Overcome, Jenn brushed her fingertips over the fabric. A treasure, this dress, full of memory and family and remembered joy. She couldn’t ask for a more wonderful gift.
Though the notion of wearing it, in public, sent her heart racing. This was a woman’s dress, proud and confident; the dress of a woman ready and willing to be noticed. And more.
“Oh, yes,” she managed. “I’m happy—I’m beyond happy, Dear Aunt.” She put the precious dress back in its wrap with great care, then rose to give her aunt a tender hug. “It’s the most beautiful dress in the world. I’ll treasure it always.”
“There, then,” her aunt said, clearly pleased. “When your sister’s finished in the kitchen, you can try it on for us. I do believe it will fit as it is. You’re taller than I was, but I admit in Marrowdell a hem sweeping the ground isn’t practical. Though you must, truly must, wear shoes.”
There was no arguing with that tone. “I promise,” Jenn nodded and went back to her seat on the bench between the towels and her lovely new dress.
Their aunt folded her hands neatly. “Now, Dearest Heart, tell me what’s wrong.”
“‘Wrong?’” Jenn echoed. “Nothing’s wrong, Aunt Sybb.”
“I beg to differ,” with sincere concern. “Look at you. You’re skin over bone, pale skin at that. And I haven’t seen your smile in days.”
Jenn tried not to squirm, such a reaction being neither proud nor confident. She could use Peggs about now.
A breeze wafted the gauze curtains on the front windows and found its way through the open door, bringing the smell of soap in abundance. And baking bread. So much for help from there.
Before she could frame any reply, Aunt Sybb gave a decisive nod. “You’ve been confounded. No wonder you look worn, Dearest Heart. It’s those letters.”
“‘Letters?’” Jenn repeated weakly. “I thought you approved.”
“I approved the first, which was seemly and courteous. It’s not as though you and your sister have the opportunity to practice civilized discourse. I’ve often thought it was time you both took up writing memoirs—” Aunt Sybb caught herself before straying further. “Suffice to say, there’s been far too many letters coming and going for simple courtesy, Jenn Nalynn, and not just with your future husband.”
It was true. She lowered her head. “I meant—” What had she meant? Tir had warned her against playing games with Bannan, but it hadn’t been a game, it had been wonderful and important. “—I meant no harm,” she finished.
“I know, Good Heart.” The older woman tsked gently. “Some men sing their way into your heart, others have a way with words. I’d have put a stop to your correspondence with Bannan Larmensu once I suspected, but I knew that clever rascal Tir would have outfoxed me.” Said with some admiration.
“You needn’t, Aunt. I’ve stopped writing to Bannan and to Wyll. They’ll be here tomorrow anyway.” A day and reacquaintance taking far too long to arrive. Jenn gave a listless sigh. “I wish it was over with.”
“Because you’ve finished everything,” her aunt reminded her. “The harder the work, the speedier the day.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve a suggestion.”
The mill was almost awake. Clean bags lay waiting in their stacks. Fresh grease darkened every moving part and the leather belts stretched between pulleys were clean and whole. Within their case, the stones rested, awaiting only power. All that moved were curious breezes and Radd Nalynn, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. The miller traced and retraced the path the milled grain would follow, knocking here, listening there, tugging and checking. Upstairs and down again. His daughters would chase him to be sure he ate.
Jenn Nalynn, having brought his lunch, eventually found her father in the basement, flat on his back in the stone raceway, his feet propped against a slat of the great wheel above. As he pushed, sun and shadow flowed across his body as the wheel smoothly turned on its axle. He gave a satisfied grunt.
“Your lunch pail and tea are upstairs, Poppa.” She crouched down beside him and squinted. “The wheel looks good.”
“It does, indeed,” he said cheerfully. “I’d say we’re as ready as can be.” She moved out of the way as he slid from under the wheel. “You aren’t planning to sweep again, are you?”
There not being a speck of dirt left in the mill, Jenn chuckled. “No, Poppa.”
“Good. Help me check the gate, if you would?”
The gate had likely been “checked” several times already, but Jenn had no objection. While her father went upstairs, she walked past the wheel to the downstream end of the raceway and leaned out.
