by Ila Mercer
‘Only if you really mean it.’
‘I mean it.’
Lita felt embarrassed for the Young Senna and she wasn’t sure if she liked this side to Madea’s character. She had him dancing like a marionette doll. How did she do it, Lita wondered?
But Madea, it seemed, was moved by Yaron’s reassurances because she began to pluck the strings of her lute, laughing and tapping her foot to the rhythm of her song. Her voice was tuneful and sweet.
Seems our Senna clear forgot
That soon a son must be begot
For duty is his royal yoke
To give a future to his folk
To make an heir in royal bed
Our Senna must be lawful wed
But who will fight to win his hand?
And make a grab for all his land?
Oh, how to choose from such a sortie
Of inbred skinnies and duck billed warties?
With flappered flippers, heads like toads
Stings for tongues and hearts of stone
Why not wed a simple maiden?
Who cares for Senna, not his haven.
Why not turn them all away?
And say his heart for weaver strayed.
‘Did you like it?’ Madea asked brightly.
‘It rolls along well enough.’
‘You know, if it had not been for the sale of my wall hangings last winter-’
‘They were extraordinary.’
‘And fetched a good price in Lacnor too, I heard,’ Madea continued. ‘Which was just as well after the poor harvest we had.’
‘I trust my uncle compensated you well for them.’
‘Oh, I did well enough,’ Madea replied with a light laugh.
‘I’ve often wondered why you haven’t gone to Yawmouth and joined the weaver’s guild. Surely you would do better as a free trader?’
‘And give up life in a Keep to live in a shabby room at the back of an even shabbier shop?’
‘I’m sure your talents would bring a better income than that. But what am I saying? We don’t want you to leave. Your skills are a great boon to our Keep.’
‘Not to mention my talent with the lute.’
‘And the lute,’ he agreed.
‘I heard,’ Madea said in a teasing tone, ‘that your uncle’s gone to Fallengrove with plans of an alliance. By that, Tilly thinks it means you will be wed before the year is out.’
‘You musn’t listen to Tilly’s gossip,’ Yaron said a little too sharply. And then, in a sofer tone he said, ‘I don’t have any plan to wed. Not yet anyway.’
‘Then it must be your uncle who’s got an eye for one of them.’
Lita was so intent on listening to the exchange on the other side of the door that she failed to hear the approach of the tallowmaker. He pounced on her, shaking her shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he barked.
She scrabbled to her feet and tried to pull away from him.
‘Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen or somewhere else?’ He gripped her arm more tightly. Underneath the light of a mounted candle, his bald head glistened. And though his pate was bare, tufts of grizzled hair bulged from each ear and nostril, as though the hair that should have been on his head had melted and slipped. Oh, awful man. She was sure his ruckus would draw the attention of the Senna.
Just as she thought this, the door opened, and Senna Yaron filled the frame. He was very tall, but not at all gangly like the stable boy, Lita thought. And younger in appearance than his twenty years, if the kitchen maids’ gossip could be counted on. He arched one brow, as though to prompt an explanation.
‘I found her prowling and peeping at the door,’ the tallowmaker blustered.
‘I wasn’t peeping,’ Lita said, pulling her arm from the tallowmaker’s grip.
‘Looked like peeping,’ the tallowmaker asserted while his chin appeared to melt further into his neck.
Yaron placed a hand on the tallowmaker’s fleshy elbow. ‘Maybe she was passing and stopped to listen to Madea’s music.’
Lita dipped her eyes. Why was the young Senna excusing for her? It had been several minutes since the music had finished. He must have known she was evesdropping when Madea tried to lead him into a discussion about marriage and alliances.
‘You can go, Seric,’ Yaron said. ‘I’ll deal with it now.’
The tallow maker bowed stiffly and retreated down the hall. When he had disappeared through a doorway Yaron regarded Lita quietly for several long moments. His eyes were kindly, not like the awful tallowmaker and the hint of a smile hovered on his lips. ‘You’re the girl the Jims found, aren’t you?’ he said, at last.
