Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

“Nobody changes except me and Hazel.”

  “It’s to be expected, Alfie. You’re human.”

  Which was as good as saying that the others—including Thrussel himself—weren’t. “What about my uncle?”

  “Wyn is a … special case. Human, though. Much as you are.”

  “He doesn’t age.” It had happened so slowly, Alfie hadn’t even noticed. At first. “We’re practically the same age. Outwardly.”

  “Maybe you should ask him …?”

  Alfie shook his head. “I don’t want to put him on the spot.”

  “That’s what friends are for?” Thrussel asked lightly.

  “Really hoping so.” Alfie could feel his face heating. “It’s less embarrassing coming from you.”

  Thrussel tipped his head to one side. “Are you afraid of the answers?”

  “I don’t think so.” That gave him pause. “Should I be?”

  His friend laughed. From an inside pocket he produced a slender rod of translucent stone. Setting it on the table between them, Thrussel urged, “Place this on your palm.”

  It was pretty. Heavy for its size, too. Alfie was reminded of the stones Sonnet and Hazel used to decorate Merritt House’s windowsills. To keep the fairies out.

  “May I touch you?” Thrussel asked softly. “It works best of the crystal is clasped between our hands.”

  “If you say so.” Alfie slid his hand closer, even though it was a little embarrassing for two adults to be holding hands like children. He glanced around the dining room, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention.

  “No one can overhear, now,” said Thrussel in a normal tone. “We’re mostly beyond notice, as well. Our secrets are safe with each other.”

  Taking him at his word, Alfie blurted, “Sonnet told me about being a wolf.”

  He didn’t even bat an eye. “And …?”

  “It was a surprise to me, but it’s fine. Sonnet’s my mum, no matter what.”

  “Good.” Thrussel smiled. “And I’m your friend … no matter what?”

  Alfie hunched his shoulders. “Rather counting on that. So … are there many wolves around?”

  “Just the one.” Thrussel chose his words carefully. “Please, understand. I cannot speak for others, but my choices are mine to make. Would you like a better introduction than I’ve dared give before?”

  Here it was. Alfie tightened his grip. “If it won’t get you in trouble …?”

  “We brought you into our community. We knew there would be consequences.” Thrussel was so calm about this. “Compared to a wolf, the rest of us are hardly worth mentioning.”

  There was a strangely soothing sensation, as if Thrussel was sharing a little of his serenity. Alfie focused on that, wanting to keep hold of it.

  “Oh!” Thrussel’s laugh was a twittering thing. “That was unexpected. But not unpleasantly so.”

  “What was?”

  “First things first.” And cradling Alfie’s hand between both his own, Thrussel spoke in a lilting tone. “Hear the secret I have been keeping. Many are the clans, and each has its merits. Mine was made for skies and meadows and sweet songs. My true name is Thrussel Morningswell, a thrush by birth, a herald by trade, and a friend, if you’ll have me.”

  Stile

  “Will Missus Partridge be able to finish all our orders before Lord Alderney’s ball?” Hazel idled over a book, which was failing to hold her attention. “She wanted to embroider everything.”

  “Don’t worry yourself over it,” said Sonnet. “Her whole brood is quick with a needle. And I have no doubt that she and her mister will work through the night if necessary.”

  Hazel was reassured, but no less restless.

  In the center of the table were this morning’s “flowers.” As usual, it wasn’t a proper bouquet, although it made a pretty arrangement. A low tray of dirt held a triple row of mixed lettuces—green and red, ruffled and curled. One variety even had speckled leaves.

  “Isn’t it too late in the season for lettuce?” asked Hazel.

  “Those are from the cold frame, my dear. It protects tender things.”

  Hazel trailed a finger along the edge of one leaf. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  Sonnet paused. “Do you want company?”

  “I’ll bring Milk.”

  To her surprise, Sonnet accepted this without hesitation. As if a cat could be a proper escort.

  Outside, she tried to decide which direction to walk. “Where do you suppose Florent will be?” she wondered aloud.

