by Forthright
“Haven’t you had enough of this?” The stranger’s face was in shadow, but his silhouette was imposing. Big as Triggs, but leaner. “Your responsibility to the clan …!”
“I have responsibilities here!” growled the second figure, clad in loose pants and a light tunic.
This one’s features were touched by moonlight, so Alfie had no trouble seeing. But he was having trouble understanding. He’d never seen Sonnet’s hair down, nor heard her voice deepen or darken like this. But the faint tremor he knew very well. Their cook was on the verge of tears.
“I have children to raise!”
Alfie had heard enough. Rushing into the open, he placed himself between Sonnet and the stranger, fists balled. “Leave her alone!”
The stranger shifted, and his gaze darted around, landing on Milk. “The cat?”
“Oh, nooo,” Sonnet moaned.
Alfie wasn’t seeing much or well, but he caught how the stranger’s head reared back. That heart-hammering growl returned. “He means you?”
“Yes,” Sonnet sighed, sounding more like herself. “He’s an orphan. He needed a mother.”
There was an awkward silence. “That is … surprising.”
Alfie backed toward Sonnet. “Are you all right?” he whispered.
“Oh, love. I’m so sorry. Have I ruined everything?”
He fumbled for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
The stranger cleared his throat and stiffly said, “Your mother safely delivered twins. She wanted you to know, in case you wanted them to get a whiff of you.”
“Twins?”
“Sisters.” He gruffly added, “They should know their brother.”
Sonnet whimpered and tried to pull away, but Alfie tightened his hold.
“I thank you for your invitation,” she said stiffly. “And I will thank you to leave.”
The stranger muttered something, turned, and strode away.
Alfie didn’t catch his words, but Sonnet snapped, “I know. I’ll consider it.”
Then she sagged to the ground, hugged her knees to her chest, and started to cry.
Glancing toward the dark house and toward Cozy Cottage, Alfie was surprised no one had turned up. “Should I bring help? Pennythwaite? Uncle Wyn?”
“No, he’s away. Pennythwaite, that is. And Wyn’s only human. Let him sleep.”
He’d never been in a situation that made it impossible to pretend. So he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Sonnet, who was that?”
“My sire. He doesn’t approve of my choices.” Sonnet sniffled. “But he worries twice as much as Mother.”
Something moved, and Alfie quickly averted his eyes from the tail tucked against Sonnet’s thigh.
“I’m sorry, Alfie. I’ll go away if I must.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you very angry?” Sonnet asked huskily.
No, it was more than husky. Her voice had dropped an octave. Alfie dearly wished he’d brought a light. “I’m not angry with you. How could I be angry? I’m worried is all.”
“Don’t worry. Please, don’t worry. I only wanted you and Hazel to have a mother.” Sonnet swiped at wet cheeks. “I’ve always loved you like my own.”
Alfie guessed this was a confession. Which meant there was no pretending. “Sonnet, are you maybe … well. Are you a man?”
“Male.” Sonnet was breathing oddly. Panicking.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” he offered, not entirely sure what he was about to learn.
Sonnet whined.
“Shh, shh. You don’t have to.” Alfie gently placed a hand on Sonnet’s shoulder. “It’s just a bit easier now … asking about your tail, I mean. Knowing we’re both blokes.”
An instant later, he was hauled into arms that had held him many, many times. And the person who’d been like a second mother to him gruffly declared, “My name is Sonnet Skybellow, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. But please, Alfie. Please, don’t tell Hazel.”
“I won’t tell. Hazel still needs her mum.” And because it was true, he shyly added, “We both do.”
Sulk
Hazel couldn’t understand why the morning was so wretched. It wasn’t the weather, even though low clouds threatened a chill rain. Sonnet was unusually quiet, which seemed to dampen everyone’s mood. Except Alfie. Maybe because there was gruel for breakfast—his favorite. No, it had to be Florent’s fault.
“Where is Florent?” she asked. “Did you fire him already?”
