by Sarah Zettel
“Upstairs,” directed Ingrid. And there was too much jostling and too many cries of “Careful, there!” before they were able to maneuver him up the narrow stairway. Leo himself made no sound. He must have fainted, for which Ingrid was grateful.
Mama waited beside the bed in the bare room Leo shared with Thad. Her face was white as the sheets Ingrid carried, but she stayed steady as the men laid Leo on the bed. She shooed them all back and bent over her son, mopping away the blood and examining the gash. The men shuffled out of the room, murmuring their good wishes to Ingrid and Papa as they left. Everett brushed her arm in passing, and Ingrid, to her shame, found she could not look into his eyes.
“I need those sheets, Ingrid!” snapped Mama.
Then it was all blood and heat, and hot water and white sheets, and Mama stitching Leo’s wound closed and Ingrid cradling his head, and hoping Thad would keep the little girls out of the way. They did not need to see this. Leo alternated between straining to hold still despite the pain and swooning from the same pain and loss of blood.
Then it was over and Leo was again in a faint and there was nothing to do but gather up the bloody sheets and the empty, rust-stained basin and lug the whole, stinking bundle down the stairs to the back kitchen.
The room was filled with the smell of burned blackberries. Ingrid nearly choked as she dumped the sheets into the tin washtub and hurried to throw open the stove to bank down the fire. Papa, seemingly oblivious to the stench, sat at the table, hunched over a cup that, from the smell, had probably held strong coffee not too long before.
“How’s your brother?” he asked gruffly.
“I don’t know,” admitted Ingrid, surveying the disaster on the stove. A kettle of syrup and another of preserves had boiled down into identical thick, black, utterly inedible messes. A whole day’s work gone. “He’s lost a lot of blood. The doctor will be able to say more.”
“You should not have involved that man Avan,” Papa grunted to his empty mug. “It’s none of his business.”
Ingrid strangled a sigh, telling herself that was a reflexive remark from Papa and meant nothing. It needed no reply. She took the still-hot coffeepot off the stove and poured what was left of its contents into Papa’s mug.
“I’ll get supper started,” she said, returning to the stove. She tried to give herself over to thoughts of the chore at hand. She’d set the kettles to soak and get at them with the wire brush after supper. There was still some stew from yesterday. A little water and it would stretch out just fine, with dumplings, and some of the fresh blackberries and what was left of the cream …
She wrapped a rag around the first kettle of burned blackberry essence and made ready to haul it out the back door.
“Your sister should have been here to tend to that,” announced Papa, gulping some coffee. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.” Ingrid set the kettle outside the door. “Thad!” she called to her younger brother. “Get this filled with water, won’t you? Be careful, it’s still hot. I’ll have another out shortly.”
She returned to the kitchen, only to find Papa glowering at her from under his heavy brows.
“Your sister’s gone again and all you can say is you don’t know where,” he snarled. “Your brother can’t keep his mind on his work and will probably have to have his foot off. By God, is there not one of my children who will do as they should?”
Ingrid set her jaw and concentrated on wrapping the dish-rag tightly around the handle on the old Dutch oven.
“You’ll pay attention when I speak to you, girl!” The exclamation was followed fast by the crash of Papa’s hand coming down hard on the tabletop.
Slowly, Ingrid turned. Her hands flexed, as if they wanted to curl into fists.
“You may be sure, Papa, I have heard every word you said.”
Papa rose slowly and fear stiffened Ingrid’s spine. He stalked forward until he was a bare six inches from her and Ingrid knew he meant to hit her. His heavy hand itched to lash out at something, and she was nearest. At the same time, in his eyes, she saw fear and disappointment, fear for Leo, disappointment at his life and his lot, and his children. Oh, most especially his children, and all that had become of them lately.
“You’ll mind your place, Ingrid Loftfield,” he said heavily. His breath was sour with coffee and worry. “And you’ll not speak to me again in that tone.”
Ingrid held her ground and her peace. There was nothing else she could do.
