by K. C. Julius
Two of the strangers turned to go then, but the third—the one Maura’s mother had embraced—hesitated. He took a step toward her, but she turned away and lifted her pail. As the moon rose over the trees, Maura caught a glimpse of the man’s face, fleetingly familiar—but before she could place him, he slipped after his companions into the shadows.
* * *
Maura awoke in the dark, her cheek crushed against coarse straw. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom to reveal the broad beams of the lapin hold. She was lying before the bucks’ pens, their pink noses pressed against the wires and their black eyes staring into hers.
She had run here after the incident at the pool, seeking the comfort of her beloved lapins, and must have fallen asleep. She wondered if her mother was waiting for her now, to explain what had happened, and if her father had found Dal and brought him home.
Impulsively, she unlatched the pen and drew out Braith, a brindled male. She held him close for comfort as she hurried across the yard to face whatever awaited her, her heart racing in time with the buck’s own.
When she pushed open the door of the manor, she found the cookfire banked, the stew pot removed, and the house in stillness. Papa’s boots were not by the door, but his walking crook was gone, which meant he’d returned at some time to claim it.
Upstairs, she found Dal’s bed distressingly tidy. There were no discarded clothes tossed on the floor, no emptied nutshells by his basin.
She tiptoed down the hall to her parents’ chamber. Her mother was there, alone, sleeping peacefully, while her father trekked the pastures in the dark, looking for Dal.
Maura suddenly recalled how serene Mother had been at supper when her brother had not appeared. As if she knew he wouldn’t. She was ashamed of this sudden suspicion, but it lingered nonetheless as she crept to her own bedchamber and laid Braith on her pillow. The lapin stretched and burred contentedly as she numbly donned her nightdress and slipped under the covers.
“Hush,” she murmured, stroking the creature’s silky coat. She leaned over and blew out her candle, but long hours passed before she finally surrendered to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Dal’s room was still empty. Maura washed and dressed hurriedly, then squared her shoulders and started downstairs. She had to tell her parents about the Lurker, and although the thought filled her with unaccountable dread, she also had to confront her mother about what she had witnessed the previous night.
After returning Braith to his cage, she found her mother in the kitchen, scouring the wooden dining table with salt and lemon, filling the room with its crisp fragrance. Papa was nowhere to be seen.
Maura’s mother looked up. “Well, you had a nice long lie-in, daughter,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite light her eyes.
“Papa didn’t find Dal?” Maura asked, although she already knew the answer.
The smile faded from her mother’s lips. “I fear not. Kiah has vanished as well. Your father and the village men are still searching the hills for them.” She moved the lemon across the surface of the table in brisk circles, her eyes lowered to her work.
This was the worst of news. If Kiah, the lead coilhorn, was missing, something was very wrong.
Before she could stop herself, Maura stepped forward and grasped her mother’s wrist. “Please tell me,” she begged. “Do you know what’s happened to Dal?”
Her mother’s gaze locked on Maura’s fingers. “Of course I don’t know what has happened.” She drew her hand from her daughter’s grasp. “And it’s useless to speculate, for that leads only to anguish.”
Tears of anger sprang to Maura’s eyes. “You certainly don’t seem anguished!” she cried. “What happened last night at the pool, Mother?”
Her mother stiffened as if she’d been slapped. “What do you mean, Maura?” she said coolly. “I went to fetch water.”
“I saw you there,” said Maura. “And you weren’t alone. Who were those three men?”
Her mother gave a little laugh. “Three men? At our wee pool on the eve of the winter solstice?” She shook her head and resumed her slow circles across the oaken boards. “You’ve had a midwinter dream, daughter, nothing more.”
Maura shook her head in disbelief. “You deny it? I saw you!”
