by Forthright
“Ancients and angels!” Pennythwaite’s eyes were wide. “Are those …?”
“If she will have me, if she wants them, I can give Hazel three children.” Florent tapped each of the lockets. “They shall know a tree’s blessing, even as she shall have mine.”
Lit
Alfie had expected Hazel to be excited for her long-awaited ball. What he hadn’t expected were the admiring glances she kept sending Florent’s way. Or the farmhand’s pensive gazing in Hazel’s direction whenever she wasn’t looking.
Sonnet tugged Alfie into the pantry on the flimsiest of pretenses. “To think. After all the fuss she made, she’s gone and set her heart on Florent.”
“Thought I was imagining things,” Alfie muttered.
“Are you upset?”
“Uncomfortable …?” He didn’t want to think of his sister with anyone.
Sonnet’s searching look ended with a bit of sniffing. “Haven’t you ever given thought to a bride?”
“Not really.” Alfie felt justified in turning that around. “Haven’t you?”
“I have given the matter thought.” With a crooked smile, Sonnet whispered, “I can hardly go courting like this, now, can I? Perhaps another century or two hence.”
“That’s … a long time.”
“More than enough,” Sonnet agreed. “But you mustn’t mind about Hazel. Mice are a good sort, and Florent’s bond will give her that little extra something. Like Pennythwaite does for Wyn.”
Alfie lifted a shaky hand to cover Sonnet’s mouth. “You shouldn’t be telling tales.”
“Nonsense.” She caught his hand and held it to her cheek. “How will you know you could share someone’s years if I didn’t say so?”
“You want me to marry … someone like you?”
“It’s one way. Not the only way, of course. Wyn was about your age when he bonded with Pennythwaite, and he’s still in his prime.” Sonnet patted his shoulder encouragingly. “They’re close as brothers, despite the differences between your kind and ours. There’s an idea. Would you be opposed to trading your mother for a brother? You do look well in my clan’s colors.”
Alfie glanced down at his tunic, which the Partridges had embellished in the same style and colors as Sonnet’s. “Maybe not,” he managed. “I like being your son.”
“Probably just as well. Since I’m a lone wolf.” Sonnet quirked a knowing little smile. “And you seem better suited to songbirds.”
By some unspoken agreement, Alfie was given the honor of escorting Hazel along the well-worn path between Merritt House and Northrop Hall. He supposed there was some sort of etiquette involved. Or maybe Sonnet had insisted because his sister’s hand wouldn’t be his to hold for much longer.
Whatever the reason, it was fun to watch Hazel’s face as they rounded the bend and Lord Alderney’s grand home came into view.
“What has he done?” she gasped.
“Thrown you a ball,” Alfie replied. “Not one for skimping, is he?”
Every window on all three stories glowed, but not with the expected gold of firelight. Somehow, they’d contrived to change the light to silver and blue. Perhaps colored glass? It certainly was in keeping with the evening’s frosty theme.
Alfie glanced toward the moon, which would surely be full tomorrow. The autumn air had a bite to it, the kind that promised frost.
Hazel was already in a whirl, all thrill and merriment. She clung to his arm but included everyone in the party in her remarks and speculations.
Triggs in pale green, his collar sprigged with clover.
Beck, whose cuffs were edged in needlework feathers.
Pennythwaite, resplendent in creams and harvest gold.
Wyn, who wore his best friend’s colors, now that Alfie knew to notice.
He belonged with them. Possibly even belonged to them. And since that’s all he’d really ever wanted, it’d always been enough. But Sonnet in her regal blues had spilled too many secrets. Alfie might not understand everything, but he couldn’t help catching on. Probably because they were hoping he would.
Triggs, strong as an ox.
Beck, with his rooster strut.
Wise old Pennythwaite.
And apparently, a gentleman mouse in their midst.
Alfie found himself hoping that Thrussel Morningswell was on Lord Alderney’s guest list. Because his head was filled with complicated questions. And Thrussel really was best when it came to simple answers.
Trap
Florent spared the room and the dancers a glance. All Amaranthine, by his reckoning, and all swathed in festival finery. Clan colors were predominant. Crests on full display. The entire atmosphere was convivial, but he felt out-of-place. Usually, he didn’t attend; he was otherwise occupied, piecing together the sigilcraft that kept such gatherings safe. Find the gaps. Shore them up. But this house was Lord Alderney’s home, and its defenses were the product of centuries. Florent was extraneous.
From the edges of the newly dubbed “ballroom,” he watched Hazel in her coral dress. She was already on the dance floor. Alfie led her out, then Wyn. Even Pennythwaite had his turn, as was expected. They were her protectors, her kin. After that, Triggs and Beck flanked her during a simple circle dance, which Hazel clearly enjoyed.
It occurred to Florent that he might not be missed.
Plenty of gentlefolk had gathered to give Hazel this gift, even though there were many last details to prepare before tomorrow night. The clothes, the banquet table, the paper lanterns, the punch bowl carved from ice, and even the musicians were all borrowed from their preparations for the morrow’s Frost Festival. A foretaste.