Lita nodded. It seemed everyone knew that shameful story.
‘Lita isn’t it?’
Was it a good thing or a bad thing that he already knew her name, she wondered? ‘Sorry I disturbed you,’ she replied, dipping into a curtsy.
‘What make’s you think I’m disturbed?’
Was he making a joke, she wondered?
‘You should listen from in here though. That is, unless you prefer draughty, cold hallways?’
He was making jokes, she decided, as she followed him into the room.
Inside his chambers, it was even darker than the hallway. Only one candle lit the entire room. Somehow it made Lita feel as though she was intruding. This feeling was only reinforced when she glanced at Madea. Though Madea smiled at Lita, a small furrow hovered at her brow.
Yaron offered Lita an armchair and then stood by his desk. He leaned awkwardly against it, his eye’s flitting from Lita to Madea. ‘Do you two know each other yet?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Lita replied. ‘We’ll be sharing Madea’s room.’
‘Is that so?’ Yaron said, turning to face Madea with a bemused expression. ‘You said you’d never share your rooms with anyone. Is Lita to be an apprentice then?’
‘Oh no,’ Madea replied with a forceful shake of her head. ‘Just for some company.’
He raised one brow, but Madea chose to ignore it.
‘Shall I play something else?’ Madea asked.
‘What about the piece you played last night? It was quite pretty.’
‘If you like.’ She leant over the lute until her hair curtained the strings. There was no singing as she crafted the mood with a light and dreamy melody. But before long, the mood of the music shifted, and it became dark and full of longing. It occurred to Lita that Madea was weaving a hidden secret in the song as surely as she wove them at the loom. Yaron closed his eyes as he listened but Madea’s were now open and they gazed intently at his face - as though she willed something from him. Lita looked away, because somehow it seemed a private matter, this gazing. She turned her attention to the rest of the room.
It was a cosy, quiet room. And now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she could see why. Rows and rows of books lined two walls. This explained the scent of leather and ink, she realised and the lack of resonance. The books muffled the bright notes of the lute, made them soft and lulling. No wonder Madea liked playing in this room, Lita thought.
When the song ended, Yaron clapped too early and a little loudly, telling Madea how wonderfully she played and that she would surely make some lucky man fall to the spell of her music. Madea smiled and accepted his praises graciously, but her tight shoulders and stiff back told a different tale.
‘I’ve heard you can read,’ Yaron said, turning to Lita. ‘Will you read to me now? I spend most of my day at books and it’d be a nice change to hear a voice other than my own. And it will give us a chance to get to know each other.’
‘It’s getting late, and we haven’t had our supper yet,’ Madea said.
‘You needn’t stay, if you don’t want,’ he replied. ‘Though perhaps Lita would be willing to take her supper here with me.’
Lita could immediately see that it was the wrong answer. Madea swiftly packed up her lute and swished her skirts as she hurried from the room without even bidding Yaron a nod or a goodbye. He seemed not to
notice her displeasure, calling a cheerful goodnight to her departing back, however after she’d gone, he gazed at the closed door for several moments. ‘You must have had quite an effect on her,’ he said, as he turned back to Lita.
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s just that Madea has always kept to herself.’
‘She comes to you,’ Lita observed.
‘True,’ Yaron replied. ‘But only because she thinks I’m worthy of notice. If I were a tack boy, I’m sure she wouldn’t look at me twice. I’m just saying… you impressed her, somehow.’
Lita could feel the heat rising in her face and hoped that Yaron would not detect it. For if he did, she was certain he would ask difficult questions, and she was not very good at lying.
But Yaron did not press her any further. Instead, he leapt from his chair, strode to the door and called for a servant to bring them some supper and wine.
As she waited, Lita smoothed the creases in her skirt and tried to model her features into calmness. Her eyes flitted to Yaron’s desk in the corner. Several books lay open on it, and it looked as though he had been disturbed while in the process of writing, for a pen lay across a parchment filled with scribblings. At the edge of the desk, perched a small wind-up bird. She wondered what tricks it performed when the key was turned.
