and Oscar, the useless creature, refuses to eat them.”
“You could always dispose of them yourself.”
Valerian screwed her face up in disgust. “ ‘Tis bad enough to have them dropping on me as I sleep, the fat little things. I keep thinking one will fall into my hair, or crawl in my ear. I can smell it, too, whatever it is that died up there.”
“You are welcome to share my bed until they are gone. The canopy will keep you safe from the mortal threat of falling worms.” She tried to keep her face serious, a losing battle.
“You would not laugh if they were falling on your head. No thank you, I will face the beasts. You know I can never sleep that close to your snoring.”
“Rude girl.”
Valerian snorted, and her head disappeared, the end of her braid flipping up over the edge of the loft a half-second later. Theresa smiled, enjoying her niece’s company. Her own daughter Charmaine had always been serious and self-conscious, and unable to outgrow her embarrassment over her mother. Being an outsider had been too painful for her, and she had found relief only by rejecting her family and becoming a villager heart and soul. Theresa understood that, even as it hurt her.
She eased herself down into one of the chairs by the fire, quietly cherishing the mundane routines of the morning, and Valerian’s voice as she continued to chide Oscar for his fastidiousness.
“What type of scavenger are you, anyway? Will not eat worms. I have never heard of such a thing.”
How long had it taken her to discover that it was the small moments that made up a life, and not the big ones? Theresa’s mind wandered back to the days when she had moved in different social circles, and had encounters with men whose rank would put the baron to shame.
An image of herself flashed to mind, dancing with a young nobleman, in a room filled with silks and satins, and the heat of candles and bodies. It was strange to think how important appearances had been to her then. Strange, too, how all the passions from that time had faded into nothing. It was as if someone else had lived that life.
Valerian climbed down the ladder from the loft, enjoying the pressure of the smooth rungs on her bare arches. She was dressed in her oldest clothes, the skirts not even reaching her ankles, the waist having been let out several times. The edges of her bodice were frayed.
“Are you certain you do not want to come with me today?” she asked her aunt.
“Yes, my poor plants have been under Daniel’s care long enough. It is time I went and checked how many he has killed.”
“What would you have done, if the baron had not offered his greenhouses?”
“Asked, I suppose. Or perhaps kept using them anyway. I do not think he would have minded. We are lucky in the character of Nathaniel Warrington, you know.”
“I find it hard to be enthusiastic about the man.”
Theresa smiled. “That is because you are attracted to him.”
“I have always been impressed by your imagination, Aunt Theresa. You do say the most ridiculous things.”
“Not imagination, my dear. Perception.”
Valerian was silent a moment, hesitant. “You do not . . . have any sense about him and me, do you?” She felt her cheeks flush.
Theresa sat back and closed her eyes, her limbs visibly relaxing. Valerian waited, heart beating nervously. She had plenty of time to regret asking, and to wonder what had prompted her to, before Theresa let out her breath in a long sigh and opened her eyes.
“What?”
“You know how this goes,” Theresa warned. “I sense possibilities. I get a feel for what is happening now, and in the immediate future. Not everything I sense will happen—it is tendencies I sense, not facts.”
“I know, I know.” She came and sat on a low stool beside her aunt, her fingers twining about each other. She bent her head down and examined her nails, scraping at a hangnail, trying to hide her eagerness to hear what her aunt had seen.
“I sense men attracted
“You could always dispose of them yourself.”
Valerian screwed her face up in disgust. “ ‘Tis bad enough to have them dropping on me as I sleep, the fat little things. I keep thinking one will fall into my hair, or crawl in my ear. I can smell it, too, whatever it is that died up there.”
“You are welcome to share my bed until they are gone. The canopy will keep you safe from the mortal threat of falling worms.” She tried to keep her face serious, a losing battle.
“You would not laugh if they were falling on your head. No thank you, I will face the beasts. You know I can never sleep that close to your snoring.”
“Rude girl.”
Valerian snorted, and her head disappeared, the end of her braid flipping up over the edge of the loft a half-second later. Theresa smiled, enjoying her niece’s company. Her own daughter Charmaine had always been serious and self-conscious, and unable to outgrow her embarrassment over her mother. Being an outsider had been too painful for her, and she had found relief only by rejecting her family and becoming a villager heart and soul. Theresa understood that, even as it hurt her.
She eased herself down into one of the chairs by the fire, quietly cherishing the mundane routines of the morning, and Valerian’s voice as she continued to chide Oscar for his fastidiousness.
“What type of scavenger are you, anyway? Will not eat worms. I have never heard of such a thing.”
How long had it taken her to discover that it was the small moments that made up a life, and not the big ones? Theresa’s mind wandered back to the days when she had moved in different social circles, and had encounters with men whose rank would put the baron to shame.
An image of herself flashed to mind, dancing with a young nobleman, in a room filled with silks and satins, and the heat of candles and bodies. It was strange to think how important appearances had been to her then. Strange, too, how all the passions from that time had faded into nothing. It was as if someone else had lived that life.
Valerian climbed down the ladder from the loft, enjoying the pressure of the smooth rungs on her bare arches. She was dressed in her oldest clothes, the skirts not even reaching her ankles, the waist having been let out several times. The edges of her bodice were frayed.
“Are you certain you do not want to come with me today?” she asked her aunt.
“Yes, my poor plants have been under Daniel’s care long enough. It is time I went and checked how many he has killed.”
“What would you have done, if the baron had not offered his greenhouses?”
“Asked, I suppose. Or perhaps kept using them anyway. I do not think he would have minded. We are lucky in the character of Nathaniel Warrington, you know.”
“I find it hard to be enthusiastic about the man.”
Theresa smiled. “That is because you are attracted to him.”
“I have always been impressed by your imagination, Aunt Theresa. You do say the most ridiculous things.”
“Not imagination, my dear. Perception.”
Valerian was silent a moment, hesitant. “You do not . . . have any sense about him and me, do you?” She felt her cheeks flush.
Theresa sat back and closed her eyes, her limbs visibly relaxing. Valerian waited, heart beating nervously. She had plenty of time to regret asking, and to wonder what had prompted her to, before Theresa let out her breath in a long sigh and opened her eyes.
“What?”
“You know how this goes,” Theresa warned. “I sense possibilities. I get a feel for what is happening now, and in the immediate future. Not everything I sense will happen—it is tendencies I sense, not facts.”
“I know, I know.” She came and sat on a low stool beside her aunt, her fingers twining about each other. She bent her head down and examined her nails, scraping at a hangnail, trying to hide her eagerness to hear what her aunt had seen.
“I sense men attracted
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