Uncle Wyn glanced up in surprise. “Nonsense. He must be somewhere hereabouts. See? He left his usual token for you.”
Her gaze strayed to the center of the table, where a cascade of lantern flowers filled a milk bottle borrowed from their dairy. “They’re for Sonnet,” she said primly. “And its rude for him to skip mealtime with the family.”
Pennythwaite favored her with one of those exceptionally dry looks that meant he was laughing somewhere inside. “A week ago, you protested his presence. Now, his absence offends you?”
“On principle.”
She hoped the rain would catch him. Like in Sonnet’s old bedtime story, “The Boy and the Thundercloud.” Pour on him like a waterfall and chill him to the bone.
“I’ll save back some breakfast,” murmured Sonnet, who moved back to the stove.
Alfie caught her sleeve and shook his head. “Eat first.”
Sonnet wavered, the strangest look on her face. Then she patted Alfie’s shoulder and took her seat. Hazel couldn’t understand it at all, and it was frustrating. Like everyone was having conversations around her, and she was excluded from them all.
She needed to do something. Something different. Something drastic.
“May I walk up to Northrop Hall this morning? I want to talk to Lord Alderney about the ball.”
“What ball?” Pennythwaite was definitely hiding a smile behind his teacup.
“There will be a ball if I can talk to Lord Alderney about it. He is a gentleman.”
Triggs said, “I’ll walk with you.”
“I know the way.”
He smiled faintly. “A lady mustn’t travel unescorted. It’s your own rule, Hazel.”
She couldn’t deny it. But she didn’t feel like acknowledging it, either.
Poking sulkily at the lantern flowers, she made up her mind that somehow, all of this was Florent’s fault.
By midmorning, Hazel had to bring an extra pair of candles to the table to offset the gloom. Rain fell straight down with an endless drumming. The kitchen was stuffy, and everything was dull. This was the part of the morning she dedicated to letter-writing, although truth be told, she had no one with whom to correspond. A matter that troubled her sorely, since in books, young ladies were always faithful correspondents.
Usually, Pennythwaite or Sonnet let her rewrite their shopping lists, but the cook had retreated to her bedroom shortly after breakfast, murmuring about headaches. Even her brother had abandoned her, having gone into Yoxall on some errand for Pennythwaite. Hazel had been copying out a poem to add to Sonnet’s collection of her namesakes, but even Shakespeare couldn’t capture her interest today.
“Come along, Hazel.” Uncle Wyn was wearing a cloak and carrying an umbrella. “Let’s have a look around. Who knows what we might see?”
Gratefully, she snuffed the candles and found her own cloak, the plum-colored one that shed rain like a waterfowl. Donning her boots, she waded into the yard. Rain was a sharp rattle against the oversized umbrella Uncle Wyn held aloft.
It was an aimless, unhurried stroll.
The fresh air cleared Hazel’s head, improved her mood.
She supposed Uncle Wyn’s own daily routine had been overturned. After all, even he had his chores. Uncle and Pennythwaite were in charge of laundry, but there would be no pinning clothes on the lines in this wet.
They passed by Cozy Cottage, which was empty at this hour. Triggs in the dairy. Beck turning eggs in the hatchery or scattering feed.
As their meande
r continued along an outward curve, it occurred to Hazel that Uncle Wyn was checking up on Florent. “Where does the new farmhand work?”
“Have you forgotten his name since breakfast?” he teased.
She made a face.
“Are you sure you want to snub him? I think he’d be hurt.” He searched her face. “Dismal day, girl. He’s been trying to make peace with you from the beginning.”
Hazel wanted very much to change the subject. Casting about, she was quite surprised to spy something unfamiliar. “Oh! What’s that?”
Her uncle followed her gaze but shook his head. “What now?”
“There are steps leading up and over that fence.”
“A stile?” He squinted into the rain. “Show me where.”
It was right in front of them, and she mutely pointed.
“Humor me.” Uncle Wyn smiled apologetically. “Lead me to it. Place my hand upon it.”