Her mother brought her fist down on the table. “Enough!” she commanded. “I’ll not tolerate this disrespect. I understand you’re overwrought, which perhaps accounts for this implausible tale, but stop it now! I’ve got plenty of wool on my spindle without having to deal with your maidenly hysterics as well.” Her voice grew even colder. “If you persist with this nonsense, you’ll have to take a physick for your nerves.” She tilted her chin up. End of discussion. Obedience was expected, and Maura had always complied.
But not this time. “What about Dal?” she persisted. “Why aren’t you out with Papa looking for him? Aren’t you worried about him too?”
Sighing, her mother put the lemon aside. “Yes,” she said evenly. “I’m worried.”
Then she came around the table and drew Maura close. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that Maura nearly flinched as her mother smoothed her brindled curls with slender fingers.
“I’m very worried,” she repeated. “The only reason I’m not out there as well is so that if Dal comes home, I’ll be here for him.”
“If?” Maura pulled away to search her mother’s face.
“I mean when,” her mother amended. She drew out a chair and guided Maura into it. “Come. Let me give you some breakfast before you tend to your lapins.”
This was the time to bring up the Lurker. Tell her now, Maura willed herself, but something warned her not to.
Her mother laid a plate before her as if it was an ordinary morning. As if her son had not disappeared. As if she had not been pleading with strangers last night in the dark. As if Maura had never challenged her.
Numbly, Maura picked up a slice of apple from the plate before her, but she could taste nothing of its sweetness. I won’t tell her about the Lurker yet, she decided. Not until Papa brings Dal home again. And maybe then she’ll explain who those men were at the pool.
But in her heart, she feared that none of these events would come to pass.
Chapter 10
Although Papa and the villagers searched for days, no trace of Dal was found. In some ways, Maura found this even more heartbreaking than if they’d discovered his lifeless body torn by a mountain cat or shattered on a jagged ledge. Bruises of sleeplessness bloomed under Papa’s eyes, and Mother, whose haunting voice ordinarily filled their home with song, now moved in silence through her day.
Maura had little enthusiasm for her own chores—brushing and grooming the lapins and supervising the breeding pens—but she slogged through them nonetheless, driven by a need to distract herself. With each passing day that she delayed telling her parents about helping the Lurker, and asking her mother about what she’d seen at the pool, it became increasingly difficult to imagine how she would ever do so. If there was any connection between these events, it seemed now to be too late to be helped.
There was no grave dug for her brother, as there was no once-lively twelve-year-old boy to bury in it. But Papa laid a stone, polished with his tears, under the solitary castanya that spread its branches in the meadow beyond the yard. Dal had loved to climb up in the tree’s leafy boughs, and to play cobblers with the burnished seeds it cast. Now Papa spent long hours beside the stone, and day and night, Maura could hear his voice as he spoke to his lost son, and sometimes, terribly, the sound of his grief.
Maura went a few times to sit under the tree, but seeing her brother’s name underscored by dates with such finality… it was too much to bear.
As for Mother, once the stone was laid, she never visited it.
As the days passed, Maura watched for some sign that her mother knew more than she had let on
about Dal’s disappearance. It seemed too much of a coincidence that the strange meeting at the pool had occurred on the very night he’d gone missing. Maura clung to this faint hope that her mother knew something she wasn’t sharing—for if it were true, perhaps Dal wasn’t lost to them after all.
Then one day Mother asked her to go in her place with Papa to do the marketing. “I want to sort the wool for carding and spinning today,” she explained, “and you know as well as I how to choose the best spices, and what we’re short on in the larder.” She looked out the window at the lowering sky. “The first snows must come soon, and we’ll need to stock up.”
So Maura and Papa harnessed the coilhorns and headed down the mountain, a short journey she hadn’t made since Dal had vanished. As they made their purchases, they received condolences from Papa’s many friends in the village. He accepted their kind words, but Maura held herself stiffly, clinging to her fragile composure.
