by Jean Winter
“Take a break, 'Na Lyra—”
Lyra jumped at J'Kor's voice right behind her.
“—and come inside for midmeal,” he finished, a wary eye on her. Under his fingernails, tinges of blood still showed.
“Yes, my lord,” Lyra replied with a swift curtsy. Following him inside, however, she maintained a comfortable distance.
At the kitchen sink, J'Kor performed a thorough washing of his hands and fingernails and Lyra ventured, “What would you like me to prepare for you, my lord?”
“How about you surprise me again? You appear to be good at that.” The cutting tone was evident, but Lyra swallowed the jab.
“Very well, my lord. I will see what I can do.” Lyra took her turn washing away crusted garden soil. The weight of his gaze was crushing, but her inner composure held up well—until J'Kor took a rag to wet in the running water right over Lyra's hands.
“Your face is dirty,” he said gruffly as he wrung it out over the sink. He turned her face to him and started dabbing.
“I-I'm sorry, my lord.”
“And you are sweaty.”
The rag slid slowly down the bridge of her nose. Lyra apologized again, softer this time. She wondered how many more times she would apologizing before … before this was all over. “Thank you, my lord.”
When he finally finished, Lyra quickly curtsied and ducked past him to the electric ice box. She had noticed a package of giefish in there, and a nice, spiced mash for spreading on biscuits might work well today. It was Jon's favorite lunch.
J'Kor went to his armchair for reading while he waited, but he didn't look like he was enjoying his book much. The set frown was like concrete. Lyra worked faster.
Her recipe had to be modified. She hadn't found any understem among J'Kor's spices, but after opening a few jars for some experimental tasting, Lyra found an acceptable substitute. The spread got finished, Lyra peeled some fruit, the biscuits came out steaming and nicely browned, and Lyra set the table for one.
“It's ready, my lord.”
When he was seated, Lyra curtsied and returned to the sink to clean up.
“Are you no' hungry, 'Na Lyra?” J'Kor grunted.
Lyra stared at her dirty pan in the dishwater. “Well, I … I didn't know when—”
His water glass clunked hard on the table. His chair scraped shrilly on the floor and J'Kor was suddenly on his feet, a stiff finger pointed at the seat across from him. “Put that pan down and come sit over here!” Lyra obeyed. Then he was striding to the cabinet and retrieving another plate and cup, muttering, “Blast it all, woman.” A new place setting was arranged in front of her. Razor sharp eyes regarded her as he sat again, folding his arms across his chest. “Did you eat anything this morning?”
Lyra quietly shook her head.
With a great sigh, J'Kor placed three biscuits and two heaping spoonfuls of cut fruit on her plate. “Stop walking on eggshells and eat! You are on the skinny side as it is,” he said, also shoving the bowl of fish spread closer. “Women are such bloody martyrs.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lyra whispered and, to her growling stomach's relief, took a bite of fruit. J'Kor got up once more to fetch her some water.
Despite her hunger, it was hard to swallow with those intense gray eyes watching her every move, but eventually J'Kor grew comfortable enough with her progress to go back to his own meal. When he spoke again, his tone had lost some of its sharpness. “I do no' expect you to work yourself to death. You are to eat when you are hungry and be presentable at the end o' day. Is that clear?”
“Understood, my lord.” That definitely meant a bath this evening.
“By the way,” he added, “I see you will require a better fitting wardrobe. I figured as much. I can take you shopping next week.”
So he hadn't wired his lawyer for sure!
Lyra offered, “Well, if I could spend some time with a sewing machine, I could alter what is already here and my lord would not need to spend any more money on me.” She remembered Mejhisk's accidental revelation about J'Kor's current state of finances thanks to her.
“Oh. You can do that?” He was trying not to sound impressed, or relieved, and Lyra allowed herself to relax the tiniest of degrees.
“Well, it is no great talent of mine,” (that was her sister, D'nae), “but these kinds of alterations are quite simple, really. Mostly, I just need to make everything shorter.” Lyra gave a little smile. Neither of her parents had contributed much in the way of height genes. She had been quite doomed from conception.
