by Anne C Miles
Tabor shook his head slightly, blinking, as he took Trystan’s arm.
Trystan gently led them back to the ballroom. “Oh no, I insist. It is so rare for me to meet a lady of such poise and refinement. I must have a dance.”
Bronwyn looked both amused and relieved. “I’ll leave you in Trystan’s most capable hands then. Fare thee well!”
Trystan followed in her wake. He clasped Tabor lightly about the waist, an evil grin lighting his features.
“I’ll step on your feet,” hissed Tabor as they proceeded down the hall.
“You will not.” Trystan steered Tabor to the dance floor. “This is happening, milady.”
After a rather energetic set of courtly dances, Trystan finally relented and led his partner to the courtyard. A carriage awaited, and he helped “Lady Gwyneth” inside. He climbed in after, his expression bland. “Are you comfortable?” he asked, as the carriage lurched into motion.
“If I don’t get out of this dress, I’m going to vomit,” declared Tabor in his own voice, his expression black. He tore the wig from his head, revealing a bald pate. “Hand me the bag at your feet.”
Trystan obeyed.
Tabor rummaged, producing comfortable sailor’s garb, the costume he had been wearing when they first met. He kicked off large satin slippers and pulled on black trousers under his skirts, then presented his back to Trystan. “Unlace me.”
Trystan clucked. “So forward, milady. We’ve only just met.”
Nimble musician’s fingers made quick work of the lacing. Trystan leaned back in his seat, entirely too pleased with himself.
Tabor only grunted in reply. He pulled the dress off, his muscled back flashing before he slid a fresh black undershirt over his head. A black tunic and belt followed, along with black boots. In the satchel he found a rag, a flute, a glowstone, a waterskin, and a hand mirror. Tabor poured a thin stream of liquid from the skin onto the glowstone. He took up the flute and played a quiet tune. The glowstone slowly began to shine as if lit from within by a flame.
Trystan watched with interest. “It’s still unnerving, seeing you do that.”
“What? Become a woman? Act a fool? I can’t believe you made me dance. I will have my revenge.” He soaked his rag with the same liquid from the skin and proceeded to scrub the paint from his face.
“No. I meant you use the Song like an acolyte.” Trystan said. “We have glowstones in the Bindery, but cantors set them alight.”
“I use the Song like a Spinner,” Tabor said, correcting him. “Storm King willing, you will do the same. Tonight, we’re going on a small quest to prove your mettle.”
He reached into his bag and removed a kerchief, which he fashioned into a tight headwrap, covering his bald pate.
“My lute isn’t here? I thought we were going to retrieve it.” Trystan couldn’t mask his disappointment.
“Patience.” Tabor’s tone was sharp. “While the nobles of Baehnt are occupied, we have an opportunity that needs seizing. The Lady Aracine has an unusual scroll in her library, and we are going to liberate it.”
Tabor fished in his bag again, removing another black undershirt and tunic, along with a large coil of rope. “Here, put these on. I hope you can climb.” He tossed the clothing to Trystan and flashed a broad grin.
Trystan sighed and began removing his finery. “I can climb well enough, I grew up in the mountains, remember? Large rocks. Climbing.” He pulled the dark clothing on, his voice muffled by fabric as he asked, “What scroll?”
Tabor waited until Trystan’s head emerged from the undershirt to answer. “Remember how I explained the Spinner’s mission?”
Trystan nodded. “You’re all maintaining a web formed with the Song. The web feeds Songlines, which radiate from the World Tree. They carry power and grace throughout the kingdoms. I still don’t understand how the Broken Song is safe to use.” He sighed.
Tabor brushed this away. “I’ll show you soon. For now, this is enough. We are working to combat Dissonance. We perform other tasks as well, but ’tis our most important purpose. It is dangerous, make no mistake. But worth it.” He leaned forward. “The scroll we are going to retrieve was once housed at Anach, in the Tower.”
Trystan whistled. “It’s from the Majisterium?”
Tabor nodded. “Very rare and important to our mission.”
Trystan nodded. “Just tell me what to do.”