Papa’s eyes searched hers for a long moment. What he found in her face, she could not tell. She could only see his anger growing cold and heavy, like a millstone around his neck. It seemed to be the only feeling he had left in him.
“Get about your work,” he grunted at last. “It’s time one of you did.”
With those words he pushed past her. She heard the front door open and close, and she let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Let it pass, she counseled herself. Let it pass. It does no one any good, and it will soon be over. Soon.
Soon she would be married to Avan, and in a house of her own. She lugged the Dutch oven out to set beside the back door. Soon, she would be well out of this, and Mama might cry and Papa might carp and Leo might glower, and it would be nothing at all to her, because she would have her own home, and she would love and be loved.
And how will Grace manage? Ingrid returned to the stove and squatted down in front of it. How will it be for her when there’s no one to stand between her and Papa? She used the poker to uncover the embers and began laying tinder over them, watching the orange flames spring to life.
Grace will manage as she has managed everything else. Ingrid laid some larger sticks in the fire, and closed the stove door, letting them get on with the business of burning down to hot coals. With a smile and wink. She’ll be fine. But even as she thought that, she glanced toward the back door. But where is she?
The sun slid slowly down behind the pines. Ingrid heated the stew and dropped in the fat, floury dumplings. She lit the lamp and took it upstairs to see if Mama needed anything. Leo still lay white and unconscious in his bed, the coverlets pulled up to his chin. Mama asked only for some fresh water to bathe his head, and Ingrid fetched it in a clean tin basin.
When she came back down to the kitchen, a shape stood in the shadows by the back door. Ingrid raised her lantern, and saw Grace standing there in the corner like a guilty child.
“Where have you been?” cried Ingrid. “I’ve been out of my mind …”
“I’m sorry,” said Grace in a whisper. “Is Leo … is he …?”
“We don’t know yet.” Ingrid set the lantern down on the table and turned back to the stove, picking up the worn wooden spoon. “Avan’s gone to fetch the doctor.” She peeked under the kettle lid to check the dumplings. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m sorry,” said Grace again. “It was just … I was just upset, that’s all.”
“We could have used your help.” Ingrid felt tired, tired, frightened and frustrated. “Mama lost two kettles of jam and syrup because there was no one here to take care of them.”
“And don’t you sound just like her,” answered Grace saucily. “I’ve told you I’m sorry, and I am. I was just … sick.”
Ingrid set the spoon down carefully. Unfamiliar and unbidden, anger rose in her at her sister’s careless tone. How could she stand there, having run out on her family when they needed her, when Ingrid needed her, and now come back, without a word as to what had happened to her, and with only a breezy little apology when …
Before Ingrid could even begin to find the words she wanted to speak to Grace, a light moved beyond the door, and a moment later it swung open, pushed by a drenched Avan, who held a mineral oil lantern in his hand. Right behind him came Dr. Nicholson clutching his black bag, his round figure swaddled in an oilskin that was still shedding rainwater.
“Doctor,” Ingrid greeted him with a rush of gratitude for his presence, both because it meant
help for Leo, and because it kept her from having to voice her feelings to Grace. “I’m glad you’ve come. Has Avan …” She glanced at him.
“Aye, he’s told me all,” said the doctor, brushing water from his sleeves. “Where’s the boy now?”
“I’ll take you,” volunteered Grace, just as Ingrid opened her mouth. “This way.”
Grace ushered the doctor through to the front room, leaving Ingrid standing alone with Avan.
“You look tired,” he said, setting his lantern down next to hers.
Ingrid wiped her hands on her apron, suddenly feeling awkward. “It’s been a hard day,” she answered. “Thank you for bringing Dr. Nicholson. Was it a hard sail?”
Avan shrugged. “There’ll be a blow tonight. We got in before the worst of it.”
Now that she listened, Ingrid could hear the wind rushing under the eves. She’d been so wrapped up in her own gloom she hadn’t even noticed before, hadn’t even spared a thought for Avan except for how he would rescue her from her own troubles.