J'Kor nodded. “I believe Sal has one. His Maryn does a little sewing.” He stood, apparently finished, and Lyra quickly made to take his place setting, but J'Kor beat her to it. “You sit and eat,” he reminded shortly. “I can certainly carry my own bloody dishes to the sink.”
The sharp clang of plate hitting counter top said he remembered he was still angry with her.
“Yes, my lord.”
J'Kor retrieved his gloves to return outside, but paused at the door. “I was planning to take you to Sal's for a visit soon, anyway,” he grumbled, “so you could meet 'Na Maryn. I … thought perhaps you two could become friends.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, my lord,” Lyra said, though she harbored no great hope that she and the dandy Lord Mejhisk's bubbly and gay khari'na would find much in common—aside from the obvious.
The door was opened. “Oh, and do you know how to do anything with mutton?”
“Why, yes, my lord. I grew up with sheep.”
“Good. There is a root cellar that way.” J'Kor pointed out front of the house and to the right. “When you are ready, you can go find a fresh cut in there. I prefer to dine around seventeen 'o.”
He finally left and Lyra sighed, So far, so good. I guess. She didn't let herself dwell on the rabbit incident further. It was probably nothing, anyway. Instead, she finished her meal, cleaned up with adroit efficiency, and was soon back outside following J'Kor's direction.
The root cellar had been constructed beneath the densely leaved branches of an enormous shade tree. It looked decades old, but appeared to be well maintained. Dry. Cold. Cleanly swept. Its ceiling about three feet below ground level. Stacked crates of stored fruits and vegetables lined the floor below a table against a side wall. A large elevated case with four deep shelves essentially making up the back wall held a good variety of salted and smoked meats.
Lyra located a nicely marbled leg of lamb along with a few plump horntubers from one of the crates and hauled it all back into the house. Then she was back outside to collect more wood for the lengthy roasting time this was going to require.
Within the shade of the open barn across the way, J'Kor sat astride a three-legged stool tinkering with some tools. He stopped when he saw her and Lyra responded with an automatic bend of the knee. Then she hastily gathered up her armload and ordered herself to walk back into the house—not run—from the scrutiny of that agonizingly tangible gaze that was like a second skin of which she had not the liberty to remove. Ugh! Stop staring at me like that!
Inside, Lyra had to literally shake off the sensation.
Between preparing a nice dinner and cleaning more of J'Kor's home (the bathroom, especially, needed a good blessing), the next several hours passed rather quickly. The horizon outside was turning purplish when Lyra finally sat back on her heels and tossed the cleaning rag into the suds bucket for the last time. Done! A meticulous detail of the corners and baseboards of the great room after mopping had taken an hour, but she remembered him saying something about liking clean floors at the end of the day, and the result was worth it—she hoped.
She was adding more fuel to the oven for the roast when J'Kor finally strode in—serious and brooding as ever. “How much time, 'Na Lyra, before dinner is ready?”
“About forty minutes, my lord, just as you ordered.” Lyra swept over with a glass of water she'd had chilling in the ice box for him.
With a slightly surprised thank you, he drained it quickly
then handed it back so he could sit on the small bench by the front door to remove his muddy work boots. Lyra checked the progress of her yeast rolls rising under a towel and a secret smile passed over her features as she noticed J'Kor glancing around at all the cleaning she had done. She caught his little pause to breathe in the perfume of dinner on his way to the bathroom, too.
The sounds of a shower commenced and a little while later he emerged. Lyra didn't dare look up to see what he may or may not be wearing as he passed near, going to the bedroom. The fresh scent of his cologne trail was disturbing enough.
Lyra had two place settings ready at the table this time, but J'Kor chose not to stay. Instead, he filled his plate to a dangerously heaping level and took it to his armchair where he turned on his large radio wave receiver and settled in to steady play-by-play commentary of a disc game currently in progress. Lyra remained quietly at the table to pick at her food.