  Milk offered a sage mew and strolled off. Hazel guessed she should follow and was soon glad she did. Events had conspired, and the forbidden stile had slipped her mind. Until Milk leapt to the top of the fence it straddled.

  Three steps up, and three steps down. Hazel was over in a trifling.

  Before her lay a large, circular meadow. It was neatly mown, without a spike of stubble to be seen. Yet at regular intervals, hewn stones had been set on their ends, a series of rugged plinths. Something sparkled atop the nearest, and she glanced carefully around, just in case Lord Alderney was pasturing a bull here. But no, this circle wasn’t marred by hoofprints or dung.

  Crossing to the stone, she discovered a large blue crystal.

  No wonder this meadow felt safe. Hazel had always liked the blue ones.

  She sat upon the grass, turned her face to the sun, and basked in the unusual fineness of the day. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the meadow carpeted in flowers. Lovelier than any bouquet and too big for any breakfast table. Would Florent choose pink flowers? Or red? Perhaps yellow? No. It should be blue, like the crystals. A meadow as blue as the tunic Florent would wear to the ball. Azure as the embellishments that would adorn her matching dress.

  “Hazel?”

  She opened her eyes, braced for a scolding that didn’t come.

  Florent crouched a short distance away, elbows on knees. “All right, there?”

  “I was out for a walk.”

  He looked off toward the stile, then back at her. “Would you like to see something special-ish?”

  “Only special-ish?”

  “Rather depends on your fondness for pumpkins.” He gestured with his chin. “I’ve been in the patch since early. Fancy a look?”

  “I suppose.” Hazel added, “If you’ll escort me.”

  To her utter delight, Florent not only helped her to her feet, he offered his arm. Like a proper gentleman. He handed her back over the stile and into a field where Riff, Raff, and their carriage waited.

  “I thought everything was harvested already,” she admitted.

  “Oh, we’re waiting on the weather. We don’t gather some things in until they’re frost-kissed.” He gave her a sidelong look. “It’s said to make them sweeter.”

  Uncle Wyn dedicated an enormous field to the annual pumpkin harvest, and Hazel used to like to play in the vast patch, searching for baby pumpkins—small and summer-green—among the fuzzy leaves. But the vines that had run rampant were all wilted, revealing their cornucopia harvest.

  “Lord Alderney placed an order for the ball,” said Florent. “Will it spoil the surprise if I show you?”

  “I want to see!”

  He led her around the back of the ox cart, which was heaped with pumpkins. Although the field had been planted with every possible variety, Florent was only collecting white pumpkins. No, a few were pale green.

  Florent said, “I thought we were in for an evening of orange, given the pumpkin theme. But it seems Lord and Lady Alderney are intent on frost.”

  “Have you seen the decorations?”

  “Only these. But they’re a good hint.”

  She nodded eagerly. “Are you excited for the ball?”

  “Well ….” he said vaguely.

  “I am. Now that I’ve learned how, I love to dance.” She dared to suggest, “We could practice, if you want. So I don’t forget the steps to the waltz.”

  Florent looked down, away, and finally back. With a small shrug, h
e said, “I can’t, Hazel. Nearly all the dances I know count as courting dances, and I wouldn’t want to presume.”

  “Even the waltz?”

  His gaze was full of regrets. “Yes.”

  “But you danced with me before.”

  “Lessons are permissible. A courtesy offered to friends.”

  Hazel shook her head. “Then give me another lesson.”

  “You may certainly ask for lessons from other teachers. But if you were to dance again with me, it would be courting.”

  But this was disastrous. The ball would be spoiled if she couldn’t dance with Florent. Why hadn’t he spoken sooner?

  He scuffed the toe of his boot in the soil and quietly admitted, “There are loopholes, of course. Intended for couples who are confident in their choice.”

  Hazel knew that there were complexities to etiquette, especially surrounding a ball. She hadn’t realized the rules extended to dancing in a pumpkin patch.

  Florent squared off before her and presented his palms, though he didn’t quite meet her gaze. Soft as secrets, he admitted, “I know a flirting dance.”

