Hemmed in Silver (Songs of the Amaranthine Book 5)

by Forthright

  Alfie helped things along. “I know about Sonnet, but Hazel doesn’t. Let her keep her mum.”

  “I won’t meddle.” Florent winced. “At least, not with Sonnet. Only … Hazel needs to know about me before I’d ever ….”

  “So she doesn’t know.”

  “Enough to choose me, but not enough to have me.” He could feel color rising in his face and felt ridiculously young, despite his years. “She was insistent, and I was willing. As of last night, we’re courting.”

  “Sonnet was hoping so.”

  Florent tentatively added, “Pennythwaite approves.”

  Alfie nodded a few times. “Hazel is impulsive, but once she makes up her mind, she rarely changes it. You’re an interesting exception.”

  “I know it’s fast ….”

  “That doesn’t bother me.” Alfie stopped walking. “I knew from the first ten minutes I was here that it was a good place. Walked right into Sonnet’s arms and knew we were safe.”

  “About Hazel. I do love her.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, Alfie eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you have a tail like Sonnet?”

  “Not in speaking form.”

  “There’s a different form?”

  Florent realized that Alfie didn’t really know much more than Hazel. His consternation must have been plain.

  “Right. Maybe it’s time I found out what makes my family so special.”

  He couldn’t have phrased it any more kindly.

  All the while they pulled the last of the pumpkins from their withered patch, Florent explained about his people, their many clans, and how Uncle Wyn, Pennythwaite, and all of Yoxall were bending the rules. It was nearing noon when he finally came around to his clan and its customs.

  “One more dance?” Alfie asked incredulously. “That’s it, then? You’ll be married?”

  “In essence.” Florent snagged his sleeve again. “I’ll make that vow tonight, if you’re willing.”

  “Me? It’s up to Hazel if she wants you.”

  Holding fast to reinforce his plea, he said, “I’ll sneak you into tonight’s Frost Festival. Join the dance with your sister, and before the evening is done, hand her off to me.”

  “For keeps?”

  Florent vowed, “She will have all my days, all my devotion.”

  “Will it be all right, though?” He gazed off toward the song circle as if he’d always known where it was. “Won’t they mind?”

  He really didn’t know anything, but that would change once Alfie realized how gently the people of Yoxall held him and Hazel. Florent said, “They didn’t mind last night, did they?”

  Alfie’s gaze darted to the hilltop hall.

  “You’re still in a good place, Alfie.” Florent put a supporting hand under the man’s elbow. “Surrounded by people who consider you one of their own.”

  Stay

  The soft tap on Hazel’s bedroom door was followed by her brother’s usual call. “It’s me.”

  She rushed to open up and hushed him with an upraised finger and urgent hiss.

  “Sure, and I’ll be quiet,” he promised. “But there’s not much need. The house is empty, except for us.”

  “Where’ve they gone?”

  Alfie shrugged. “Come on. Florent’s waiting.”

  Which flustered her enough that she forgot her shawl on the bed and had to run back for it.

  Florent stood just beyond the door garden’s gate, carrying a lantern to light the way. It was an unusually pretty creation. Hung from the end of a stick, it was shaped just like an oversized lantern flower, but this one glowed blue.

  They wore their party clothes from the previous evening. Only with extra undergarments to counteract the crisp night. Alfie had added a cape, and she had her shawl. Somehow, Florent was getting along without the addition of a cloak.

  He greeted them with a smile and said, “Worst first. There’s something I need to show you before all the rest.”

  Hazel’s heart fluttered, but not for fear. Anticipation hung in the air, stirring up the stars and fairies and putting an azure halo around the rising moon.

  Passing the lantern to Alfie, Florent said, “Hold it high.”

  Its cool glow was sufficient to turn silver hair blue, and she still liked the effect.

  “Not enough light?” He huffed and fished in a pocket, bringing out a handful of small stones—cornflower, periwinkle, lavender. As he touched each, they began to glow and rose into the air, suspended within a circle of luminous filigree.