Following her gaze, Yaron commented, ‘That nightingale was given to me by my mother.’ He picked it up and began to turn the key. ‘When I was a child, I pulled it apart to try and see how it worked, and it lay in pieces until-’ he paused for a moment – ‘anyway, it works now’, he said as he placed the small mechanical bird back on his desk.
Lita watched as the small metal bird opened its beak, revealing a gilded throat. The melody that issued forth was delicate and lyrical, with trills that rose and fell with pleasing symmetry. Nothing, really, like the improvised warblings she had heard in the forest, but lovely and evoking an idea of birdsong just the same.
When the nightingale ended its song, they ate their supper. Yaron told Lita a number of tales from his childhood - all of them featuring the Jims. It seemed he had spent a lot of time hunting, mending traps, and gathering wild herbs with the hunters. After several of these tales, she wondered about the others who must have been in Yaron’s life, such as his mother and father. She wondered if he’d had brothers and sisters too? And surely there’d been friends his own age? Why didn’t he tell her tales about them? Perhaps she only imagined it, but she had a sense that his tales hid more than they revealed, and it was strange to think that anyone other than herself and Madea might have parts of their life they wanted to keep hidden. What could be so terrible in Yaron’s past that he skirted around it, as if it were a swamp filled with quick sand?
After their supper, he invited her to choose a book.
She picked up the candle and used its light to illuminate the spines of the books. There were an awful number of scholarly books, she noted. She didn’t particularly care for that sort of book. Instead she preferred folk tales and fables. She scanned the shelves hoping to find something more fanciful, and finally found it. On the very bottom shelf, as though they were unworthy of a higher station, huddled thirty or so gilded books with strange titles. At last she chose a thin volume that contained a tale about an enchanted frog that lived in a well.
When she told Yaron what she planned to read, he laughed. ‘That was one of my favourite tales as a child.’
She took this as a sign of approval and resettled into her seat, placing the candle on the ledge above her. Very quickly, she lost all sense of her own awkwardness. Reading aloud had that affect on her. She had often read to MaKiki of an evening and it had somehow brought them together, no matter what harsh and prickling words had been exchanged between them during the day.
When she finished, she closed the book and placed it back on the shelf where she had found it. She glanced at Yaron’s face, wondering if he had perhaps fallen asleep, but he opened his eyes and returned her gaze with a smile. ‘You read well. I forgot myself for a moment, and I like that. You’ll come and read to me again tomorrow evening, won’t you?’ he asked.
‘If it pleases you.’
‘Only if it pleases you too,’ he replied.
Lita felt a blush rising in her cheeks, though she could not have said why. She nodded and then quickly retreated from the room. After she’d closed the door, she wondered whether she should have curtsied or bowed. He was a Senna after all, even though she had forgotten this detail while she was with him.
She sighed and decided to return to Madea’s chambers.
She found Madea labouring at her loom. Fingers flying and the comb clacking loudly against the beams as she beat the thread down. Madea kept her head bent over her work, even though she must have seen Lita enter.
‘Are you angry with me?’ Lita asked.
‘No,’ Madea replied, though her eyes did not meet Lita’s.
‘You’re upset. I can tell. Is it because I stayed for supper with the Senna?’
‘No. Yes. No…’ Madea said, and then stopped her work to glance at Lita. ‘You didn’t do anything, it’s not your fault. It’s just…’
‘You like him.’
‘He hardly notices me, no matter what I do.’ She took up the weaving again and wove a strand of blue through the weft. ‘I know you’re going to say that he likes my music, but it’s not the same. It’s like he sees right through me. And tonight, when he asked you to come in-’
‘You needn’t be jealous of me,’ Lita cut in.
‘I’m not,’ Madea said, and regarded Lita with wry amusement.
