by Jill M Beene
“My name is Shale,” the leader finally said, when the line was gone.
Samiris was surprised to see tears in his eyes, too.
“You will always have friends here,” he said, looking at each one of them in turn. “Even if you never come back, no one will forget this night.”
Samiris hopped down from her seat on the wagon. There was no danger here anymore.
“Shale,” she said. “We will be back. Maybe in three days, maybe in four. We need as many empty jars and bags back as possible, so we can refill them.”
The man nodded, gravely. “I will do my best to have them ready for you.”
“Those pens,” Samiris said, nodding toward the empty rings of earth with tattered fences. “What were they for?”
“We had a sow, once, but it died. We had three chickens, but not enough food to feed them.” He looked ashamed, his thin shoulders hunched.
“I will send someone to repair your pens,” she said, gripping his arm hard to bring him to rights. “And build a rabbit hutch, if you don’t have one. We’ll fill whatever pens you build, but you’ll have to feed the animals with remnants. I’ll leave that to you to organize.”
“Yes, my lady,” Shale said. “Thank you, my lady.”
Samiris drew back as if she had burned her hand on a stove. “How did you know?”
“Your hands, my lady,” Shale murmured. “Your Chosen ring. No one else saw.”
Samiris nodded, mentally chastising herself. She would need to wear gloves when she returned. “Tell no one. Secrecy is very important. If I am found out, we cannot return.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The following weeks passed in a flurry of activity. Samiris gave up even a pretense of participating in the Chosen activities, though the master of ceremonies kept delivering the schedules to her room. She resumed old habits; up at dawn, working until the low laments of her stomach forced her to stop, then a quick bath and pitching headlong into bed every night. It was the rhythm of life she had lived in Faro. Samiris was pleased to find the same drumbeat fit in Teymara, as well.
Samiris hadn’t worn a dress since Artem had confiscated her breeches, and she no longer felt a thrill of uncertain guilt in her stomach when she dressed. On the rare times she saw someone in the halls, they didn’t seem shocked at her appearance, either. She was becoming a fixture in the palace, if a fairly silent and absent one.
Lord Kinsley had gone back to his family’s estate in Brizelle, but he sent her messages almost daily. Sometimes they were long, rambling letters about how much he hated it there, how much his parents irritated him and how he longed to return the favor. Sometimes, the notes were no more than a dirty joke scrawled hastily onto the parchment.
Samiris didn’t mind; she found it kind that he remembered to write at all, and even the jokes were endearing, in a shockingly funny kind of way. Kinsley’s last note reminded Samiris that they were to attend the Opening Ball together in a few days’ time. Samiris frowned down at the parchment. She had forgotten about the ball, and wondered if Kinsley would be upset with her if she refused to go. It seemed unnecessary now that she had bowed out from the Chosen activities.
Letters arrived from Faro, too...small, stale sips of a life from which she had once drank freely. Samiris missed her father and sister, but was glad to hear that they were in good spirits. Tamrah mentioned more than once that Kalan remained in their life, coming over to help in the gardens, checking if they needed anything. Samiris winced every time he was mentioned. She had not yet summoned the courage to write him a letter of apology.
Samiris was in the garden more than anyone else, as except for Refus, they all had other duties. Refus was the very strong, very silent type. He worked doggedly if not quickly, smiled at Samiris whenever she smiled at him, and seemed to enjoy the new bustle and the company of the new faces in his garden. But it was Samiris who was there for every midnight delivery, checking off another name from the list of family members that the servants had given her.
Behemoth had taken to following her into the gardens from her route past the stables every morning, whuffling her hair impatiently as he walked beside her. Samiris found that when bribed with apples, Bemee became willing to do tricks. The massive horse usually wandered back out to the stables sometime before breakfast and trotted back to the garden once the sun was down. Samiris shook her head in amazement at him. He was a smart horse; he knew his master’s schedule.
They had made several more trips to the Sands, each time delivering large parcels of food. The last time, they transported crates of live rabbits and chickens, too. Samiris had kept Bernard and his red-headed sons busy, tasking him with the rebuilding and improvement of the village. A greenhouse had been constructed, a council of elders elected, and jobs created to tend the animals, fish the river, and work the raised-box garden that would be planted soon.
Shale had been elected as head elder, and he was still the only representative that spoke with Samiris. He brought requests, things that Samiris had not thought of or could not know. It was Shale who brought the request of the women of the village for a loom and thread, for perhaps a sheep and spinning wheel, for a proper oven to be built.
There were talents in this village, talents that had been neglected in deference of finding food. But the inhabitants were quickly moving from sustenance to finding ways to earn their own living. Samiris vacillated between irrational feelings of pride to deep, heartbreaking humility that she had been part of the transformation.
It was Samiris’ goal to get the Sands to be self-sufficient by the time she left the Chosen, which she thought would be any day now. The Crown Prince had sent several other ladies home, but Samiris thought it was an oversight, that he had just forgotten her. She didn’t think her luck would hold if she went to the Opening Ball and danced the first dance with Lord Kinsley.