He was giving serious thought to slipping out a side door when Sonnet was suddenly before him. “You must dance with the Partridges, as thanks for your festival clothes.”
Which was only courteous.
Florent offered Missus Partridge his hand, just as Mister Partridge escorted Hazel onto the floor. Their smiles were pleased, even proud. But also coy in a way that should have tipped Florent off.
Dance was integral to avian courtship. And these two clearly approved of the match he longed to make. When the song reached its conclusion, a final turn placed Florent and Hazel face to face. The implication was simple—the next dance would be theirs to share. And with everyone looking on, how could he refuse?
Honor and honesty warred, and Hazel smiled through the stalemate.
Patting her chest, she laughed. “I am quite breathless. Florent, would you be so kind as to lead me to the refreshments?”
An out.
Gratefully tucking her arm through his, he ushered her to a table spread with traditional delicacies. Florent dipped a cup of punch and passed it to her, whispering, “Thank you.”
“In all the fairy tales I know, only those with noble hearts ever make a lasting impression.” She arched her brows. “I won’t trap you into courting me.”
He couldn’t help smiling. Mice were susceptible to traps.
Neither did he wish to entrap Hazel. Not with so many truths untold.
But then the import of her remark struck him. “You want me to court you?”
“Aren’t you in love with me?”
Florent matched her frankness. “More than a little.”
“Do you want to court me?”
“Rather a lot.”
Hazel tasted her punch before asking, “Why don’t you?”
Leaving the nest as he had, Florent had forgone the usual rounds of matchmaking games. He had younger brothers more eager. He’d cherished his work and craved travel. Never once had it occurred to Florent that he’d want to settle. Nor that he might negotiate his own betrothal.
Grand-mere had known.
Many said she knew things others didn’t. Because she saw things differently. Because she was different. Touched by the starlight that silvered their clan’s fur.
She’d blessed and pressed a ring upon him. For someday, she’d said.
And it seemed his someday had come.
Florent guided Hazel toward a quiet corner. Finding a curtained alcove, he gave her a questioning look.
Head held high, she preceded him inside.
Hands working in tandem, he plucked two sigils from the air and created a small pocket of privacy. Joining her, he echoed her question. “Why don’t I? There is the suddenness to consider. Your family may object.”
“I don’t.”
Florent gently countered, “You know very little about me.”
She nodded once and ordered, “Fix that first.”
“Very sensible.” But where to begin?
Hazel took charge. “I have two requests. No, three.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“I want to know your name.”
“Florent.”
“Your surname, silly. Since I’ll be taking your name, I want to practice writing it.”
His heart began a heavy beat. “My name is Florent Rimestead.”
“Oh! But that’s lovely.”
Her admiration left him a little breathless. “Your next request, my lady?”
“Is there really a ring for me?”
“There is.”
“May I see it?”
From under his tunic, he brought out his trove of priceless things. Slipping the chalcedony ring from the chain, he displayed it on the palm of his hand.
“It’s not set with a stone. It’s made of stone!” exclaimed Hazel.
“Yes.”
She picked up the pale blue circlet, turning it this way and that, studying the narrow bands of white that rippled across its polished surface. “Are you giving this to me?”
Florent returned the rest of his necklace to its place while he decided how to answer. “Only my lady can wear my ring.”
Immediately she offered it back.
Disappointment spiked, but he reclaimed the thing.
“Which finger do I wear it on?” she asked, switching her punch cup back and forth. “Aren’t you supposed to put it on me?”
“So hasty,” he chided, stealing away her cup and setting it aside.
“Feels like forever to me,” she countered, offering both hands.
“This one.” He tweaked the next to last finger on her left hand. “But it’s too soon. When I place my ring on a lady’s finger, the pledge is made and met. We would be wed.”
“When is the ring usually given?”
“After a third dance.” Florent basked in a growing sense of awe. She wasn’t merely willing; she was insistent. “Once is courteous, twice is courting. Thrice is for always.”
“Threes, is it?” Hazel arched her brows. “Don’t forget. I’m making three requests.”
His name.
His ring.
What next?
“Ask for anything.” Florent knew he would give it.
“Dance with me properly.” She bounced up onto tiptoe. “We cannot have a third dance until we’ve had a second.”
Twice
Hazel didn’t think she was imagining the change in Florent. He held her differently.
It was subtle. The forms of the dance hadn’t changed, but his posture had. The turn of his shoulder, the pressure of his hand. He angled his head as if listening with care, even when she was silent. And he had a certain presence about him.
She hadn’t noticed at first. How could she have? Florent was so contrary. But maybe Uncle Wyn was right about him. He’d been trying to make peace with her from the beginning.
Florent and his ridiculous bouquets.
Florent and his shopping list lyrics.
“The fairies like you,” she remarked. Because it was true.
“Fairies?” he echoed, questions in his gaze.
One of the things she liked best about Florent was his gentleness toward pitterhinds and welfhunds. She’d seen him in the door garden, kneeling among the herbs, smiling over their antics, making them welcome in his space.
