Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

  “I mind,” she said stiffly, snatching up the proper vase of flowers. “I’m Hazel, and I mind.”

  He gazed at her stupidly.

  Reminded of the state of her clothes, she turned on her heel and stalked away. “Nobody said anything about a new farmhand.”

  Sonnet, who always heard every little thing, called after her. “Didn’t you see the note on your tray?”

  A note? Who would notice such a thing with all those flowers distracting her?

  “Send him home!” she called from the foot of the stairs.

  “Oh, my dear.” Sonnet must have been right behind her, she caught up so quickly. Cupping Hazel’s cheeks in her big, warm hands, she gently chided, “He is home.”

  Hire

  Florent wasn’t the biggest or best asset to an enclave, but his small knack for sigilcraft recommended him, especially when there was a festival in the offing. Shoring up gaps. Finessing finer details. He was especially good at camouflage, and he could pass himself off as human. Useful in places that didn’t have ready access to a trickster’s skills. But nothing special.

  Ever since his attainment, he’d lived on the edges of cozy communities. Helping them hide their modest celebrations. Roving from circle to circle with little more than the contents of his pockets. A permanent place wasn’t possible. Mostly because he shied away from questions about his past.

  But a friend of a friend on the songbird circuit had discreetly passed along a name—Yoxall. An enclave of the unregistered variety. A place where nobody asked questions.

  Lord Alderney had introduced him to Pennythwaite, whose acceptance had been immediate … if provisional. Florent could stay on if he could manage to live in human guise, at least until they finished raising the two human children currently residing at Merritt House.

  Children.

  Alfie Outler was a grown man. And someone really should have mentioned that Alfie’s baby sister was a young woman. And that she was beautiful. And that her soul was singing to his with all the sweetness of a star.

  “You go by Florent? Not Ren for short or anything?”

  He dragged his attention to Alfie. “Florent,” he said distractedly, because he was searching for ways in which the brother resembled the sister. “It’s always been Florent.”

  Alfie was a man of middling height. Tanned from fieldwork and dressed in the breeches and tunic that were typical to the In-between. A fringe of bangs fell into shy brown eyes that held questions. But he didn’t ask them. Pennythwaite had assured him the “lad” wasn’t the type to pry.

  Hazel had the same light brown hair and doe eyes. She’d descended upon the kitchen earlier with all the confidence of a queen, despite her rumpled braids and bare feet. Now, she was neatly dressed, and her abundant hair was pinned up in a fashion that fascinated him.

  “It’s impossible,” she was saying. “I won’t allow him to adorn my breakfast tray!”

  “That’s rather cutting of you.” Sonnet’s pleading gaze went unnoticed, for Hazel refused to look.

  Wyn cleared his throat. “I’m sure you only want to spare him the extra effort. But won’t Florent feel left out?”

  He would. But he knew better than to say as much.

  “If he must bring flowers, he can give them to Sonnet.” Hazel leveled him with a challenging look. “For the breakfast table.”

  “Be reasonable,” protested Wyn.

  Florent finally found his voice. “I will. And happily.”

  Hazel inclined her head and focused on her bowl. Only to ask, “Why do we need another farmhand, anyhow?”

  “Not to adorn your breakfast tray.” Pennythwaite’s crisp tone conveyed disapproval. “Florent will be working alongside Beck and your brother in the fields.”

  “And the meadow,” Sonnet added helpfully.

  Hazel’s brows drew together. “What meadow?”

  To Florent’s amusement, Sonnet looked to him for help. But he was willing enough to distract the young woman. “Your uncle has already given me permission to cultivate some of the farm’s little-used corners. Wildflower meadows are a hobby of mine.”

  Her eyes widened, and she whispered, “But that’s lovely.”

  Around the table, everyone exchanged relieved glances. A good sign.

  “Entirely,” Florent agreed.

  “And Sonnet shall benefit.” Indicating the purple asters at the table’s center, Uncle Wyn blandly added, “As shall we all.”