One evening, nearly a month after she had started working in the garden, Samiris came back to her chambers to find Aster waiting for her with a letter.
“It’s from Captain Trego,” Aster said. “He requests the pleasure of your company on a horse ride tomorrow.”
Samiris’ brow furrowed. “Did he actually write that? The pleasure of my company?”
“Not exactly,” Aster said, handing over the note.
Samiris,
I’m riding down to the Sands tomorrow and wondered if you wanted to see those improvements up close. Be ready to leave at ten.
-Artem
“That’s more like the Artem I know,” Samiris said.
Samiris tapped the folded note against her bottom lip, thinking. She had already seen the improvements to the Sands. In fact, she had seen the new dock that was under construction only last night.
“It would be nice to see the Sands by the light of day,” she said.
“And it might be nice to see what Captain Trego thinks of the improvements.” Aster smiled at her, her eyes wide and innocent. Except Samiris knew better.
“That too,” Samiris said, airily. “Plus, if I refused, it would look suspicious. I don’t want him wondering if I’ve already been down to the Sands to see.”
“Precisely,” Aster said, winking.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The next morning was cool. Fall was elbowing out the last vestiges of summer. Samiris wore a trim-fitting navy riding jacket over butter-soft grey velvet trousers. The coat buttoned up one side of her chest, the jaunty collar cutting across from buttons to her opposite shoulder in an artistic fold. Samiris saw Artem raise his eyebrows at her appearance when she arrived in the stables, but he said nothing.
Gia didn’t grumble that Samiris didn’t wear dresses, but she was determined that even Samiris’ work clothes be impeccably tailored.
“Just because you don’t wear dresses during the day doesn’t mean you have to look like a man,” Gia would say.
Samiris’ wardr
obe now overflowed with embroidered tunics that nipped in at the waist or tied with a jaunty bow at the side. Her trousers were close-fitting to the ankle in every shade of velvet, from eggplant purple to sunset pink. Samiris didn’t have the heart to tell Gia that velvet would be ruined in the muck of the garden. Her seamstress didn’t seem to care; she was always making something new.
While Artem was fetching his saddle, Behemoth nudged Samiris’ shoulder with his soft muzzle, sniffing and snorting at her pockets with the impatience of a spoiled pet.
“I don’t have any treats for you right now, Bemee,” she murmured, scratching the side of his head softly.
The horse lowered and angled his massive head so her hand hit the back of his right ear, his favorite spot to be scratched. He gave a damp huff, content for a second, then bumped her again with his head, sniffing at her jacket.
“I don’t have any apples on me, you big galoot,” she murmured, giving his nose a gentle push. “So you can stop that right now.”
Artem waited until Samiris was atop a horse, the castle gate closed firmly behind them. Only then did he start with his questions, and only then did Samiris realize that his seemingly benign offer of a trip to see the progress in the Sands up close might actually be a cunning trap.
“Where have you been, the last few weeks?” Artem asked, guiding Behemoth down a wide, tree-lined street.
The air was thick with the bustle, sounds and smells of morning: hawkers crying about fresh fruit, fresh bread, fresh fish, above the accompanying smell of their advertised wares. Servants darted to and fro, most carrying large baskets back from market, some pushing hand carts or leading donkeys. A group of nobles nodded deferentially to Artem as they passed. Samiris noticed that the eyes of the ladies followed Artem long after the men had turned away.
“I’ve been busy,” Samiris said.
“You haven’t been attending the Chosen events.”
“No,” she said lightly. “I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
His sharp green eyes were narrowed in her direction. Samiris knew his gaze missed nothing, and she had his full attention. She needed to tread carefully with her mannerisms, her answers. Her heart pounded with the secret of the kitchen garden. She imagined that this was how mothers must feel about newborns: at once feeling fiercely protective but also so proud that they wanted to shout from the rooftops.
“I don’t really see the point. Fitzhumphrey and I aren’t going to fall in love. Or more importantly, I am not going to fall in love with him.”
“Not even after what he did for Cyra?”
Samiris sighed. “I admit that he has more positive qualities than I first realized. I could be his friend, in time.”
It was a huge concession, the crossing of a gaping chasm from where her emotions had originally been.
“Friendship would be a wonderful start,” Artem said, flicking his reins back and forth, idly. “True love usually begins with friendship. But you won’t get the chance to find out if you could love him if you never see him.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Samiris said, purposely avoiding eye contact.
She looked at the clean-swept cobblestones, the gold-tipped leaves on the trees, just starting to turn, the stately manor houses safely ensconced in tidy shrubbery...anywhere but his eyes, which saw too much.
“So let me set up a time for you two to get together, get to know one another.” Artem’s voice was gentle, pleading, a tone she’d never heard from him before.
Samiris’ eyes snapped to his, and the expression she saw there was open, honest, completely in line with his words.