  “Why, that’s lovely!” The crystals drifted in lazy circles, adding to the illumination.

  Florent angled his head to one side and whispered, “Well?”

  It took a moment for her to catch on. He was trying to show her his ears, which now came to elfin points.

  “You really are a fairy prince!”

  “No.” His smile was cautious. “But this is how I really look. Will that change your mind?”

  Hazel noticed that he was curling his hands to display a set of sharp-looking claws without pointing them at her. And the eyes that were pleading with her had changed. Not in color, but Florent’s pupils had narrowed to fine lines.

  “It’s not too late to refuse a suitor for his strangeness,” he said softly.

  Hazel looked to Alfie, who seemed more interested in the hovering crystals than in strange suitors. But he spared her a small smile. “I refuse to offer an opinion on whether he’s fanciable.”

  She couldn’t help it. She giggled.

  Florent immediately relaxed.

  “I think that’s the only refusal you’ll get.” Hazel decided Florent was even more fanciable than before. “Stay. We are still courting, Mister Rimestead.”

  His hands were warm. His touch was gentle.

  Florent went so far as to kiss her cheek before tucking her arm through his. “Step lively and step light. This way to the song circle.”

  By the light of lantern, stars, moon, and crystals, he led them to the forbidden stile.

  Kin

  Alfie couldn’t see the stile until Hazel set his hand on it. All at once, the air filled with fairy lights, and music drifted from the far side of the meadow, where dozens of people had gathered.

  Florent plucked the blue crystal from midair and urged, “Put this in your pocket. It’ll help.”

  Murmuring his thanks, Alfie clambered over the fence and was ready when Florent handed Hazel over.

  “Lead her out, Alfie. Dance with as many as you wish, Hazel.” Florent’s gaze lingered on her face with traces of longing. “When you’re satisfied, look for me. I’ll be waiting.”

  It only took a moment for him to be lost in the crowd.

  Alfie peered around and whispered, “This is all a bit magical.”

  She hugged his arm. “Has this always been here?”

  “Probably.” He turned so they were facing. “This is your wedding, Hazel. More or less. Are you happy?”

  “I’d be happier if everyone could be here.”

  “I think they are, little sister.”

  “Everyone everyone?”

  “Yes.” He led her into line for the next dance. “I think all the people we care about are trusting us with their secrets.”

  He scanned the other revelers with growing confidence. There were antlers in evidence. And several sets of horns. Some of the costumes were liberally draped in feathers. To his amusement, there were animals mingling with their friends and neighbors. He recognized Riff and Raff. The chickens were harder to tell apart. Then he spotted an owl the size of an ox perched in a bowed pine.

  “Are you sure you want to marry into magic?” he asked.

  “You’re not allowed to object.”

  Alfie focused on her face. “I wouldn’t. I don’t. I’m part of this, too, you know.”

  “Oh? Are you courting someone, as well?”

  “Nothing like that.” He might have been hoping for a glimpse of Thrussel, but he spotted someon
e else first. And drew up short.

  “May I?” inquired one of their oldest friends.

  Alfie yielded without a second thought. Though the horns got a second look.

  Hazel knew it wasn’t proper to stare, but she needed a few more moments to collect herself. “Triggs?”

  “Good evening, Hazel,” he replied, ever patient, ever pleasant.

  Which banished the momentary strangeness. “You look well in clover. Are you here with your ladies?”

  “They would not miss your bonding for anything.”

  “Is that what this is?”

  Triggs smiled indulgently. “It’s what this became.”

  With careful steps, much constrained by the differences in their size, he led her through the rest of the dance, answering her questions about the Frost Festival. And when the music stopped, he handed her off to Beck.

  “You look very handsome,” she decided aloud.

  “You are the one turning heads,” countered Beck. “You left your necklace off last night, too.”

  “It didn’t match.”