Here, the race opened on a tumble of large boulders, coated with a season’s growth of moss and lichens. Shaded by the mill, the boulders would have made a fine place to stand and fish, except that the river itself was too far for a cast to reach. Between the mill and the first flow of water swayed a wide expanse of reedgrass, perfect for weaving baskets and mats once dried.
Hearing her father’s knock from above, Jenn ducked back inside and went to the upstream side, that opening closed by a gate. Made like a door, of heavy wooden slats supported by cross members, the gate wasn’t hinged, but rather suspended from a chain. By means of a geared wheel, the gate could be raised or lowered within its slot. Or dropped to instantly shut off the water’s flow and stop the millstones, should the need arise. The ’stones spun fast enough to do serious damage to mill and miller if they went off kilter and came loose, not to mention the chance of sparks or a friction-caused fire should the grain and its flow not be right.
Milling was about respect, not risk, Radd Nalynn would say.
The gate rose smoothly and stopped where it should. Jenn called out, “It’s good!” then bent to look outside. Instead of boulders, there was a path of smooth laid stone, like that around the village fountain, leading to the river. It was dry now, and sweetberry bushes met and twined overtop, making a cool green tunnel.
A red-eyed mouse, startled by the gate, glared at her before scampering to deeper cover. He’d best not linger, she thought.
Though he worked well and hard, Tir chafed at the oddness of a mill without water. Radd Nalynn, thoroughly enjoying his puzzlement, would only give a mysterious smile and promise he’d see soon enough.
Her father’s head appeared in the wheel opening above her. “I’m going to shut it now,” he warned.
Jenn waved an acknowledgment and climbed out of the raceway. A moment later, the gate plunged down, hitting bottom with a reassuringly solid thud.
She turned to leave, then stopped, looking back at the closed gate. It didn’t glitter or show any sign of being other than ordinary. Yet once the hopper upstairs filled with grain to be milled, her father would turn the wheel, the chain would pull up the gate . . . and the river would enter.
Just Marrowdell’s way; another convenience for those favored by the Ancestors.
No, Jenn realized for the first time.
It was magic.
She climbed the stairs in a thoughtful mood.
Her father sat on a bench, making happy little noises as he freed first a dumpling then a hunk of cheese from their cloth wraps. “Thank your sister, please,” he said with a smile. “And my thanks for your help, Sweetling.” Taking a bite of cheese, he nodded a question at the assortment of cleaning supplies she’d left near the open door.
“I told Aunt Sybb I’d finished everything I had to do for tomorrow,” Jenn admitted. “She suggested I clean her wagon. ‘Idle hands make an idle mind.’”
“That would do it,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ll help you pull it outside after my lunch. Come. Keep me company.”
Jenn found a spot on the lowermost step of the stairs up to the attic. Sunlight slanted through the walls of the mill, painting bright bars across the floor. She stretched her toes into one, feeling the warmth, and asked as casually as possible, “When did you find out the mill was magic, Poppa?”
“‘Magic?’” His eyebrows rose, then lowered. “Kydd Uhthoff’s brok
en his silence at last, I take it.”
“He said no one believed him.”
“It’s a hard thing, Dearest Heart, to raise a warning no one seems to hear. But we did,” her father said, calmly taking a mouthful of dumpling. “And believed every word.”
“If you did,” Jenn frowned, “why did you stay? Why did you—” she couldn’t accuse her father of lying, even if she was certain now that’s what he’d done, what they’d all done “—not tell Kydd?” They’d let a young man suffer for months. Was this where the secrets had started? Once started, had a habit of secrets made it easier to keep Melusine’s?
What was she to trust, then?
The light flickered on the floor, as if interrupted by cloud.
“We tried, Dearest Heart,” her father said gently. “Kydd was the one who told us real magic had rules. That gave us hope, you see. We knew we couldn’t keep travelling aimlessly, hoping for a place. Not without losing more of us. If there were rules here, we were willing to learn and obey them. Anything for a home.
“Kydd couldn’t understand that. Had he been older, had he not just lost most of his family as well as being exiled . . .” he sighed. “Not even your mother could get through his grief and fear. When we asked for his help, all he’d say was we had to leave, that disaster could strike at any moment. Dusom could barely calm him.”