Mystified by his strange request, Hazel took his hand as if he were a blind man. “Just here. It doesn’t look new. I wonder I never noticed it before.”
Uncle grunted as if surprised. “There’s a kind of boundary here. Off limits to us, I’m afraid.”
“Why?” They weren’t anywhere near their boundary line. “It looks like a pasture. Oh! Is this one of the meadows where Florent works?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Uncle Wyn took her arm and turned her toward the house. “Leave it alone, Hazel. We shouldn’t trespass on the local lord’s kindness.”
He was being strange. Maybe even a bit silly.
Why would Lord Alderney care if they walked through a meadow?
Glancing back, Hazel could only admit that she was curious.
All thoughts—and plots—regarding the mysterious meadow vanished when Lord Alderney came to call. “I bring gifts!”
There was a net bag of strange fruit and another holding several kinds of nuts. Tins of oriental tea and a stack of foreign chocolates that brought a smile of pleasure to Sonnet’s face. Especially for Hazel, Lord Alderney brought a set of plain porcelain bowls, which reminded her that she had two teacups that remained, as yet, unpainted. She might try adding lantern flowers to one of them. Or perhaps a flock of teensy dun nippets.
Lord Alderney interrupted her musings by taking her hands. With a benign smile, he said, “Your friends have spoken on your behalf. Something about a ball?”
“Oh! Oh, yes!” she gasped.
“Lady Alderney and I would be pleased to host a dance, but due to this and that, it must be soon. Would you be able to attend two nights from this one?” He lowered his voice to add, “I apologize for the suddenness.”
“Oh, no. I mean, yes! I want to. Oh, can we?” She was thrilled into incoherency.
He chuckled. “We shall consider the date set.”
Two days to practice her waltz and to choose a dress. She couldn’t wait to begin!
Lord Alderney wasn’t finished. “I am given to understand that such evenings are often arranged according to a theme.”
“Are they?” She hadn’t known. “But that’s lovely!”
“The ladies settled on something seasonal—Frost on the Pumpkins.” He smiled at the squeal she let slip. “Come at twilight. There will be lights in all the windows.”
Dress
Mister and Missus Partridge were clothiers who owned a small shop in Yoxall. Most people in the area relied upon them, so a trip into town was the first item on Hazel’s agenda after breakfast.
As Alfie loitered beside shelves stocked with fabric bolts, it occurred to him that this couple was probably responsible for the unusual style of clothing people wore in these parts. While the garments Alfie remembered from his early years were sometimes mixed in, the Partridges’ breeches and tunics were the standard. They felt normal now.
“A ball?” Missus Partridge asked. “Is it some kind of game?”
“A dance,” said Sonnet. “So Hazel must have a new dress.”
“You, too!” put in Hazel. “We’re all going, so you must have something, too!”
Normally, Alfie would have left the ladies to their shopping and sought out Thrussel to catch up over a pint or a pot of tea. But he didn’t feel right leaving Sonnet to weather this storm of fancywork and frippery, now that Alfie knew she wasn’t a woman.
Maybe his solidarity wasn’t necessary. But Alfie couldn’t help wanting to be along and watching out for Sonnet. To thank her for being there for him and Hazel all along.
So what if their cook had a tail?
So what if their second mum was a wolf?
So what if Sonnet was actually male?
She was part of the family he’d needed with frightening desperation when his world fell apart. Sonnet practically defined the comfort and safety of home. She was the source of nonsense stories and hearty meals and steadying touches. He loved her like a son should. Always would. And if standing here, surrounded by ribbons and buttons and trimmings made that just a little clearer to her, then he wasn’t going to walk away.
The chime over the front door jingled softly and Pennythwaite sauntered in, pulling Florent by the arm. “Missus Partridge,” he said at his most officious. “This gentleman needs fitting out.”
Mister Partridge hurried forward, tape measure fluttering.
Hazel, who had two lengths of cloth draped across each shoulder, followed just as quickly, eager to ask, “The azure? Or the coral?”