  Leaf

  He was doing it wrong. Absolutely wrong. Because flowers belonged in vases. Surely that was universally understood? Yet Florent had commandeered Sonnet’s soup tureen, and he’d filled it with sticks.

  “The season is certainly turning.” Sonnet eased a platter of griddlecakes onto the table. “Look at those colors!”

  “We’ll have a touch of frost within a fortnight,” remarked Triggs.

  Beck ladled spiced apples onto his plate. “Could be any day now. Better start covering your garden in the evenings.”

  “Oh, I do.” With a squeeze for his shoulder, Sonnet added, “Florent’s been helping me.”

  Alfie came in last, and when his eyes lit upon the ridiculous bouquet, they brightened … and Hazel’s disgruntlement doubled. Of all things. Sticks.

  The next day, it was a bowl of gourds. And the following morning, Florent contrived to bring in a tray of moss strewn with wee acorns. On the next, Florent finally used a vase, but Hazel was sure he was teasing her, because it held a bouquet of prickle burrs.

  Then she came downstairs to find a single sunflower, big as a platter, resting in all its glory atop a shallow bowl between the curd and clotted cream.

  They were for Sonnet.

  Everyone knew that.

  But Hazel had noticed a disturbing trend. Because while her loved ones faithfully adorned her morning tray with their usual bouquets, the flowers didn’t give her the same old satisfaction. Indeed, she only gave them a fleeting touch, and she’d begun tucking away her puzzle and writing assignments for later. Because these days, Hazel was in a hurry to see what new strangeness Florent had foisted upon her family.

  “What? What?” Hazel couldn’t believe her eyes. Florent had brought in something very different from the usual twigs and sprigs. “How could you?”

  Florent, who was helping Sonnet add an extra place at the table, chuckled. “They’re fine. I’ll release them after breakfast.”

  Beck took one look and snickered. “Above and beyond, friend. Above and beyond.”

  “Ah, I like them,” said Triggs as he took his seat. “Been a lot of them lately.”

  Pennythwaite hummed. “They don’t migrate anymore. They congregate.”

  “Can you blame them?” Sonnet bent to peer into the cage and whistled softly.

  “Must be all those feeders you put out,” said Uncle Wyn.

  “I am not the source of their foolishness.” Pennythwaite took his customary seat. “Rather, I will do what I can to make certain they don’t suffer for their choices.”

  Uncle Wyn sat and elbowed Pennythwaite. “I’m sure they’re as grateful as they can be.”

  “We could make a few brush piles among the trees,” suggested Beck. “Winter shelter for laggers and loiterers.”

  “I’ll help,” Triggs said.

  Hazel glanced at her brother. Usually, he was quick to volunteer.

  Alfie was squinting at the little cage with a mystified expression. “Is there something in there?” he asked.

  Pennythwaite sighed.

  Uncle Wyn muttered, “Bah.”

  “There is,” said Thrussel, who’d dropped by with letters for uncle, only to be invited to join them for the morning meal. Resting one hand on Alfie’s shoulder, he pointed with the other. “See, now? They’re easily overlooked.”

  Alfie blinked. “Oh. There they are.”

  “Dun nippets,” said Uncle Wyn.

  With a growing smile, Alfie looked to her. “No wonder you’re gone on them. Cute little things.”

&nbs
p; Glad to see her brother so happy, she asked, “Can we keep them?”

  Pennythwaite dryly pointed out, “You reprimanded Florent moments ago for caging them. Now you want to prolong their captivity?”

  Hazel blushed. “Maybe I could tame them?”

  Thrussel spoke up. “Dun nippets are wild, but I’ve heard of people keeping coral nippets as pets. They have showier plumage.”

  “I had a friend who kept azure nippets by the dozen.” Uncle Wyn chuckled at the memory. “He was in so much trouble when the mares found his flock.”

  “Mares?” asked Hazel.

  Uncle smiled crookedly. “That’s what we called the dorm mothers.”

  “You went to boarding school?” asked Alfie.

  “Way back when.” Uncle Wyn shrugged and smiled. “It was nothing special.”