“What is it, Ingrid?” Avan asked quietly. He wanted to move toward her, she knew he did, but he did not dare here. Not when her father might come in any second. Nor could she move toward him, so there they stood, awkward as schoolchildren on opposite sides of the kitchen table.
Ingrid shook her head, smoothing back her hair. It wasn’t that she did not want to answer him, but she did not know how to begin. At the same time, she could not keep silent.
“Avan …” she began hesitantly. “What we talked about before… .”
“I had best wait until your brother has somewhat recovered,” he said for her. “We met your father on the road. He wasn’t pleased. I think he is not as used to me in his house as I would have hoped.”
Ingrid gave him a crooked smile. “No. I’m afraid not.”
Avan reached out, and his fingertips brushed hers with fleeting warmth. “Try not to worry, my love,” he whispered. “All will yet be right.”
For the first time since he’d come in the door, Ingrid looked Avan fully in the eyes, and her heart melted once again with the love she saw there.
Grace chose just then to bustle back into the kitchen. “Good news!” she cheered. “The doctor says there’s no reason for Leo to lose the leg. He says if we keep him warm and dry, and feed him on plenty of broth, he’ll be sound again in no time.”
“That is good news,” said Avan, with a smile that was more for Ingrid than Grace.
“I knew it would all be well,” announced Grace with unexpected force. “I knew it.”
Ingrid could think of nothing to say to that, considering Grace’s behavior that afternoon, so instead she turned back to Avan. “Will you stay for supper? We surely owe you that much.”
Avan just shook his head. “Thank you, but I think not, considering all …”
“Oh, come now, Avan,” laughed Grace. “Ingrid and I will manage Papa. You’re welcome at the table.”
“I thank you, but I must take my leave.” He picked his lantern up. “Good night, Miss Loftfield. Miss Grace.”
Ingrid followed him to the door. She could not have stopped herself. As she stood in the threshold, he turned, bent swiftly and kissed her, and then he turned and stumped down the path toward the gate, leaving Ingrid to stand there, her fingers touching her mouth and her heart brimming with warmth.
It would be all right. Leo would heal. Grace would come to see she must look after herself. Papa would relent, or he would not. It didn’t matter. She was a grown woman. Avan loved her, truly loved her, and she loved him, and things would be all right. They would make them so, no matter what.
Chapter Seven
Kacha walked the moonlit gardens beside the imperial canal. It had become his custom on the few nights he was not attending Medeoan to take the air in this fashion. His men followed at a discreet distance with such lanterns and other accouterments as might be required. Tonight, however, the moon was full, and he scarcely needed any other light.
He liked these gardens underneath the moon. He liked the drooping willows shining with silver, and the soft grass and the scents of herbs and flowers. Here in the darkness, he could almost believe he was home again in Hastinapura, perhaps late in the wintertime when the air was dry and cool and the summer’s blossoms had not yet woken. There was still the sound of water, and the trees seemed made of silver and shadow. Here, he could almost feel content.
“Majesty?” Prithu, his head waiting gentleman, gave a small cough. Kacha turned. A cloaked figure glided across the lawn. From this distance, it was impossible to make out any detail regarding the approaching person, but Kacha smiled to himself. He had no doubt as to who this was.
The figure paused, as if uncertain what welcome he would offer. Kacha beckoned it forward and it knelt in reverence at his feet. Kacha reached out and pushed the fur-and-velvet hood back to reveal Chekhania, Medeoan’s first waiting lady, and his finest ally in Vyshtavos.
“Good evening, mistress,” he said, raising her to her feet.
“Good evening, Imperial Majesty,” She was a little breathless from hurrying, and even in the moonlight he could see that her cheeks were flushed.
“You have news for me?” he asked needlessly. Everything about her spoke of repressed excitement. Not only news, but important news, and Kacha had no doubt she was already anticipating how well she would be rewarded.
