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“Say no more. I’m sure we’ll all know by tomorrow. Come, no more talk of this seriousness.” Pulling her into a skip, I laughed when she groaned. “I think I shall wear that pale blue gown Mother commissioned for me last spring.”
“The one you said made you look like a ‘bird with child’?”
“The very same!”
Chapter 3
Sierra
Later that evening, Mother and I waited in the drawing room, as was custom after dinner, while Father took his evening stroll, smoking his pipe and admiring the grounds. Mother loved my father dearly, but the smoke from his pipe was something she could never stomach, even after twenty-five years of marriage.
While we waited for his return, she took up her needlepoint. She had seemed out of sorts throughout dinner—her head down, fork trailing over the food softly and rarely making a dent in it before the plate was taken away by Cook. Father had also been unusually quiet, only speaking briefly of trivial things when the silence dragged on too long.
Something was afoot.
Rather than inquiring about what the matter was, which I knew good and well they’d answer that all was fine, I recited a few pieces of poetry Lucinda had made me memorize the evening before. How Mother knew I wasn’t making up the words to Ode to Rose and Thorn was beyond me. Somehow, I couldn’t picture my mother ever reading anything, let alone learning a poem by a dead poet who had been beheaded a century ago for loving a man. That fact wasn’t well known, and if it had been, I was certain the poetry of Saint John would disappear.
Even though my schooling had finished at the start of summer, I was still charged with continuing my education in how to be the perfect, affluent wife. Etiquette, music and poetry, and hostess skills had to be practiced each day. The philosophies, geography, and history were, thankfully, my father’s influence, one which he encouraged in me. Reading and learning new things didn’t bother me whatsoever. But needlepoint and menu planning? It was the reasoning behind those tasks that irked me.
Poor Lucinda persevered, however, determined to make a high-society woman out of me or at least tame my wildness. More often than not, though, I spent more time changing out of muddy, grass-stained dresses than I did in the schoolroom.
When I was finished with the poem, I waited for Mother to nod her approval. I stood before her in my blue gown that, indeed, resembled that of a pregnant bird—if such things were possible. The dress, with sleeves of light blue silk, had no sash at the waist, nor any adornment but feathers that tried in vain to lie flat but were sorely lacking in their efforts. But it pleased my mother to see me in it, and the wobbly smile that had lit up her face when I came down the stairs for dinner had been worth every moment of torment I felt when I happened to pass by a mirror.
She stabbed a needle of golden yarn into the gray canvas she was holding, shaking her head. “Poor Saint John. Why would he do something so foolish and get himself killed like that, hmm?”
Confused, I only stared at her. “Pardon?”
Her hand waved in the air as she pulled the thread, the needle looking alive as it reflected light from the nearby candle. “Very good, darling. You did well. You may sit.” She patted the spot on the settee next to her. “The poet of that mournful lament. Killed for love, such a tragedy.”
I bit my cheek to keep my mouth from gaping. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation, but curious, I asked, “But he was in love. Is love not worth dying for, Mother?”
“I would bet my rose garden that it was more insanity twas to blame.” Mother knotted the length of thread and clipped the hanging strand with her small gold scissors.
“I find it romantic,” I said. “Defying society like that? Such conviction is rare.” I sat down beside her and picked at a feather that had unfurled near the hem of my dress, the vein bent and sharp.
“Ah. Of course you find it romantic. You are young and idealistic,” my mother replied with a hint of sympathy. “But there is more to love than losing one’s life for the chance, child.”
I shook my head. “They never say what happened to his love interest. What became of him?”
My mother looked at me curiously. “What, his lover?”
I nodded, mentally encouraging her to keep talking. This side of her was way too intriguing to ignore—my mother was more of the “simple pleasures” type. And lover?
She let out a melancholic sigh. “Sadly, he was taken by some warrior tribe and never seen again.” Picking up her work once more, she let out a laugh. “If the stories can be believed, of course.”
Mother wasn’t one for stories. It was Father and I who collected them like precious gems. He held them close to his heart. He for his love of history, me for my love of escape and more food for my imagination.
My favorite stories were about the gods of long ago, the myths and legends of Altrasius, Tom the Merchant of the East, and the Woodsman. Oddly enough, all my favorites were about heroic men. Which made sense, women not commonly known as heroes. In old tales, women were tricksters at best, sniffling maidens awaiting rescue at worst.
Lost in thought, I missed Father’s entrance and hadn’t noticed him until he sat down before us by the fire.
My father was a good man. Strong in heart, patience, and mirth. Like most Constants, he wasn’t a fighter, nor a warrior. Not that we needed those traits in our leaders, not since the Clan Wars over fifty years ago. With hair the color of the sand on Basil Beach, and eyes that were deep and soulful like chestnuts, Constant Linden was still a catch—young, fit, and full of wit.
My mother was the epitome of grace and fashionable society. Tall and beautiful with elegant limbs and bright eyes that resembled water drops on blue petals. Her auburn hair a waterfall of flame that fell down her back when she readied herself for bed at her vanity. I used to love to brush it when I was a girl. Such glorious hair.
I was still deep in thought, re-playing in my mind my mother’s voice saying “lover,” when my father cleared his throat.
“My dear, your mother and I have something we need to discuss before our guest arrives.” Father’s hands rested lightly on the arms of his chair, but I saw the tension in his fingers, the tightening of his knuckles. His face gave nothing away, however.