Their final stop was the pastry shop, where Jelk, her father’s oldest friend, came away from his ovens to greet them. “If there’s anything I can do, Mac,” he offered, “you’ve but to say the word.” He patted his friend’s shoulder awkwardly, for it wasn’t a practice for men of Dorf to embrace, unless they scored a point during mob ball at the annual spring Gathering.
Jelk pressed some spice cakes upon them, then walked with them across the village square. A group of local men drifted over as Maura and her father loaded their wagon.
Ryn, a neighboring farmer, gave a wave. “We’re havin’ a pint or two at the pub, Cormac. Why don’t ye come along? Drinks on me.”
“Thanks,” said Papa with a faint smile. “That’s very kind, but I’ve got Maura to look out for.”
“Nonsense, Papa,” said Maura, for she thought it would do him good. “I’m perfectly able to entertain myself. Do go! As a matter of fact, I’d hoped to have a closer look at those stalls we passed.” She gestured vaguely behind her.
Jelk smiled. “There, you see? Why don’t you run along, Maura, and you can head home whenever you like. I’ll bring your father up later.” He was already drawing Cormac toward the Coilhorn and Bell.
Papa threw a glance back at her, and Maura was pleased to see his expression appeared lighter than it had in weeks. “If you’re sure, Maura?”
Ryn threw his arm around his shoulder. “Aye, she’s sure, aren’t ye, lass? She can’t wait to be free of her ol’ man and off to look at them bits and bobs.”
“I’ll see you at home then, Papa,” Maura called after him, and waved with a semblance of gaiety.
She watched him go through the tavern doors, then wandered over to the wool stalls.
“I might as well have a look,” she murmured to herself. She didn’t intend to buy anything, as she’d brought along no money of her own, but she enjoyed strolling past the stands, admiring the work of the village ladies, and as always, she was pleased to see the bright colors of her lapins in the shawls, scarves, and mittens they displayed.
Although Fernsehn produced the finest of wools, neither Maura nor her mother were able to knit. Mother hadn’t learned as a girl, and so Maura hadn’t been taught. She was happy that she’d been allowed to take on the care of the lapins instead. But Papa employed a dozen local women to assist them in the combing, carding, and spinning of their fine wool, and balers came once a fortnight to bundle it for distribution locally and to send a portion south to the royal warehouses of Drinnkastel.
A few of the vendors nodded to Maura, and she was pained by the pity she saw in their eyes. Turning away, she noticed a stall at the end of the lane displaying fine Langmerdor lace, not commonly found in the north. She was disappointed to find the booth unattended, as she would have liked to learn more about the intricate tatting.
She spied a delicate collar that had dropped to the cobblestones on the far side of the stall, perhaps lifted by the blustery wind. As she bent to retrieve it, she heard the unmistakable voice of Mistress Tribbly, Dorf’s most notorious gossip, coming toward her from the direction of the square. Maura cringed, for she hadn’t the patience to listen to the insufferable woman’s poorly veiled barbs, or worse, to endure her questions about Dal. In desperation, she remained crouched where she was and hoped the old biddy wouldn’t come so far down the lane.
“Are we playing sardines or eavesdropping?” whispered a voice close to her ear.
Maura whirled to find a young man squatting beside her. His blue eyes twinkled conspiratorially, and two large dimples dented his cheeks.
“Shhh!” she hissed, now feeling completely trapped. She recognized her unwelcome companion as a youth from Bren, the village on the other side of the mountain. She’d seen him often over the years—usually at the annual Gatherings, participating in and often winning the races and wrestling contests. More recently, she had looked up on more than one occasion to find him staring at her when she was at the lapin stall. She vaguely recalled he was somehow connected with the lord of Branley Tor.
In these uncomfortably close quarters, she could see golden hairs curling at the neckline of his tunic, and smelled the fresh mint on his breath.
“Borne,” he whispered, offering her his hand.
Maura ignored it. She was listening for approaching footsteps.
“That’s my name,” he said good-naturedly.
She put her finger fiercely to her lips.