  Hazel tried to imagine what he’d looked like as a little boy. But something else occurred to her then. She wondered why she’d never noticed before. Alfie was properly a man now, twenty-eight years old. And he looked the same age as Uncle Wyn.

  Waltz

  “Lord Alderney would do it if I asked,” Hazel argued.

  “Oh, love. With everything else … well.” Sonnet clung to her apron. “It’s a busy time of year for him.”

  Hazel couldn’t see how. The garden produce had been gathered in, along with every last bushel from the orchards. All that remained were the root vegetables and the vast pumpkin patch.

  Alfie eyed her over the top of his book. “What put the notion of a ball into your head?”

  “The chickens.”

  Her brother’s mouth quirked. “And here I thought it was the cows who like to dance.”

  “They do. But the chickens would so enjoy the music!”

  Alfie barely managed to keep a straight face. “Be sure to have Lord Alderney add them to his guest list.”

  “He would if I asked,” Hazel repeated, although she was less sure on that score. “Would you dance with me?”

  “You should know I’ve never danced.” The teasing light was still in his gaze. “I know you haven’t.”

  “I could learn!” Just then Triggs and Beck strolled in from outside, and Hazel pounced. “You know how to dance, don’t you?”

  The farmhands traded a look, and Beck answered, “Sure. I’ve been to my share of dances.”

  Triggs nodded.

  “Can you teach me?” Hazel abandoned her penmanship to face them both. “Something basic. I know! I want to learn to waltz.”

  “Waltz,” Beck echoed vaguely.

  “It’s a dance,” Sonnet whispered.

  “Oooh, the dance. Right, then.” Beck was nodding and shaking his head at the same time. “As long as it’s something as basic as a waltz, we should be okay. Yeah, Triggs?”

  “Alfie, too,” said Hazel. “That way, we can all dance at Lord Alderney’s ball.”

  Triggs looked increasingly perplexed. “Ball?”

  “A festival,” whispered Sonnet. “With fancy dress and dancing.”

  “Someone has been picking up on the excitement.” Pennythwaite had appeared from the direction of the study. He fluttered his fingers at them. “Move the table aside so you can give our girl her lesson.”

  Permission! Hazel hurried to put away her things and help clear space.

  Meanwhile, Triggs and Beck had their heads together with Sonnet.

  “What about music?” asked Hazel.

  “I will accommodate you.” Pennythwaite positioned a chair in the corner, settled back with his long legs outstretched, and began to hum.

  While he kept a steady rhythm, Beck showed Hazel how to hold on and where to put her feet. She was clumsy, but she was determined to learn. Grace would come.

  When Pennythwaite migrated from la-la-las to singing words, she couldn’t grasp their meaning. “Is that Welsh?”

  Beck grinned. “Let’s say it is.”

  Hazel wasn’t doing very well. It helped that Alfie wasn’t really doing any better, stiffly holding Sonnet, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

  Triggs was the soul of patience, but Hazel kept stumbling. He and Beck even resorted to dancing with each other to show her how the footwork was supposed to go.

  Round about then, Florent eased through the door. “I heard singing,” he said.

  Beck bowed. “We’re teaching her to welsh.”

  “Waltz,” corrected Triggs. “Here, Florent. Take my place. You’re a better height for her.”

  “You know this one, yeah?” added Beck.

  And before Hazel could so much as protest, they handed her off to a new partner.

  Once

  It had only been a week. Florent knew he was still an outsider in Hazel’s eyes. On some level, he felt bad for trespassing on her safe corner of the world, but he’d resolved to be patient. If he left her be, eventually, she’d be ordering him around with the same breezy condescension with which she treated the other farmhands.

  Yet here she was, about to step into his embrace.

  Because she wanted to learn to dance.

  Because she wanted to be treated like a lady.

  But not by him.

  Florent couldn’t help smiling at her struggle. “Hazel,” he tipped his head to catch her gaze. “You want to learn, and I can help. Be my partner this once?”

  She edged forward, and he offered both palms.