Triggs acted like they were pests, puffing them away with gusty sighs. Beck was far less patient, flicking his fingers and clicking his tongue. Uncle Wyn and Sonnet banned them from inside the house with stones and signs.
But Florent brought her dun nippets.
Even now, he smiled at the minchette that must have stolen inside with the guests. Two of Lord Alderney’s maids were trying to shoo it out a window.
He traded a look with her, and laughed. “Fairies, are they? I suppose that fits as well as anything.”
Hazel liked sharing something secret with him. She supposed she was finally, properly in love. Or maybe … improperly. That made her feel daring. And eager to dare more.
“I used to think I’d marry Alfie.”
Florent confessed, “When I was tiny, I had a crush on my grand-mere.”
“Was she wonderful?”
“Was and is and evermore shall be.” His tone lilted along with the music.
Hazel wondered when he’d become so much easier to talk to, easier to admire. “Your hair looks blue in this light.”
He glanced at the lanterns strung overhead. “My hair’s always been this color. All of us Rimesteads are said to be frost-kissed.”
“And sweeter for it?”
“I wonder.” Florent smiled softly. “Nobody’s ever suggested that before.”
Right away, she wondered if sweet really was the right word for Florent. He was probably too disobedient to qualify. Still, he gave her that comfortable feeling that came when everything was gathered in before the first snow. All warm firesides and cozy chairs drawn close together, without a thought for the storms outside, even when the wind is whistling past the eaves and the windowpanes are etched by frost.
The dance continued, and she loved to dance. But Hazel liked that it gave her the chance to be close to Florent. To be foremost in his attention.
“Are you a fairy prince?” she asked, only half teasing. He felt magical.
“If so, I’m a younger son with no palace or prospects. But I do spend a lot of time creating … well, you’d probably call them fairy gardens.” Florent guided her through a turn before adding, “My meadows are a little like Pennythwaite’s bird feeders. They help me look after your fairies. Where I’m from, we call them Ephemera.”
“Why?”
“Which part?”
“All the parts,” she pleaded. “I want to know everything!”
“And you shall,” he promised. The dance ended, but he didn’t let go. “If I release you, the dance ends, and we must be done for today.”
She whispered, “Oh, please. Not yet.”
So Florent guided her into position for the next dance. Not letting go must have been one of those loopholes that couples had found to prolong the time they spent together.
“They’re called Ephemera because there’s so much variety. They borrow from every class, sometimes combining them in surprising ways.” Florent spoke softly, his voice pitched for her ears only. “Many of them are useful to farmers because they’re pollinators.”
“Sonnet never told me that part.”
“Well, your cook isn’t a farmer.”
“But she knows so many wonderful fairy tales!”
Florent nodded. “I grew up with similar stories. Do you have a favorite?”
So she chattered on about moonbeams and rainbows and whirlwinds. Florent’s smile widened, and sometimes he chuckled. He listened as if bedtime stories mattered, and he contributed a few variations. All while guiding her through the steps of another waltz.
Hazel hoped it wasn’t improper for her to dance with one partner for the rest of the night, because she didn’t want to trade. Perhaps Florent felt the same, because he moved seamlessly from one dance to the next.
The same ballad Pennythwaite had sung began to play, and Hazel hummed along.
Florent wiggled his eyebrows and softly sang along, inserting their made-up lyrics.
She joined in as softly as she could, but they turned heads. It probably wasn’t anything terribly improper. Otherwise, Pennythwaite wouldn
’t be trying so hard to hide his smile.
“You must be tired,” Florent murmured.
“Not at all. I don’t want this dance to end.”
He gave the tiniest shake of his head. “If our second dance never ends, how will I lead you into a third?”
Which nearly startled her into stopping.
But he lifted and spun, and they didn’t miss a beat.
“If this dance must end,” she bargained. “Promise me it’ll end well?”
Florent leaned closer. “What is it you want?”
“My first kiss.”
Which startled him to a standstill.
Mercifully, the music ended a few measures later, and Florent led her off to one side, where potted palms were arranged before a wide window. Half-hidden by greenery, he faced her. “Not here. Not where anyone could see.”
Hazel blushed. “I forgot anyone else was here.”
Florent grew even more solemn. “That’s … flattering.”
“It’s not flattery. It’s true.”
He eased closer and pleaded, “Tomorrow?”
Disappointment was tempered by the shortness of the delay. “Why tomorrow?” she asked.
“Because tomorrow, there will be another dance.”
Frost
When everyone parted ways after breakfast the following morning, Florent caught Alfie’s sleeve and took a pleading stance. “Talk with me?”
The man’s surprise faded into practiced neutrality. “If you want.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Alfie nodded toward the field where they’d be working all day, and Florent fell in step beside him. They walked in a silence that grew awkward.
Finally, Florent asked, “Do you know about me?”
“I wouldn’t say I know anything.” Alfie cast a sidelong look in his direction. “Sonnet sometimes says too much. Is this about Hazel?”
“Yes.” And he stalled out. He didn’t want to apologize or make excuses to this man. Yet he couldn’t think where to start.