Tabor grinned again. “You’re going to climb with me to the roof of the estate and keep watch while I retrieve the scroll. Simple enough.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” Trystan asked.
Tabor winked and leaned back to look out the window. “I know the estate well. Lady Aracine is, after all, my only aunt.”
An hour later, the carriage stopped on the roadside, pulling off into a small grove of trees with enough underbrush to mask it from view. They slipped into the night, joining the driver and footman. Tabor spoke softly to each of the manservants, who nodded and faded into the shadows.
“They’ll keep watch.” Tabor gave a low call—dubdubdub—and received one back in return. “If the call sounds twice, we need to run.”
Trystan nodded and took up a coil of rope. “How do we avoid Watchers?”
“We don’t,” Tabor said. “We’ll need to be very quiet. There is no moon, we should be safe enough. If all else fails, I have a plan.”
Trystan eyed Tabor until he explained.
“I have Conclave robes to don before climbing. If the Watchers report, they shall have a lowly acolyte to describe.” Tabor whisked his kerchief from his head and assumed a pious position of prayer.
Trystan laughed and said, “You make a better cantor than woman.”
Tabor hopped into the carriage driver’s seat. He tossed down a leather satchel. “My tools,” he said. “All right, let’s go.”
They slipped through the hedgerow and approached the manor from the west. House Aracine wasn’t as impressive as Tabor’s family estate, but it was large. There were no outer walls. Instead, it was protected by a moat. The drawbridge was down. They crossed quickly, keeping to shadows. The house loomed tall and menacing as they approached.
At the base of the manor. Tabor produced a grapple and tied it to the rope. He tossed it over the battlement, tugging to secure its grip. He scrambled up, hand over hand, bracing against the wall with his feet. In minutes, he was on the roof. Trystan followed.
Tabor coiled the rope and pointed to the tower. Trystan nodded, not daring to speak. The outline of a Watcher perched only fifteen feet away. It wasn’t moving. Tabor threw on his robes and set off for the tower. Trystan settled down to listen and wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SARA STRUGGLED NOT to wither under her mother’s Southern stare. Catherine Moore assessed her with a tiny mouth. Bad sign. “You’re slouching,” said her mother, crisply. “Sit up straight, you’ll feel better.”
Sara’s palms sweated. She muttered. “No manners, just got no couth.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. The movie quote game Sara played pricked at Mom’s half-healed wounds. Sara knew it. She didn’t particularly care. That’s what she gets for judging me.
“Born Yesterday? You’re reaching deep.”
Sara slowly drew her shoulders back. She kept her eyes on her plate. A salad. She hated salads. She also knew better than to order anything else when eating with her mother. I will get through this lunch. I will be civil. She stabbed a crouton. It flew off her plate, landing on the white tablecloth. Sara’s mother granted her a level look. Violin music wafted through the restaurant, muffling the hum of other diners. Sara held onto it like a life preserver, willing herself to relax.
“How is school?” Mom said. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “I’ve heard there is a new internship? Polly mentioned it at the last Women’s Club meeting.”
“It’s fine, Mom. Great,” Sara said. “I have a piece I’m preparing.” You’re checking on me. Awesome. I wonder what you tell Dr. Carol.
The two women were friends.
“Good. Then you will graduate. Have you thought any further about your plans?”
Sara took a bite. They always had the same conversation. Every week, lunch on Thursday. Every week her mother asked the same questions. She gave her standard answer. “I’m looking at grad school. I’ve been accepted to a few programs already. I plan to get a master’s and teach.”
“You know you could look at law. Or even medicine,” Mom said. “These days a fine arts degree gives you so many options. It isn’t like it was when I was in school. Back then, you had to have a degree in history or biology to enter one of those programs. Now you can have it all.” Her perfectly penciled lips curved, aping a smile. “You should think about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, Mother. I’m pretty sure I want to teach,” repeated Sara. Teaching is safe. She fiddled with a leaf of lettuce.
Her mother continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Marilla always thought you should go into medicine, you’re so good with your hands. She said you could be a surgeon.”