  Song

  Florent was so certain she’d refuse. This wasn’t proper, and she was all about propriety. And he shouldn’t be flirting, not when she didn’t understand anything.

  Hazel was certainly taken aback. “You want to flirt with me?”

  “That is the purpose of the dance,” he hedged, not wanting to frighten her with the truth.

  “Even though you cannot be in love.”

  Oh, he couldn’t let that go. Florent held her gaze long enough to ask, “Who says I can’t?”

  She drew herself up and retorted, “I don’t like it! To never dance with you again?”

  “The alternative is to dance with me always.”

  A standoff.

  “Well … what about this flirting dance?” she asked, her cheeks gone rosy.

  Florent dredged up a small smile. “You’ll probably enjoy it. Since it’s dancing.”

  Hazel decided. “Right. Teach me.”

  “Side by side,” he directed, taking his position. “This part is important, since traditionally, a gentleman who’s courting takes his intended into his arms. I won’t do that.”

  She nodded and asked, “What next?”

  He showed her the complicated linking of arms, the press of palms. “No clasping of hands. Again, we require a touch that isn’t holding.”

  Puzzlement puckered her brow. “We’re just as close as when we’re waltzing.”

  “Shh. Nobody splits whiskers over a little flirting.” He shyly added, “It’s only natural for couples to want to be close.”

  “Natural,” she agreed, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, I think so, too.”

  Florent walked her through the steps, which became a sprightly rollick at full speed. Hops and switches, sweeping turns that were only possible if pressed close. They were locked together, and Hazel was alight with pleasure.

  “If only we had music,” she said. “Do you know the song Pennythwaite was singing?”

  He glanced skyward, clan superstition in mind—say the name; invoke the strike. “That old thing? Wouldn’t you rather learn a song in English?”

  “Learn one?” She seemed intrigued, yet she hesitated. “It’s just that the melody’s been reeling through my mind ever since that day.”

  Florent doubted he could translate the ancient rhyme in its entirety, but surely he could work up something simple. Maybe repurpose the lyrics of a lullaby? Slowing to a stop, he asked, “Do you happen to have something I can write on?”

  From her pocket, she brought a fold of paper and a fountain pen.

  He tried not to gawk. “What is this?”

  “Last week’s grocery list,” she said. “But there’s room on the back. See?”

  Turning the paper, he uncapped the pen. “Give me a moment to set something down.” But his mind was oddly blank. He stole another look at her list. “This is artfully done, by the way.”

  She blushed prettily. “It’s nothing.”

  But it wasn’t. And she wasn’t. And this wasn’t.

  “No. I must say, I’m impressed.” Florent’s heart was skipping. “When you wrote this out, did you know that you were composing a song?”

  “What?” Hazel leaned in for a closer look. “It’s a list for Alfie. Nothing more.”

  Florent tutted and made a few small notations, his writing neat and square among her looping extravagances. He hummed to himself, then laughed. “It works.”

  And so he began to sing.

  Bring me cocoa and bring brown bread,

  A beeswax candle and a twist of cherry thread,

  Brown ink in a bottle, herring in a jar,

  Hairpins for a coronet and wine to tempt a star.

  Bring me sugar and bring cracked corn,

  A cake of raisins and a wreath of fresh hawthorn,

  Winesaps by the bushel, pippins by the peck,

  Pickles in a dilly brine and half a stone of speck.

  Bring me chestnuts and bring birch tea,

  A yard of cheesecloth and a pot of quince confit,

  Tobacco by the pouch, seed pearls on a strand,

  Chalcedony for a ring to grace my lady’s hand.

  She leaned against him, and he basked in her laughter. Twice more, he sang it through, and she merrily joined him. Perhaps she absorbed the lyrics so quickly because she’d written the list herself.

  “But what about that last part?” she asked. “The part about a ring?”

  “I added that myself.” Florent quietly admitted, “It’s the sort of gift someone like me would give to the lady who will share all his dances.”