It was the exact look the kitchen maids had given her when they were talking about boys. It hurt a little, that nobody thought she was old enough or pretty enough to attract a beau. But then again, she probably didn’t want it anyway. Not after learning what happened when you had one. ‘I think Yaron likes you,’ Lita said, trying to appease her new friend. ‘Why wouldn’t he? You’re very beautiful.’
The tension in Madea’s shoulders seemed to ease.
‘Except,’ Lita added, ‘maybe you try too hard.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. I think all that talk of marriage unsettled him - that’s what I mean. And a Senna must surely marry a Sia. I mean that’s the way things usually work.’ Lita’s hands trembled from being so bold. ‘If we’re going to be friends, we should tell the truth, don’t you think? I’m only telling you because I thought it would help.’
‘His greatgrandfather was no Senna,’ Madea said. ‘He was a merchant from the port. Tilly and Vicca said.’
‘You think Senna Yaron might marry you?’
‘Why not?’ Madea replied. ‘I just wanted to plant the idea. He never does anything without a push. It’s the way he is. Too busy weighing everything up and then once he’s made up his mind, it’s too late. The moment has passed.’
Lita shrugged. ‘You know him better than I do. So perhaps you are right.’
‘Hmm,’ Madea said. She picked up some loose yarn and began to wind it slowly around her hand. She gazed, unblinking, her face blank of all expression. ‘What would you do then?’
Lita smiled. For a terrible moment, she thought she might have been too bold, and feared that Madea might ask her to leave. But no, that was MaKiki’s way. Lita had to remind herself that Madea’s spirit had suffered a terrible denting with her mama’s rejection. She wanted Madea to know that the advice was well meant. ‘Spend time with him, do something that’s important to him. Let him get to know you a little bit at a time. Maybe you could read to him.’
Madea shook her shoulders. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ve never learned,’ Madea said with a pout.
‘I could teach you.’
Madea shook her head. ‘That’ll take too long. Besides, there are other ways to win his eye.’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, really. Maybe I’ll write a new song.’ Then with a little sigh she sai
d, ‘Tell me more about how you were found.’
Lita knew Madea was trying to hide something. It was written in the way she moved. Her face was half turned, her fingers fumbled in a meaningless task, her eyes were downcast. But Lita also knew that it would do no good to mention it. Perhaps when they knew each other better, Madea would realise she could trust Lita with her secrets. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ Lita said, in answer to Madea’s question. ‘MaKiki says she found me when I was a babe so I don’t know anything about my parents, and yet…’
‘What?’
‘Sometimes I think I remember my mama.’ She paused, voicing her darkest thoughts felt like a betrayal of MaKiki. ‘More than once I wondered if MaKiki hid the truth.’
‘Then she probably did.’
Those words were like a slap. ‘You really think so?’
Madea nodded. ‘Of course she knows something. Why else would she protect somebody’s Beast child?’
‘But why lie?’
‘All grown ups lie, but I can tell you now, either your father or your mama was a Beast. Or maybe they were both Beasts. What do you know about your mama?’
Lita closed her eyes, trying to bring the image back into her minds eye. ‘Well… She has long dark hair. And it’s straight.’ She squeezed her eyes tighter. ‘But I never see her face.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There’s a stone hut by a lake… and a swing under an old oak... And wait… I remember now, the hut has a door with a heart carved into it.’ She opened her eyes. ‘That’s it. I don’t remember anything else. Except some things that happened, and how I felt.
‘If you find the hut maybe your mama will still be there.’
‘It was such a long time ago. And I have no idea how to find it.’
‘Anyway, you might not like what you find,’ Madea added. ‘Sometimes it’s better not knowing.’
‘At least I’d know who I am.’
Madea yawned. ‘You’re Lita. That’s who you are. Why do you need to know more than that? Now that you aren’t with the tinker you can be whatever you want. With your book ways and fancy talking you could even pass as a Senna’s painted lady.’
‘Ugh,’ Lita said. ‘I would never do that. How could you say such a thing?’