To hear her father tell it, Kydd had been a boy who hadn’t listened to his elders. To hear Kydd, the villagers, his elders, hadn’t listened to him. There was more than one side to any tale, Aunt Sybb would say, and more than one truth.
Which went to prove, Jenn Nalynn told herself, her toes warm again, that listening and hearing weren’t the same thing at all. She resolved to do better herself.
“Fortunately, Kydd made his own peace with Marrowdell,” her father continued with a faraway look. “As did we. The magic here worked when most needed; it wasn’t ours to control. We decided to give thanks to our Ancestors and to call anything magic their gift, perhaps truly for all we knew, and offer a Beholding.
“We also agreed not to question or trouble what was here, heeding Kydd’s warning about those who’d built in Marrowdell once before, only to be destroyed. That’s why Dusom didn’t teach you and the other children about magic and wishings. We wanted to leave such things till you were old enough to understand and be properly cautious.”
Jenn took great interest in twisting a bit of skirt between her fingers.
Radd Nalynn finished his tea. “Over the years, we came to love Marrowdell for what it was. I think by now most of us forget what’s magic here and what isn’t.”
She had to smile. “Except Aunt Sybb.”
“Except my dear sister. As for the mill?” Her father chuckled. “I thought some fool had built it in the wrong place and we’d have to tear it all down in spring and move it upstream. I was mortified when the tinkers, having been such help with the harvest, pulled the loaded wagons here, expecting me to mill the grain. I told them to go to Endshere. They told me,” remembered wonder flooded his face, “to open the gate.”
The tinkers again.
They’d known about Marrowdell from the start, how it worked, what it could do.
She would talk with Mistress Sand, Jenn decided with a tingle of new hope. Tomorrow, as soon as she could get her alone.
“That was a grand moment.” He chuckled. “So be grateful to Marrowdell for its magic, Dearest Heart. It’s made our lives what they are.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
Her father gathered up crumbs, shaking them back into the pail. “Let’s get your aunt’s monstrosity outside, shall we?”
Jenn jumped to her feet. Anything to keep busy.
Would tomorrow never come?
Tomorrow. Bannan twitched with impatience. How often had he wished time to slow; now it crawled, when he’d give anything to hurry it along. There was, he decided with a chuckle, nothing fair about it.
He’d hoped to settle his mind with work, as he had every day before this, but today, alas, when he needed distraction most? Nothing needed him.
After a dozen days of effort, his home was spotless. The doors hung open to the air on their new hinges. Two benches sat on the porch. The windows needed panes, but the frames were ready and he’d shutters to close in case of a storm. He had his bed upstairs, and shelves and pegs for his clothing. In the main room, more shelves and a table, plus benches before the fireplace. A lamp hung over the table; he’d claimed one end for a desk, marking that space with his books, less one, his quills and inkpot, and, a treasure, a ream of writing paper, carefully held in place by a jar of washed pebbles.
The paper had been a gift from his sister, the day he’d left. On feeling its weight, he’d joked he could write a book. She’d said not to bother, his letter-writing would do sufficient damage to the language and turned away, but not before he’d caught a telltale glisten in her eyes. He’d known better than mention it. Lithe and lethal Lila, the beautiful Lady Lila Marerrym Larmensu, the elegant and powerful Baroness Lila Larmensu Westietas didn’t cry.
Though woe betide the guardsman she’d chosen for that afternoon’s sparring session.
He’d write her another, longer letter and send it with Lady Mahavar, Bannan told himself. Perhaps he’d tell her where so many of the precious sheets had gone.
Thinking of letters only made him more restless.
The barn caught his eye, but it was well-swept, with bundles of sweet hay cut from his farmyard ready in its loft, in case the Ropps could spare him a milk-calf. Tir had helped him cobble together a small sty as well, since there might be piglets. Could and might, but nothing yet.