  “It can’t keep you safe if you don’t wear it.”

  “Is that how it is?”

  “And ever has been.” He grinned in his usual way. “We knew you were special right from the start.”

  All through their dance, he talked about souls that could shine and the people—his people—who loved it when they were near. By the time the music ended, Hazel knew she was treasured. And that Florent understood that better than anyone. The musicians drew the dance to its conclusion, and with a bow, Beck handed her off to Pennythwaite.

  “I’ve never seen your hair loose.” So much rippling gold. He was eldritch and wild, and the change somehow suited him. “Everyone is so beautiful.”

  Brushing past her compliment, he announced, “We are making a present of Cozy Cottage. Triggs and Beck will move back into their old room. My only requirement is that you wait until Midwinter’s Day to fully join with Florent.”

  “So you do disapprove …?”

  “Not in the least.” Pennythwaite’s expression softened. “You and your fine buck will need every minute to ready your new nest. And midwinter is an auspicious time. Give us a little longer to dote before we see our darling girl safely into her bondmate’s arms.”

  “Am I your darling girl?” The notion was almost more surprising than the gold-tipped claws on Pennythwaite’s hands.

  “A chick in my nest, as dear as a daughter.”

  Twice, he danced with her, for he had much to say. About the past and the future. About him and Uncle Wyn. About a happy ending that would never end. It was straight out of one of Sonnet’s fairy tales, and it was going to be hers.

  The instruments strummed through the final chords of their ballad, and Pennythwaite kissed her forehead before turning her over to her uncle.

  “How old are you really?” she dared to ask.

  Wyn laughed and admitted, “I lose track.”

  “Guess?”

  “I don’t have to. Pennythwaite is meticulous about everything and reminded me just this morning.” His smile went crooked. “I’m one hundred and sixty-four.”

  So he told her about the rules of reavers and his reasons for running away. About regrets and rough days. About chasing fairy lights on a night just like this, only to be captured and kept by a solitary owl with superior foresight.

  Hazel thought it a wonderful story, but it made her a little sad. “We’re not family?”

  “We are,” Wyn assured. “Always were, I suppose. You and Alfie just made it all the more obvious. Thank you for that.”

  Then Alfie was there and leading her by the hand. “Someone else wants a turn, but they’re afraid to ask.”

  Hazel tried to think who else might want to dance with her. Lord Alderney? Thrussel? But the figure waiting at the far end of the meadow was as strange as they were familiar. Tall and bare-chested under a lavish fur vest, with beads at throat and ankle, standing barefoot in the moonlight. A tail flashed into a low sway.

  “A wolf,” she gasped. Straight out of Sonnet’s stories.

  “Don’t think too hard, and don’t ask questions. Please?” begged Alfie.

  She wished she could see better, but they were away from the festival lights. “I only know how to waltz,” she warned the wolf.

  They danced in silence, with Alfie looking on.

  Hazel didn’t need to think hard or ask questions, for she’d have known Sonnet anywhere. It was perhaps the most wonderful transformation of the night, but she held her tongue. Because it was plain as the look on Alfie’s face that he still needed a mum. So all she said was, “Stories about wolves have always been my favorite.”

  Sonnet hugged her close, all sniffle and sniffing. Another fairy tale come true.

  Alfie asked, “All right, there?”

  Hazel pulled back enough to kiss Sonnet’s cheek. “Completely right. But where is Florent?”

  “Here,” came the ready reply. And Florent stepped from the shadows.

  Thrice

  Florent thought it was entirely fitting for someone whose clan was named for frost to make his pledge during a Frost Festival. He stepped forward to claim Hazel, and Alfie yielded her with a small nod. Her hand fit neatly into his own, and he drew her toward the center, where the lights and dancers moved in time to the music. On the way, they met Thrussel, who offered a courteous bow and continued along. Toward Alfie.