“I saw her yesterday,” Sara said. “We’re reading a Sue Grafton mystery. Did you know Sue is from Louisville?”
Her mom’s mouth softened. She sipped water from a sparkling goblet. “I’m glad you’re reading to her, Sara. But you mustn’t get your hopes up. Focus on yourself right now. We must accept the pain life brings and do our best to move on.”
“Yes, Mother.” Sara kept her face a mask. Lunch was almost over. She only had to hold it together a little while longer.
“You know I love you both,” Mom said. Her voice shook but did not break. She cleared her throat. “I’d give anything to help her. I’ve had the best specialists evaluate her. I’ve researched. I’ve done all I can do. We must keep living, Sara, for Marilla’s sake. She would want that.”
Sara saw the tears in her mother’s eyes. She reached across the table, took her hand, and held it.
“I know I must seem demanding or cold. But the truth is holding it together is difficult. I’m doing my best.”
Sara squeezed her hand. They sat in silence for a moment, joined by pain. She misses her too. Maybe I’m too hard on her. Maybe…
Mom coughed, releasing her, and shifted in her seat.
“Peter and I are going to a movie,” Sara said. “Not a real date. But I’m going out.”
“That’s wonderful, Sara. He’s a fine young man, a good person.” Her mother genuinely warmed, seeming relieved to be talking about something as normal as boys.
Encouraged, Sara continued. “And I’ve decided to do that sleep study. Dr. Carol says it might be good. I’ll be going for the weekend next month.”
“University Hospital?”
Sara nodded. The violin music faded, and an orchestral piece began. Sara recognized it. “Fate: Allegro con brio.”
“I know the attending on that unit. I’ll give him a call and ask him to take special care of you.”
“Thanks.”
“If you went to medical school, you could end up working there,” she said, smiling. “You never know.”
Sara’s temper flashed hot, their fragile camaraderie broken. Mom just had to go there, had to keep pushing, keep dismissing her dreams. She took a deep breath, keeping her voice even as she replied. “Mom. I love you. I know you mean well. I know you want what is best for me. Please hear me. I love my work. You have to stop pushing me. I love my studio. I understand I likely can’t support myself as a sculptor full time, but I have ideas and dreams of my own.”
Sara struggled to control her temper and lost. Her voice began to rise.
“I do not want to be a doctor. That was Marilla. Not me. She wanted to be like you. I’m Sara. Likely to end up a teacher, but I have to try to make it first. I need you to support me. Sara. My dreams.” Her fist thumped the table, making the silverware rattle. Other diners looked in alarm, then looked away.
Her mother drew back, stung. Her face a mask, she said, “I know who you are, Sara. I raised both of you. You’re just like your father with his cello. You with your art.”
Sara stiffened. She was nothing like her father. “I’m surprised you could even tell the two of us apart. You were at the hospital working more than you were at home. You never saw me, you never heard me. You never heard Marilla...either of us...unless we said what you wanted.
“Marilla did. She was much better at pretending than I was, and you never really knew her. But even she could only fake it for so long. Perhaps if you or Dad had been home that night? If you had been there, Marilla wouldn’t have nearly killed herself.”
The words hung there, ringing through the room like a slap. The other diners were very quiet. Their waitress, who had been approaching with a smile, shook her head slightly and veered away.
Her mother’s face was so pale. Everything was moving in slow motion. Her mother whispered, “Excuse me.” She reached into her purse and placed cash on the table, rose, and with great dignity, looked down at Sara. There was no trace of warmth. “Selfish, just like your father.” She strode away.
Sara’s breath came in quiet shudders. She took a drink of water, her hands trembling. That went well. She rubbed the pendant Carol had given her, feeling the engraved words. Maybe it could keep her mother away.
She counted back from ten, letting her breath slow. She named the colors in the room. Brown table. White tablecloths. Blue walls.
She had actually held her ground, told the truth. Pete would be so proud. She signaled to the waitress.