Would he take her tonight? What would be his mood if he did? Harsh? Forceful? If she was lucky, he would relax as things progressed and perhaps even be on the gentle side as previously promised. But would that really make it any better? Taken by force by a man she hardly knew? By a man who thought it was his right, and might be involved in even darker things than embracing the corrupt ethics and morals of the enemy nation? Once again, Lyra shoved today's rabbit incident from her mind.
At a lull in the game, J'Kor approached with his empty plate. “You will find a bottle o' bath crystals in the lavatory,” he said briskly, placing his dinnerware in the sink. “Ahna always liked them, at least. You can go wash up when you are done here.” Heading back to his chair, he added over his shoulder, “And see if you can scrub off the last o' that rayblock junk o' yours. I can still smell it.”
“Yes, my lord.” So much for curing a man's grumpiness with food.
Yet later, when Lyra did slip into the hot, beautifully scented bath water, she breathed out in unexpected ecstasy. The blue crystal salts had surprised her by bubbling up with the added water and with a bubble-filled palm she was soon blowing playfully at the frothy mass. Some of it spattered against the wall, some hung suspended in mid-air for a moment before drifting back down. With a smile, Lyra sank deeper into the water.
The game still continued on the electronic voicebox. Lyra could hear it faintly through the door as she soaked and hid out. Disc was, apparently, the Caldreen'n national pastime. It sounded like thousands of fans were cheering in the background behind the sports host and she wondered if this one was being played in the Coliseum—same as the auction yesterday.
Lyra had thrown a few of the one pound, dinner plate-sized scoring discs in her time. Many of her settlement regularly organized teams for playing—a much safer version, of course, than the Caldreen'n original. Her people didn't need to worry about dodging sharp-edged, spinning metal aimed at heads and bodies as a tactic to take opponents out of play.
Indeed, the only real concern was moving the set of flying, blunted discs as quickly as possible across the obstacle-strewn field to the opposite goal through throwing only, while at the same time guarding one's own basket goal into which all three discs must eventually be thrown. Now, that didn't mean that players didn't still get injured from time to time. It was a learned skill to mentally manage the location and trajectory of six discs simultaneously jetting across the field. Then there was the risk of being tackled when making a catch …
Lyra giggled softly at the memory of how intense Jon would get. He was a notorious full-body tackler. That special “skill” lent towards defense and as such, he never scored much, but it hardly mattered. Jon loved the friendly, rough-and-tumble competition with friends. Lyra just made sure her medical kit was fully stocked and handy before every game for the many scrapes and cuts he—and son, Rorn—so enthusiastically received. Rorn was becoming nearly as bad as his father.
A few dunks under the water rinsed Lyra's head and when she came up, her smile still held. She would never understand the lure of full contact sports that appealed to so many men—
The house had gone quiet.
A light rap sounded at the door and the knob began to turn.
What? Here? NOW?
CHAPTER 2
Folded clothing led the way as J'Kor entered.
He placed the stack next to the sink. “This ought to be more comfortable for sleeping tonight,” he said, hardly glancing at her, though Lyra still sank a little deeper into the waning suds.
“Oh, uh, thank you, my lord.”
Then he left, just as quickly as he'd come.
Wow, was that—was he gentlemanly, just now? It was a throwback to last night's thoughtfulness—before everything fell apart.
Lyra frowned. Now what was going on in that big, scheming, crabby … suntanned, honey dappled, dreamy-eyed head of his? (Sigh.)
The mid-thigh length, pink silk chemise fit just fine, as did the long, ladies' robe he'd brought. Lyra brushed out her hair before the mirror and suddenly had a startling realization. She had gotten through a complete memory of her husband, and even one of her children, without crying! Would today, oddly enough, be the first day where she would make it through its entirety without crying once?
Lyra waited a moment for a possible delayed reaction. Still no tears.
Well, all right, then.