  Triggs had been right about their heights; he’d been stooping as he tried to guide Hazel through the dance patterns. Beck wasn’t much better, being long in the leg. But Florent only had a scant handsbreadth advantage on Hazel. So as they came together, he had an excellent view of the blush rising in her cheeks.

  Her scent didn’t carry the usual snap of temper.

  He tried not to let it go to his head, but it was nice to have his masculinity acknowledged by someone as lovely as she. Gently now. He was good at sheltering fragile things and encouraging them along. Surely, he could nurture her good opinion of him.

  “This dance is easy as counting,” he promised. “Slow enough to encourage chatting between partners, but with enough flourishes to keep it interesting.”

  Florent backed up, reviewing the steps Triggs had taught before flowing through the first transition.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  “No, look,” he murmured. “Your foot chases mine, then mine will chase yours. It’s just a friendly little game that two can play.”

  Hazel tried again. Success made her smile.

  He counted off steps. “Do you know why there are so many twirls in the pattern?”

  “Why?”

  “So a lady can show off her festival attire.” She was relaxing, so Florent kept talking. “In many places, a dance like this opens the evening. Ladies are led out by an uncle or a brother so that everyone can admire her.”

  Hazel asked, “Do you have a sister?”

  Florent didn’t like to speak of home, but he wouldn’t withhold anything now. Not when Hazel was finally willing to talk to him. “I do have sisters, but I also have many brothers. Older brothers, so the privilege of first dances was theirs. I learned from watching.”

  She smiled again. At him this time.

  As if liking and learning were linked, Hazel progressed.

  “Come alongside,” he coached. “Together. Just so. Flick your foot like this.”

  Hazel balked, for they’d missed a beat.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the timing. There’s no hurry. Pennythwaite is enjoying the song too much to stop anytime soon.” He knew for a fact there were dozens of verses to this old ballad. Pennythwaite’s command of them was impressive. “Hold your arm here. Your partner’s goes here. That’s right. Now another spin. Are you dizzy? Lean on your partner if that happens. No one the wiser.”

  And she was leaning on him.

  “Try it without looking down,” he coaxed.

  Hazel tried and floundered. “Where am I meant to look?”

  “At me, I’m afraid.” He laughed at her con
sternation. “While ignoring your partner would be rude, it’s fine to look around. Chatting about what you see can give partners something to talk about. Take your brother, for instance.”

  Alfie was “waltzing” with Beck, now. Which was going to be a disaster since both were attempting to lead. Meanwhile, Uncle Wyn was spinning Sonnet through the pattern with some degree of expertise.

  Hazel giggled so much, they had to stop.

  Florent kept hold until she caught her breath. “Shall we try it from the opening step?”

  “Please!” she agreed. “I like this. It’s fun.”

  He smiled his agreement and prepared to continue. He hadn’t let go. He dared not.

  To release Hazel was to end the dance, and to dance again would be irresponsible.

  Once was fine. One dance wouldn’t do any harm. But twice might cause some trouble. Because even if she didn’t know his clan’s customs, he did. Once was courteous, but twice was courting.

  Sire

  Alfie woke to a faceful of fur and groaned. Lifting the cat with both hands, he muttered, “What is it, Milk?”

  Her grumpy growl veered toward an alarming yowl. Was something wrong?

  Abandoning his bed, Alfie hauled his breeches up under his nightshirt and padded after her. His bedroom door was ajar, and the house was still. It had to be the middle of the night. Downstairs, Milk stretched up to claw at the kitchen door. Alfie shoved bare feet into boots and eased it open. Only once he was outside did he catch the sound of voices. Unfamiliar voices.

  “Help me understand, then.” A deep voice, strangely accented.

  “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you. I left the den centuries ago.” Softer, sullen.

  “Your mother wanted to know how you’re faring. It worries her that you’re alone.”

  A growl underlay the next words. “I’m a lone wolf, now. That’s my choice!”

  Milk crept forward on her belly to peer around the corner of the house. Alfie followed, trying to see who was in their yard.