She did not answer, but glanced back at Kacha’s men. They knew better than to come close during these meetings, but if Chekhania had a fault, it was that she enjoyed the drama of her position too much. Still, Kacha was inclined to humor her. He clasped her fingertips with his own, in the Isavaltan fashion, and walked her down the canal a little ways.
“Now, none can hear us,” he breathed, stepping close enough to feel the heat of her skin. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“Majesty, I would have come to you sooner than this, but this is so grave, and so strange, I had to make certain it was the truth …”
“Tell me,” he said again. She smelled of musk and flowers, a scent, he was sure, she had chosen with care for this encounter, and he could not fault her choice.
She smiled, but still kept her eyes modestly turned down. “The empress plans to fly from Vyshtavos tomorrow.”
“What!” Kacha jerked backwards. “When did you learn this?”
“Yesterday,” she said, no longer so smiling. “I heard it when I was with the Right Hand of the Keeper. He and I …” She delicately waved the end of the sentence away. “Afterward, when I was waiting for a good time to take my leave, I saw Captain Peshek come into the house and make confession to the gods, and as Your Majesty Imperial knows, he did meet with the empress but lately.”
Kacha felt his demeanor grow cold as stone. “Who else aids her in this plot?”
“I tremble to say that I don’t know, yet.”
Kacha whirled away from Chekhania, his hands tightening into fists. So, for all Medeoan’s protestations, she had given him nothing but pretty lies. Yamuna had been right. He had been more than right. Kacha should have watched her, should have insisted he stay by her, should not have given her a moment’s peace… .
I will hang Yamuna’s spell about her neck for a noose, and pull her along behind me like a dog on a lead. I will teach her what it means to be a proper wife. I will …
Pain stabbed him from behind his right eye. Kacha grunted and slapped his hand over it. Slowly, with many deep breaths, he brought his anger under control. The pain eased, and he was able to lower his hand and think again.
This was not what he expected. Where he had thought Medeoan might betray him, yes, he had not even considered the idea that she might flee. He had expected her to try to win back her council and her lords, and to cut him off from the instruments of power as he had cut her off. But simply to run away … he never would have considered that. Well, courage had never been Medeoan’s strength. The question was, what to do about this. Should he use the girdle on her tonight? Or should he wai
t and catch her in the act? Or …
The fingers of his right hand grew warm. Yes. Yes. There was a way. He could see it clearly now. Yamuna and his own heart showed him, and the picture pleased him well.
He faced Chekhania again, and found her a little pale, and a little anxious, properly afraid of her master’s anger.
“You’ve done well, Chekhania,” he said, and to make sure she knew how well, he kissed her roughly. She melted at once into his arms, answering the kiss with a pleasing ardor. He pulled her down to the ground with him, his hands fumbling with her skirts, even as hers expertly sought the knot of his sash that she might open his coat.
Kacha laughed as he took her then, laughed for the passion and the future, and for how little Medeoan had sealed her own doom and with her own hands had given him all he desired.
The morning that the imperial household was to move to its summer quarters dawned sweet and clear, full of the green scents of summer. Medeoan’s waiting ladies pushed open what windows there were to let the warmth and sunshine wash through her stone room. A riot of noise rose from the courtyard as goods and people assembled to be borne down to the barges that Medeoan knew were waiting on the canal. Her dressing screens cut her off from the rest of the world, confining her in a tiny space with two of her ladies, with no room to move and nowhere to go. As her ladies dressed her in her best traveling clothes of light wool and linen, and girdled her around with the imperial colors of blue and gold, she listened with a fluttering heart to the vibrant, busy sounds from outside.
Now was the time. All was in order. This morning she could make her escape, and, if she failed, then …
Then there was nothing to do but wait until Kacha decided to take away the last of her.
“Where is the emperor, Chekhania?” asked Medeoan as the woman tied the final neat love knot.
“I believe he is supervising the assembly of your entourage, Majesty Imperial.” Chekhania stood back to inspect Medeoan and make sure that no piece of garment or ornamentation was missing. “Shall I tell him that you request his presence?”