  The matter of choosing was between him and Hazel, but it was a miracle from the Maker to have the entire cooperative’s approval. One Florent wouldn’t take for granted.

  “I want to walk by your side.” It was the beginning of pledges. It was also the truth.

  “Like this?” she asked.

  “Just like this.” Florent laced his fingers with hers. “I want to sit with you.”

  “To get out of work?” she teased.

  He wouldn’t mind staying indoors all day if he had Hazel for company. “I want to build with you.”

  All at once, her presence brightened. “Are these your vows?”

  “Yes.”

  Hazel stopped, and he stayed by her side. She asked, “Is it a long list?”

  “A lifelong one.” Florent touched her hair, her cheek. “Will you hear me out?”

  “Am I allowed to say what I want, too?”

  “Tell me,” he urged.

  “I want to dance.”

  “So hasty.” Even so, he tucked her arm through his and walked her into the circle.

  The others must have been awaiting this moment, for the musicians struck a familiar chord, and Pennythwaite began to sing.

  Hazel’s smile put a spring in Florent’s step.

  She caught his eye. “You want to build. What are we building?”

  “A nest. A home.” He added to his vows. “I want to hold you.”

  “Like this?”

  “More than this.” So much more. “I want to nestle with you. Share my years with you. Bask in the sweetness of your soul.”

  Hazel understood enough to blush.

  “If you’re willing, we’ll welcome children into our nest, and they will thrive.”

  “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

  “A little.” Florent would happily bide the weeks that lay between now and Dichotomy Day. “So … what do you want from me, Hazel?”

  “Everything.”

  “Yours,” he pledged, a little surprised by how much that one word meant. For him. For her.

  “Even if I want azure nippets?”

  He laughed. “I will send for some.”

  “What if I asked for more verses to our shopping song? And flowers for the breakfast table?”

  “Easily accomplished.” Florent hadn’t realized his little gestures meant so much. He would continue the tradition.

  It was a long dance, that third dance. But Pennythwaite drew his ballad to a close, and people drifted toward the refreshment tables. Florent didn’t release Hazel. Just stayed where they
’d stopped, keeping her in the circle of his arms.

  Hazel searched his face. He supposed his eyes were strange now.

  Arching his brows, he encouraged, “Ask anything.”

  “A kiss?”

  “Here?” he checked.

  “It’s my wedding,” she reasoned. “In all the stories I know, the bride is kissed at the finish.”

  “Then first,” said Florent, bringing the chalcedony ring from his pocket. Taking her left hand, he coaxed his ring onto her finger, not even surprised when it fit. Grand-mere had a gift for gifts.

  Hazel admired it without a word. But he could tell how pleased she was. Indeed, every soul in the meadow had to feel her delight and know its meaning.

  Her affections were his to savor, to nurture, to answer. All that remained was to gather her in—frost-kissed and sweeter for it.

  Florent brushed his lips across Hazel’s, nudging her into alignment before adding a firmer press. He tugged, and she came closer, a fine fit. The tip of his tongue against her bottom lip earned him a startled look. Gently now. Little by little, he’d lead her along.

  Drawing back, he asked, “Satisfied?”

  Hazel bit her lip and shook her head.

  “This part’s easy.” He pressed his cheek to hers and spoke into her ear. “I’ll chase you, then you’ll chase me. It’s the kind of game that lovers play, and I am yours.”

  He kissed her earlobe, her eyebrow, her nose. Teasing her a little.

  She thrust out her lip, and he kissed her pout away.

  Adjusting his hold, he started the pattern from the beginning—brush, press, flick.

  Quick as ever, she answered in kind, and when he hummed appreciatively, she swayed into him. Reached for him in intangible ways. Found him waiting and willing. And thoroughly awash.

  “If you’re dizzy, lean on me.” Her arms around his waist were definitely keeping him upright. With a playful twinkle, she added, “None the wiser.”

  He laughed, and she joined him.

  For all his dances. For all his days.

  THE END