Pennythwaite’s expression softened somewhat. “What are you, a nippet?”
Alfie chuckled over Hazel’s triumph. She was the best at coaxing a smile onto Pennythwaite’s stern face.
As if sensing Alfie’s amusement, Pennythwaite’s gaze sought him out. And with two words, sealed his fate. “Him, too.”
Patch
Florent had been busy in the pumpkin patch when Pennythwaite came swooping in with news that should have been delivered over breakfast … if Florent hadn’t been avoiding Hazel. Playing the part of a herald, Pennythwaite extended an invitation to a ball. With just enough of a show of dominance to make it clear that attendance was mandatory.
“She wouldn’t miss me,” he protested.
Pennythwaite blinked. “You were missed at breakfast. You would be missed all the more at this ball of hers. Or did you fail to comprehend that you are her preferred dance partner.”
Florent blushed under the other’s gaze. “I would be a blot upon the evening, the poor country mouse in patched breeches tracking dirt into the manor house.”
“If that is your only protest …!”
And so Florent found himself in Yoxall, in the hands of Pennythwaite’s own tailor. With Hazel whisking forward, demanding his opinion on her appearance.
“Which?” she asked, turning this way and that before a mirror. “The azure or the coral?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess,” he confessed. “Far better if you help decide what your brother and I should wear.”
The ploy diverted her. And divided her attention.
But Florent was no less flustered. Even with the amethyst pendant they’d used to ward her, she dazzled his senses and inspired vague hopes. And a pang that was becoming more and more difficult to dismiss.
Hazel Outler was lovely to look at, bliss to his parched soul, and eager to inspire devotion. A lady in need of a lord. A maiden ready to be courted.
He’d already paid his courtesies. Yet there was to be a ball. To dance again … could he? Surely, her family wouldn’t be pushing them together if they knew how it was for mice. Florent would ask Pennythwaite to hear him out before events carried him—and his heart—into something irrevocable.
“What about the theme?” Hazel was saying. “Isn’t this closer to pumpkin?”
Missus Partridge, who’d spun out enough ribbon to bind every bale of late straw in the far field, piped up, “May I make a suggestion?”
“Please!” exclaimed Sonnet. “We rely on you!”
“Since both colors call to you, you shall have both.” With a roll o
f her hand, she indicated Florent. “He shall wear the blue with coral trim, and your gown will be coral with his blue for trim.”
Florent protested, “She should match her brother, surely!”
The seamstress tutted. “Alfie has already chosen to wear Sonnet’s colors.”
Deep blue and amber cloth were piled together, and Sonnet was poking through a basket of buttons.
“Just as Wyn will array himself in Pennythwaite’s colors,” continued Missus Partridge, already rummaging for more ribbon.
“Is that how it works?” asked Hazel, clearly intrigued. “What about Triggs and Beck?”
“They will do honor to their family’s crests.” The seamstress recalled herself with an apologetic glance Sonnet’s way. “Ah. It’s a little like heraldry, Miss Hazel. A way to show familial pride.”
“I’m not …” tried Florent.
Sonnet interrupted amiably. “Anywise, partners should look well together.”
Hazel’s gaze flitted to Florent while Missus Partridge lowered her voice—a pretense of secrets in a room full of Amaranthine. “He will see the compliment, and you shall have his in exchange.”
To Florent’s amazement, Hazel seemed … pleased.
Oh, this was not good for his heart. Did it already beat for her?
Change
While the ladies returned to Merritt House, Alfie stayed back in Yoxall to speak with Thrussel. Safely ensconced in the tavern’s far corner, Alfie searched his memories and came to a conclusion that seemed glaringly obvious. Now. “You haven’t changed.”
Thrussel reached for the bread. “Change isn’t always obvious.”
“I grew up, but you didn’t grow older.”
“Ah. That.” Thrussel looked as if he’d hoped that wasn’t what Alfie was talking about. “You’ve made great strides in a short time.”
“It’s not just you.”
Thrussel simply inclined his head as he buttered.