Squaring her shoulders, she stared hard at herself in the mirror. “Okay, Lyra girl. No more tears. No more panicking. And even if, after all the work you've put in today, he still wants what you think he wants, you can handle it. You can solidify your place here.” Then with folded frock and underclothes under one arm, and one more glance in the mirror to make sure her game face was still on, Lyra wrenched opened the door.
J'Kor was back in his chair with a book. He'd rekindled the fire and had small reading glasses perched atop his nose.
“Is there anything else you have need of me today, my lord?”
Oh, she was aware how loaded a question that was! He knew it, too. She could see him thinking carefully through his answer.
Sit on his lap. Speak some flirtatious thing in his ear. Please him. Thoughts began to flash through her brain. Step closer. Move, stupid! At least smile, for Heaven's sake!
The spectacles were removed, the book placed on the side table. J'Kor stood and looked down at her, reading her. “Your cooking was good,” he finally said quietly. Some fingers briefly touched the side of her jaw. Then he turned and sat again. “You may retire for the night, if you wish.”
Great relief fluttered dizzily behind Lyra's eyes, but …
“Are, are you sure, my lord?” Lyra shifted, feeling excruciatingly awkward, but J'Kor just picked up his book.
“You have put in a good, hard day's work,” he said. “I am sure you must be tired by now.” And as if to prove his authenticity, he replaced his reading glasses and found the page where he had left off.
Lyra eyed him warily. “Then, good moonrise to you, my lord.” She bent her knee and turned.
“Oh, 'Na Lyra?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You said earlier you grew up with sheep.”
“I did.”
“Are you as good wrangling them as you are cooking them?”
“What did you have in mind, my lord?” Lyra turned back a curious eye.
“Well, I had planned to relax indoors more this week—” Ah. The resentment was still alive and kicking.“—but, as it appears we will both be spending more time working, I thought you might help me get a head start on some spring inoculations tomorrow.”
“That would be no problem at all, my lord. I've been helping with things like that since I was ten.”
As Lyra finished getting ready for bed, she caught a brief glimpse of J'Kor out the cracked door, still in his chair. The book lay untouched on his lap, however, and he stared with brooding brow into the fire. In his fingers his favorite “magic” coin his father had given him flipped and rolled with fascinating precision between dexterous knuckles. He didn't look happy.
&
nbsp; As Lyra curled up under the smooth, linen covers, she knew it was quite possible he might change his mind out there. She wondered if it would be better to remain alert until he came in so as to avoid a possible rude awakening, rather than let her body give in to its fatigue.
Sleep won.
The awakening was rude, but not what Lyra feared. Ahskr's repeated, urgent barking in the distance coupled with a sudden shift of the mattress bounced her awake.
“Is something wrong?” she murmured, turning to J'Kor's bolt upright posture next to her, rigid and listening. Interspersed between barks were the faint, disturbed bleats of many sheep. He swore and sprang from the bed.
“Stay here,” he ordered, pulling on pants and yanking a tunic over his head.
Fear began to rise in her. “Is it a predator? A whorlock?”
“If only,” J'Kor muttered darkly as he dashed from the room.
Lyra remained semi-prone in apprehensive silence, her ears acutely attuned to Ahskr's barking and fierce growling that was only growing more intense. J'Kor's urgent strides rushed about the house for a minute until the front door was flung open and his boots bounded off the porch at a run. Then Ahskr suddenly gave a sharp, whining yelp—and went quiet.
The report of gunfire pierced the night air. The shouting of men's voices arose (Lyra couldn't tell how many) followed by more terrified bawling of the flock. Lyra threw off the covers, grabbed her robe, and flew to the railing of the front porch.
The night was dark under cover of more clouds. Lyra couldn't see a thing beyond the first line of pasture fencing. Then a few more shots rang out and a male voice screamed out in pain. Oh, Father in Heaven! Her knuckles turned white gripping the porch column as she waited.
A minute passed. The shouting began to sound farther away. The sheep grew calmer again and eventually, the spaces of dead quiet increased. Lyra willed the silhouette of J'Kor to appear striding back toward the house, well and whole.
Nothing.
Inky blackness.