that usually decorated the great hall only in the weeks during Advent had been strung in preparation for the arrival of the hunt guests. Iris could tell as she walked through the fragrant space carrying Caris’s freshly laundered underdress that no expense had been spared in making Darlyrede’s public areas as grand in appearance as any that could be boasted by royalty, and it was obvious that Vaughn Hargrave wished to make a very clear impression on his guests of his affluence and rank. But why he would choose to throw such a fete at this vulnerable time of Padraig Boyd’s claim to the hold baffled her—Iris would have thought it to the evil man’s advantage to keep word of Thomas Annesley’s legitimate heir secret until the king decided the legitimacy or no of his claim, and that was not likely to occur until well after the turn of the year.
It worried her too. Vaughn Hargrave did nothing lest it was to his advantage.
Her frown arched across her brow by the time she had mounted the stairs and arrived at the lady’s apartments. Lord Hargrave was dangerously sly, and Iris knew that there was a reason for his actions. She only hoped she could figure it out before someone else went missing.
She heard a shrill voice issuing from the chamber. Iris took a deep breath and steeled herself into composure before tapping lightly on the door and then pushing it open.
“No! No! No!” Lady Hargrave was shouting as Iris entered. She briefly caught sight of the noblewoman flinging a wadded ball of cloth at one of the older maids. “I’ve told you, it’s not the right one! Think you I don’t know my own costumes?”
“Milady.” Iris strode toward the little group gathered around Caris Hargrave, already holding out the underdress across both forearms as if in offering.
“Beryl, thank God.” Caris’s voice fell into a strangled whisper, and she clutched for the thick bedpost and leaned onto it as if her temper had cost her all of her strength. “The one with the ivory stitching?”
“Yes, milady.” She held it higher toward the woman, who reached out one trembling finger to stroke the intricate and delicate hem.
“I told you.” Caris turned her face only slightly toward the other women gathered. “You fools left it behind. My best underdress!” Her shoulders heaved as if she’d been running. “Get out,” she demanded, and then turned away from the post to stumble to her dressing table, muttering, “useless,” as she sank onto the cushioned seat.
“But, milady,” the oldest maid offered hesitantly. “Your veil—”
“Beryl will arrange my coif for me.” She waited for a response, her back to the chamber, her hairbrush in her hand. But when no one moved or replied, she slammed the tool on the tabletop. “Get out, I said!”
Iris looked sympathetically to the maids, but most would not meet her eyes as they passed her. She walked to the bed and laid the underdress carefully atop the coverlet as the door closed.
“What troubles you, milady?” Iris asked calmly, coming to stand behind the quaking woman. She reached past Lady Hargrave’s shoulder and retrieved the brush, setting
