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My boots stomped through the puddle anyway. “You know how I am with animals, Lucinda. I cannot help myself.”
I waved to Shawney as we passed by her garden. The old woman gave me a toothless grin and raised her cane in farewell. She was far too old to be picking beans. I made a mental note to speak with her lazy grandson, Lorn.
Lucinda tsked. “Those lambskins are full of fleas and teeth. One day you’re going to bitten!”
“What time is it?” I asked, ignoring the same old lecture, as we made our way down the lane that led to Gunter’s Trading post.
“I will not answer until you tell me why you were not where you said you would be. You’ve been gone for hours!”
That was true. After lunch, Lucinda had caught me running out the door as I called out that I had an errand to run, something made up, involving a new delivery of hair ribbons—any mention of fashion was always a safe bet when it came to Mother and my watcher. Obviously, Lucinda hadn’t found me where I was supposed to be.
“I am sorry, Watcher. I got diverted. Not every day do I see lambskins this time of year.”
She sniffed. “Well, you’re forgiven, I guess. Now to answer your question, we’ve an hour, at least, until dinner, barely enough time for this.” She waved her hand at my disheveled state.
I rubbed her arm. “Oh, don’t be a boot, dear Lucinda. As soon as we get home, I’ll wash up and quickly change into something clean and pretty, and no one will be the wiser.”
Sighing, she patted my hand. “And your hair? Do I have hours to tame that wild mane, days to spend teasing out the spurs and leaves and clover?”
I laughed. “Nothing that a brush and a braid won’t fix, dearest watcher.” I touched the blonde tresses in question. It was true; it was always the first tell that spoke of my morning and afternoon jaunts into places not suitable for a young woman, especially not the Constant’s daughter.
We passed a few villagers on the way, their donkeys pulling carts of wares, firewood, and crops. It was a common sight now that autumn had set in. Weeks of preparing for the oncoming winter kept everyone busy. Food to harvest, jellies and vegetables to can and stock, firewood to chop, wool to store, and pelts to be treated.
Our county seat was built for work, quite used to hard labor. Providence wasn’t only a governing village but a farming one. What goods we didn’t trade or export in the summer months were shared among the population of almost two thousand. When the year’s first leaf fell from the Tree of Fire it was like a bell ringing amongst the county to work, work, work. For nothing could be done in the first snow, not until spring woke months later.
“Evening, Lady Sierra,” called Farmer Donsel, lifting his hat, his aged hand raised in hello.
“And you, sir! How are your prized hens?” I smiled brightly at the kind man, father to one of Mother’s maids.
“Ah, m’lady. Doing mighty fine. Their coop is ready for wintering! Come next spring, I’m hopin’ the next brood will do just as good as my other girls.” He bowed to Lucinda then. “Watcher. Have a good ‘un, ladies.”
Lucinda nodded his way. “Sir.” She directed us closer to the side of the path, letting the old man and his cart pass. Once it was clear again, we stepped back onto the dirt road.
“My lady,” she said, “please remember your place when in public. Just a nod will suffice.”
I knew how much she disapproved of my conversing with the “lower” caste of society. But it wasn’t in my nature to not treat everyone as equals, regardless of my status in life. I failed to understand how people couldn’t see we were all the same, each individual like one petal on a massive flower. Nature was blind—it had no favorites.
Lucinda and I walked on in silence. After a while, I looked at her, noticing the pinched look about her face and how she kept biting her bottom lip. Normally she’d be lecturing me all the way home about the merits of decorum and gentility. Something was on her mind.
As if sensing my stare, she looked at me, and her eyes widened.
“What?” she asked, sounding irritable.
Grinning, I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’m not sure. You are working on something quite hard in that head of yours, Lucinda. I can see you chewing away at it like a chipmunk.” I turned away from her and looked ahead as we rose up the hill.
The air was crisp, the sky a bit downcast, promising rain tonight. I took in the freshness and closed my eyes for a second, swallowing up the moment. A sense of loss waited on the outskirts of my mind. Whatever it was Lucinda was about to tell me, I had a feeling that I’d remember this moment forever.
“The post came with news,” she mumbled.
“And?”
“Your father is expecting a guest come the morn.”
“And?”
Lucinda stopped suddenly, causing me to jerk back mid-step. “Sorry, Miss.” She frowned and lowered her head as I righted myself.
What on Titus was wrong? What news could make her this bothered?