Mistress Tribbly, and gods’ mercy, Mistress Claine, her regular accomplice in character defamation, were definitely heading toward the lace stall. Maura wished she were anywhere else, but there was no help for it now.
“Where’s that Trok girl gotten to?” she heard Mistress Tribbly complain. “I could have sworn I saw her walking this way. I’d recognize that disheveled mane of hers anywhere.”
Maura put a hand up to her hair, which was no doubt even more tousled than usual from the ride to town.
“I think it’s lovely!” Borne whispered, and she flashed him what she hoped was a quelling look.
“She’s a thread from the same cloth as her mother,” Mistress Tribbly continued. “They’re a queer lot up at Fernsehn, and now with the disappearance…”
Maura grimly imagined the speculative gleam in the horrible woman’s eyes.
“The Troks wasn’t so odd in the old days,” said Mistress Claine. “Back before she came. Gregen Trok t’were a reputable Dorfer, even if his wife Asta did ride a bit too high on her coilhorn.”
Upon hearing this censure of her long-dead grandmother, Maura burned with indignation. It must have been evident, for the merry smile faded from Borne’s lips.
“At least Asta came from respectable folk right here in the village,” said Mistress Tribbly. “Not like the current Mistress Trok, from some outlandish place away to the west. Snail-eaters they are, if you can imagine. Thinks she’s too good to join in our knitting circles, she does, and always as cool as winter’s breath when we meet.”
“It broke my poor Mrytie’s heart when Cormac came back with that woman,” lamented Mistress Claine. “She was that certain he would propose to her before he went off t’ the coast. Came back a married man, didn’t he, and twitterpated at that. Still looks like a lovesick calf whene’er he gazes on that Tyrrencaster woman!”
The two chinwaggers were closing in on the stall. At any moment they would see Maura. She looked wildly at Borne, who raised an inspired finger. In one instant he gripped her elbow and pulled her behind him around the back of the stall, and in the next he was popping up in front of the women, who shrieked in startled surprise.
“By the gods, Borne Braxton!” squealed Mistress Tribbly, clutching her ample bosom. “Why ever would you want to give us such a fright?”
Maura didn’t wait to hear his explanation. She was already scurrying down the back side of the vendors’ stalls, heedless of the possibility that anyone else might see her.
When she reached the square, she straighte
ned and headed briskly across it, not daring to look back.
“You there!” called an angry voice.
Maura whirled to see a scowling man approaching. She glanced over her shoulder, in the hope he was addressing someone else, but she was alone in the square.
“Excuse me?” she said, backing away slightly from his threatening advance.
The man caught hold of her wrist, and she gasped as she followed his pointed gaze to the collar she still held.
“Where do you think you’re going with my lace?” he demanded, and then he looked around angrily.
With horror, Maura realized that he was about to denounce her publicly as a thief. But before he could continue, a large hand thrust itself between her and the irate merchant, holding out a burnished silver groat.
Maura looked up to see Borne smiling engagingly at her startled captor.
“The lady left this at your stall when she saw you weren’t there,” he explained pleasantly. “I noticed some unsavory folk in the vicinity…” Here Borne looked meaningfully over at Mistress Tribbly and Mistress Claine, who were bustling toward them. Seeing something forbidding in his look, they veered off, their heads drawn close together. “And so I took the liberty of safeguarding your considerable profit until I saw you approaching.”
“Ah, well, ahem,” harrumphed the man, gingerly releasing his hold on Maura’s wrist to pluck the coin from Borne’s fingers. The collar was worth half a groat at best. “No harm done, I suppose.” He made a half-bow of apology. “If the young mistress will forgive my hasty misapprehension…”
“The lady is overdue for an appointment,” replied Borne coolly, taking Maura’s elbow. He smoothly propelled her across the square, away from the few curious passersby who had turned to stare.
“Keep walking and hold your head high,” he instructed her quietly. He slipped the lace from between her trembling fingers and tucked it into his cloak.