“Yes, Father,” Avena said, adjusting Carstin’s bandage. “A half-hour, and we shall be home.” Suddenly, Ni’mod’s missing presence was an abscess dimpling the world, drawing her attention to Ōbhin sitting in his spot.
She couldn’t maintain her grief. Ni’mod’s remoteness had kept her from ever forming a true attachment to him. At times, he’d seemed more like living furniture. A terrible thought, and it disturbed her how easily he could be replaced.
Will Ōbhin be as easily replaced if he’s killed? she wondered.
The empty gouge in her yawned wide. She turned to Carstin and stroked his hand. “We’ll get you back on your feet . . . Foot.” She felt foolish for feeling embarrassment at her careless words to the unconscious man. “You’ll see. Maybe you can work here, too. You can’t be too bad of a man.” Not if Ōbhin faced down so many men to keep you alive.
Familiar landscapes passed by the wagon. Servants and guards of the neighbors waved greetings as they passed the sculpted landscape of various estates. They belonged to lesser lords or merchants who’d found riches in the growing industries swelling Kash, transforming the capital in ways that left Avena bewildered at times. She smiled at the familiar cherry tree, pink blossoms adorning spreading branches, on Dynash’s estate. He’d made his fortune creating canned ham. He’d adopted the assembly line, a miracle of industrialization and organization brought about by jewelchines.
She idly gripped Carstin’s clammy hand as she peered down the road, her insides squirming with her mounting excitement. The wrought iron gates to Dualayn’s estate lay ahead. They rode past the brick wall—topped by a fence of wrought iron and topped with sharp, flower-like trefoils—surrounding her home. She knew every imperfection in the red bricks and their gray mortar. The small chip caused by the collision with a rolling wagon, the iron crenellation bent by a would-be thief who’d almost bled to death from the laceration the tip had caused to his groin, the vines of cream-hued ivy working up the sides in patches.
Smiles lounged at the gate, the guard hardly perking up at the sight of them. She waved at the familiar man dressed in his quilted gambeson, a coat of heavy wool, and a steel cap hiding his light brown hair.
“Why, if that ain’t Avena I see peekin’ over the back of the wagon,” he said, the sound of Kash’s streets lingering in his words. “You don’t need to be shy of me, lass.”
“Why would I be shy?” she called, her grin spreading. She climbed over the seat and settled down beside Ōbhin, smoothing her dark traveling skirts to keep her stocking-clad ankles covered.
“Why, ‘cause of my fearsome cout’nance,” he said, a smile growing. “Frighten all the maids, I do.”
“Is that what you tell your wife to keep her from getting jealous of the other maids?”
He chuckled. “It’s the truth. Ain’t that why you ran off to them bloody woods to never see me again? Poor Miguil spendin’ all his time with his horse and . . .” The guard’s voice trailed off as he noticed. Smiles glanced at the easterner, puzzlement flashing across his face as he stepped aside for the wagon to pass through the yawning main gate. “Ni’mod?”
Ōbhin had the good grace to look down as Avena’s smile died. “He’s dead.”
“Oh,” Smiles said, the mirth falling from his expression. “I see. Well . . . Elohm’s bright Colours, I didn’t think nothin’ could kill him.”
“Luck counts more than skill sometimes,” said Ōbhin.
Once Smiles opened the gate, Ōbhin flicked the reins. The wagon trundled through into the grounds. The lawn, kept shorn short by a small flock of sheep under the gardeners’ watch, held the vibrancy of spring. It clad the hill the manor house perched upon. It was an impressive sight, made of white marble veined with red and blue quarried from the Homphrey Hills in the north. The central house rose three stories, the front door flanked by a pair of columns holding up the porch’s roof. Two wings thrust from the sides, smoke rising from the kitchen fires in the east wing. A stable lay at the hill’s base to the right, along with a carriage house. Rhododendron bushes, just blossoming, dotted the lawn with mauve and white.
Avena’s heart quickened its beat as Miguil stepped out of the stables, a tall man a year her junior, broad of shoulders with a smile gathering on his thin lips. A wicked flutter rippled through her as she squirmed on the wooden seat. His dark hair marked him with Onderian blood, along with his delicate cheekbones and square jaw. He raised his arm in a wave, his rumpled shirt half-unbuttoned to show off the curly thatch of chest hair.
“Miguil,” she cried in greeting, eager to see him as he jogged to meet them at the front of the house.
“My beautiful apple blossom,” Miguil said, his voice a rich tenor, not a manly bass but also not a boyish soprano. “I worried so much in your absence.”
Ōbhin drew up the wagon before the house. Miguil moved around to her side and held out his arms. He seized her waist and helped her down, his strong hands supporting her. She lifted her head to receive his kiss. His head ducked down and his lips brushed her cheek in that shy way they always did.
A sour bit of disappointment oozed through her. He could kiss her lips. They were promised.
“You look tired,” he said, studying her eyes. “And you return with a new man? No Ni’mod?”
Her fluttering joy was snuffed out again. How many times would she have to tell people the truth? Before she could, Miguil’s eyes flicked past her. She turned to see three individuals approaching from the side of the house, Pharon at the lead, marching with prissy self-importance. His