“I’m going to need chocolate cake. The biggest slice you have. And coffee.” Selfish, her mother called her. A folded neon-pink piece of paper thunked softly on the floor, falling out of her pocket. Sara bent to pick it up. A clip art butterfly perched on the page. Miranda’s flyer. It must have gone through the wash. She slid it under the napkin on her plate for the waitress to take away. They’d throw it out.
An opportunity to make a difference, and I toss it in the garbage.
Sara covered the folded pink edges with her napkin to hide the paper. She pushed the plate aside and called Peter. It rang three times before he answered. “Pete, I need backup.”
“Your mom again?” he asked.
“What else?” Sara picked at the cloth napkin. “I’m at Porcini’s, come quick?”
“I’ll be there in ten. Save me some cake.”
Peter slid into her mother’s chair, brandishing a fork. “I told you to leave some for me,” he said, stabbing the cake and mercilessly scooping up the last bite. He chewed slowly, rolling his eyes in mock ecstasy and groaning.
“If you do a full-on Sally, I’m leaving,” said Sara. Peter could reenact the famous diner scene from When Harry Met Sally on cue, especially if he thought it would make her laugh.
“Come on, Sara,” Peter said, mumbling through cake. He swallowed. “I kill that scene.”
“There are children here,” Sara said, nonplussed. “But take me to Joe’s, and I’ll wander with you.” She needed to be in a happy place. A place with no pressure. She was still reeling from the fight with her mother but refused to show it. Not here. Not now. It would mean her mother might be right. Maybe she should give up her artwork. Make it a hobby. Sara wasn’t about to explore any of that. She stuffed it away.
Peter was on his feet in an instant, keys in hand. “What are we waiting for?”
Joe Heye’s was an antique store, six stories of Victorian madness where merry-go-round animals and life-size tin soldiers guarded vintage cupolas and gazebos. Wrought-iron ladies danced next to fanciful fountains, all just inside a tall fenced courtyard.
When you actually entered the building, time stood still.
Joe’s was sacred space.
Several peacock-feathered headdresses from Vegas showgirl costumes lazed underneath a crystal chandelier. A flint arrowhead mounted in silver bore an intriguing label—Thunderstone. Sara barely saw them. She was in no mood for elegance today. She needed to be where the history was.
Remn
ants of other lives, fully lived, made Sara’s problems seem manageable. Every object told a story, some hinted at heartbreak, like a torn and stained Victorian wedding dress. Some spoke of hope.
Sara grabbed Peter’s hand and crossed the creaky wood floors. She took a right, then veered left down a ramp lined with life-sized carousel horses. Sara liked to linger and talk to each one. But today, she just wanted to lose herself in the otherworld depths of Joe’s basement.
Sara didn’t need to speak. She communed with the piles.
Peter didn’t let go of her hand when they got to the bottom of the ramp. He laced his fingers through hers and walked with her. He waited. They meandered.
When Sara did talk, it was easier in the dim coolness. “It was bad this time.”
Peter stopped. He leaned against a table, facing her and grabbed her other hand. He began swinging both gently in a calming rhythm. “I’m here.”
Sara sighed, feeling tension seep out of her. “I told Mom that she never listened. I told her that she was lucky that she could tell the two of us apart. I told her that it was her fault, Dad’s fault...”
And the tears started.
Peter pulled her into a bear hug. Sara relaxed and wept. She cried for Marilla, for herself, for her father, for the look on her mom’s face, and for the chasm between them all.
Peter smoothed her hair, and when she snuffled, supplied a neatly pressed handkerchief. She accepted it, blowing her nose and pushing away from him. He was too close. “You must think I’m a mess. I should be over this by now.”
“Bah,” scoffed Peter, grabbing her chin and turning her face to look up at him. He looked her over, eyes twinkling. “I like you with your nose red and blotchy.” He leaned in and planted a peck on it. “You’re cute. Besides, if you weren’t around, who would I impress with my handkerchiefs?”
Maybe it was the way Peter’s hair flopped down in his eyes. Maybe it was that she felt so alone. Sara very much wanted to kiss Peter. She couldn’t deny it, no matter how it scared her. Peter was more than her best friend. Sara felt herself moving forward. His eyes were so kind, and when he looked at her that way...