He glanced hopefully at the garden, but it too had been tamed, sufficient for this year. Neatly furrowed soil divided clumps of ripening beans from the tangle of vines around his fifteen plump squash. There were turnips, though thoroughly mixed with beets, and a stand of fine feathery green Davi Treff had assured him meant tender asparagus, come spring. He’d picked what apples the wild creatures had left him, sending those to the village. The Uhthoffs would press cider soon; he’d receive a share. Next year, he’d pick the fruit sooner, and learn how to dry it, As for the summerberries?
He’d eaten them as they ripened, as greedily as the birds.
Nothing to do. Nothing he wanted to do. Bannan turned again, gazing thoughtfully at the road. He dug at it with a booted toe.
Left took him to the river, the village, and Jenn Nalynn. But not today.
It also took him by the path. Not by night, he thought grimly. He’d learned that lesson.
Right was the way Wyll had gone. He’d left earlier, wanting to avoid the dark himself.
Nights were coming faster, of a sudden. The shadows of the old trees pooled along the road, though it wasn’t sunset, not quite. Bannan hadn’t thought he’d feel the shortening days so keenly, but life as a farmer was different. He’d learned to treasure daylight, rising with the sun and loath to go indoors.
In the marches, day had been for sloth. They’d cared for weapons and mounts, dozed or played ’stones. Night was the time to don armor and move out, or to stay quiet, sentries posted. He’d spent those hours with the fire to his back, staring into the dark. When a suspected spy was dragged into their camp, well, Captain Ash had stood behind a tall torch, watching for the truth, rarely seeing it.
Staring into darkness of another kind.
Not so here. Here, sunset meant pausing to see what fleeting wonders Marrowdell might reveal. Gradually, though elusive and shy, smaller things had shown themselves. Little cloaked dancers lived in the old trees, their hair as bright as sparks. They’d laugh and spin, then be leaves again. The dwellers in the grain appeared as pale, watchful eyes. They were winged and possessed of wicked claws; Bannan felt sorry for his ox. There were others, more wary. Not of him, he realized. The house toad in its glittering mail was relentless in its patrol of his farmyard.
Here night meant sitting by his fire, in his well-lit home, to rerea
d her letters and write his own.
Not yet sunset. Not yet night. Nothing useful to do.
Bannan took a thoughtful step.
Then another.
Having taken two, why, what matter then to take another pair?
Another four?
And, by then, well, he’d settled into an easy stride, a man out to stretch his legs and build an appetite for the stew on his stove. The old trees leaned closer and closer, not quite touching, leaves moving a little more than leaves alone should, but Bannan didn’t try to see what might be watching.
Out for a walk, that was all.
Better still, he’d be a good neighbor, and visit Wyll. See his new house. Surely the dragon could use a little help in return for his.
Having given himself a worthy purpose, Bannan walked more briskly, eager to see what his rival had accomplished. As he went, he searched for any opening between the trees, but the massive trunks grew close, roots as thick as his body writhing from the ground to tangle with one another.
He frowned. Wyll had gone this way, hadn’t he? Hard to tell. The road was dry; maybe Tir could spot a track in it, but that was beyond his skill.
The Tinkers Road. Scourge claimed it didn’t leave Marrowdell, yet here it was well-packed, as if used.
Without ruts, as if not.
To his deeper sight, it flowed silver and hurried ahead of him, as if eager to be somewhere.
Where?
To answer such a pressing and interesting question, he need only go a little farther, and why not? Bannan decided cheerfully. The sun was still up.
He could hardly get lost.
Though stored in the mill all summer, the elegant coach still bore the dust and caked mud of its passage here. Plus cobwebs. Uncle Horst usually cleaned it. Wouldn’t he be surprised?
Jenn wiped the back of her definitely not-idle hand across her sweaty brow, feeling grit slide along her skin, and grinned.
She was filthy. Again.
Aunt Sybb’s coach, however, was now spotless. Its black leather gleamed, inside and out. The gilt trim around the windows shone, as did the brass rings of the curtains, and the curtains themselves were washed and pressed. The pillows their frail aunt used to protect her elbows on the journey remained in the house for now, but she’d cleaned the upholstery of both wide seats until it looked new. There wasn’t a speck on the floor or cobweb in a corner. The lamps were polished and ready; she’d obtained some of Old Jupp’s fine oil from Riss to refill them.
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