“I can’t,” she said quickly, before that open gaze softened her resolve. “The Chosen events...”
“They may seem silly to you, but they are designed to help you get to know Fitzhumphrey in a more casual setting.”
“Casual!” Samiris sat stick straight in her saddle. “You can’t be serious. Dinners at a table the length of an archery lane? Poetry recitals where we can’t even speak? Color-themed teas that last for three hours?”
Artem grimaced.
“Three hours of tea, Artem! You should never host an event centered around drinking liquid for three hours. It’s insanity! Everyone’s squirming in their seat by the time it’s finished. And no one can just go use the facilities because those crazy dresses have so many hades-damned layers it takes a half an hour and a maid just to be able to go!”
Artem winced again. “Then perhaps I can schedule something more private, just the two of you?”
Samiris fixed him with an angry stare. “Why are you so determined that I get to know him?”
“Because you haven’t even tried. And if you followed the rules, went to the Chosen events, you would have more time with him and might fall in love with him!”
“Ah, you said it. That’s your real problem with me, isn’t it? I won’t follow all your precious rules. Well, Captain Trego, I wouldn’t have such a problem with all your rules if they weren’t all antiquated and stupid!”
“I’m just trying to protect your reputation from further damage. You may not like it, but there is a code of acceptable behavior for ladies, and you are breaking it. If you just went along with things, people would accept you more. Things would be easier for you, socially. You could fit in.”
“I don’t want to fit in with those people, Artem. I’m not like them. I never will be. And if following the stupid rules will make them like me, than I’m glad I’m not following the stupid rules!”
“You are the most infuriating person I have ever met in my life!” Artem threw his hands up. “Can you please, for once, go where you are supposed to go, wear what you are supposed to wear, be pleasant, and not argue?!”
Samiris frowned and her eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath. “No. I don’t think I can.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. If you don’t like it, have the Crown Prince send me home.”
“And give you the satisfaction of getting what you want?” Atem raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. You will behave.”
“Or what?” Samiris’ cheeks flushed with anger. “I don’t want to be one of the Chosen. We both know I’m not going to fall in love with Fitzhumphrey. So why, why is it important I follow the rules?”
Artem gritted his teeth and did not answer.
But for the first time since she had arrived, Samiris felt a genuine pang of regret at the thought of going home. She finally had a purpose. She was doing something. And if she went home now... well, the others would continue without her. But Samiris wouldn’t get to see the changes first hand. It would be the difference between participating in something versus reading it in a letter. And she wanted it, she realized. She wanted to be the one in control, making changes for once.
They rode out of the city and into the Sands in silence. Samiris thought that like her, Artem might regret having lost his temper. But they were both too stubborn to be the first to apologize.
As they made their way down the freshly-graveled road, people stopped what they were doing to grin and wave. Some of them even clapped and cheered. For a moment, Samiris was frightened. How did they know it was her?
“They’re a bit friendly down here, aren’t they?” Artem said, his black eyebrows raised.
“Er, yes,” Samiris said. “I suppose they are.”
Behemoth seemed to feed on the attention, picking his feet up extra high and slamming them down again in an exaggerated trot.
“This isn’t a victory parade, you moron,” Artem said, yanking on the reigns.
A roughened man pushed through the crowd, pressing his lips to Artem’s shiny boot fervently. “Bless you, Your Grace. Bless you.”
“Why, thank you,” Artem stammered, his thick eyebrows drawn together like two birds flying in tandem.
Behemoth, Samiris thought, instantly. We come at night and try to cover our faces, but Behemoth is distinctive, easy to recognize. They think Artem is their anonymous benefactor.
Samiris turned her head away quickly, hiding her grin behind a hand. But not fast enough.
“What’s so funny?” Artem asked. “Do you know why these people are acting like this?”
“I imagine they are just in awe of the royal insignia on your cape,” she said, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.
Artem scowled, but when he thought she wasn’t looking, he flipped the edge of his cape under itself to hide the royal seal.
“What have you been doing with all your time then, anyways?” Artem said.
Samiris was caught off guard. She was too busy admiring the half-finished dock, the new hen house and the rabbit hutch to prepare herself for continued interrogation.
“Nothing,” she said, too quickly, and looked toward the first new house that had been built.
“Nothing?” Artem repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Nothing sure is taking up a lot of your time.” He paused thoughtfully, then said, “Is Lord Kinsley in the capital?”
“He’s at his family’s estate in Brizelle. He’ll be back before the Opening ball.” Her eyes took in the stilt foundation that would protect the home during floods.
“I’ll find out how you’re spending your time, one way or another,” he said.
Samiris laughed, tried hard to act casual. “You make it sound so mysterious, when really it’s quite boring. I’m reading a lot,” she said, which wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie. She had recently read many new canning recipes and instructions for how to preserve dried rabbit meat. “Walking in the gardens, riding horses, you know...normal things.”