  “A betrothal gift?” she asked, suddenly serious.

  He hummed. “A pledge to bind two lives.”

  “I’ve heard of engagement rings, you know.”

  “This is different. The giving and receiving of such a ring isn’t a promise for the future. It signifies the wedding of two souls.”

  “Immediately? That is different. Not the way it is in books.” Hazel surprised him by adding, “It’s nicer.”

  “Such things are traditional where I came from.”

  “Are you a gypsy?”

  He wondered how long she’d been holding onto that particular suspicion. “No. Although I have been a wanderer.”

  “Will you wander away again?”

  Florent shook his head. “Pennythwaite offered me a home. I intended to stay even before I met you.”

  Oh, dear. Perhaps that was too much honesty.

  Hazel let it pass, insisting that their new song must be accompanied by dance. So they linked arms and sang about nonsense, verse upon verse. And Florent was pleased with himself. And with Hazel, whose openness and interest made her a pleasant companion.

  The sort he might choose for himself.

  If such choices were his to make.

  “What’s chalcedony?” she asked.

  “A pretty-ish stone. Pale blue.”

  “I’m glad you added a ring to our shopping list,” remarked Hazel, all sidelong looks and secretive smiles. “Once you have one, you must show it to me.”

  Pact

  After seeing Hazel safely home, Florent was humming his merry way back to work when a deep voice called, “A word, Florent?”

  He flinched at Pennythwaite’s sudden and silent arrival. His was one of the few owl clans that aligned themselves with certain human communities—barn owls. While cozies rarely made much of an impression, Pennythwaite was a daunting presence. Florent had his suspicions why.

  “Hazel is in a bright mood,” remarked Pennythwaite.

  “Dancing seems to have that effect on her.”

  Pennythwaite hummed. “Everyone is relieved that there is peace between you.”

  Florent tensed.

  With a small gesture, Pennythwaite asked why.

  “There may be more than peace between us.”

  “A passing fancy, surely,” said Pen
nythwaite in leading tones. “She is a child.”

  He looked off toward the largest barn, which had a heart-shaped eulenloch at every gable. “Maybe if I’d raised her from a nestling, as you did, I’d be blinded by fond memories.”

  Pennythwaite’s eyes glittered behind his glasses. “I see more than you might realize.”

  Florent probably should have taken a submissive posture, but he firmed his stance instead. “Hazel is of an age to accept suitors.”

  “I am aware.” Shifting into a neutral posture, Pennythwaite asked, “Are you aware of Wyn’s status?”

  “Only that I shouldn’t mention his presence within your household.”

  Pennythwaite inclined his head. “Wyn and I share a pact, one that has proven mutually beneficial.”

  Florent’s thoughts skittered in a tight circle. “He’s your bondmate?”

  “That is not the nature of our union, though we have woven a good nest … and raised two chicks.” His gaze strayed to the house. “I am willing to teach you.”

  “You want me to keep Hazel?”

  Pennythwaite favored him with a withering look. “My opinion matters little. But Hazel’s has never been difficult to comprehend. She wants you to keep her.”

  “But … you have reservations?” Florent guessed.

  “Yes.”

  His heart sank.

  “Your suitability isn’t in question. However, if there were to be a child, our girl might not withstand the bearing. Few do.” Pennythwaite’s voice softened. “I would rather spare Wyn—and all of us—that grief.”

  Florent hadn’t expected this turn of events, but that didn’t mean he was unprepared to face it. “Would you speak to Lord Alderney on my behalf?”

  “With regards to Hazel?”

  “No. That is between her and me.” Florent drew himself up. “I am a preservationist.”

  “It was mentioned upon your arrival. An honored vocation.”

  “This is a good place. A safe place. I want you to ask Lord Alderney to lend his protection to a grove.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Loosening his tunic ties, Florent brought out a warded chain, along with the items he always carried close to his heart. Spaced along its length were three silver lockets, each a hinged sphere, and a pale blue circlet carved from stone. The chalcedony ring that had come to him from his mother’s mother.