Lou.” She popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed enthusiastically.
“Thank you, town crier.” Louvaen gave Magda a dry look. “I’m guessing she’s told you every family secret back six generations?”
Magda laughed outright this time. “Only a few things. I hear you’re deadly with a pitchfork.”
Louvaen glared at Cinnia who blushed. Farmer Toddle had never forgiven her for nearly skewering him in the town stables a decade earlier. Not that Louvaen ever offered an apology. The man should have kept his hands to himself.
The housekeeper retreated to the kitchen with the promise to deliver Louvaen’s cloak and boots to her room once they were dry. The two sisters enjoyed their meal together, Cinnia nibbling from Louvaen’s trencher and chatting about her stay at Ketach Tor and how wonderful—no, miraculous!—Gavin was. Louvaen listened with half an ear while she ate the food and drank two more cups of ale. By the time she’d finished her supper, her belly lay silent and content, and her head sat heavy on her shoulders. She still fretted over her father’s predicament, was suspicious of the strange de Sauveterres, and wondered if the family patriarch would survive the night. Still, the edge of terror that had shoved her heart into her throat as she rode to meet Cinnia had abated. Her sister was safe—utterly wrong-headed in her plan to extract her father from the disaster he’d caused—and apparently happy.
“You’re about to fall asleep in your trencher.” Cinnia tugged on her hand. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Louvaen followed her up a narrow stairwell until they reached a mezzanine drowning in shadow and another set of stairs. A single lit torch cast feeble light along a short corridor with doors on either side. Cinnia led her to one, her steps loud across creaking floorboards. “You’re here, and I’m in the next one.” She opened the door and stepped aside.
Fine candles lit a chamber swept spotless. Louvaen’s nostrils twitched at the scent of beeswax. Gavin’s garb had indicated he came from a family possessing a good measure of coin. She’d not fallen for that trap. Many a fop, barely able to feed himself, spent his last copper on fancy clothes to make a good if fraudulent impression in order to lure a wealthy bride to him. This was different. Only the wealthy could afford the extravagance of burning pure beeswax candles. Families of both poor and moderate means used tallow candles or wax mixed with tallow to light their homes. Louvaen wasn’t quite convinced Gavin hadn’t been filling Cinnia’s ears with all manner of tall tales, but this at least offered a hint that he’d been somewhat honest about his family’s means.
Candlelight revealed a box bed enclosed by ornately carved screens and a low step built against the lower rail that acted as storage. A mattress piled high with an assortment of pillows and blankets promised a warm and comfortable night’s sleep. Her pack sat next to the bed, and someone had laid out one of her two frocks across a chair near the small corner hearth. Her stockings fluttered on a drying horse next to her sodden boots. Shutters made of shaved bone blocked the window from the snow and ice whirling outside. The frigid chamber slowly warmed from the recently lit hearth, and the tapestries hanging on the walls worked to keep the growing heat from escaping through the stone.
Cinnia pointed to a low table set by the chair. “A pitcher and basin for you, and there’s a chamber pot tucked under the bed. I’ll show you where the privies are tomorrow.”
“You said your room is next to mine?”
“Yes. They gave me the bower. It’s lovely, and I have real glass in the windows.”
Louvaen eyed her sister. “And you’re sleeping alone?”
Cinnia crossed her arms. “Of course I am. That’s insulting, Lou.”
Louvaen shrugged. “It isn’t meant
“Thank you, town crier.” Louvaen gave Magda a dry look. “I’m guessing she’s told you every family secret back six generations?”
Magda laughed outright this time. “Only a few things. I hear you’re deadly with a pitchfork.”
Louvaen glared at Cinnia who blushed. Farmer Toddle had never forgiven her for nearly skewering him in the town stables a decade earlier. Not that Louvaen ever offered an apology. The man should have kept his hands to himself.
The housekeeper retreated to the kitchen with the promise to deliver Louvaen’s cloak and boots to her room once they were dry. The two sisters enjoyed their meal together, Cinnia nibbling from Louvaen’s trencher and chatting about her stay at Ketach Tor and how wonderful—no, miraculous!—Gavin was. Louvaen listened with half an ear while she ate the food and drank two more cups of ale. By the time she’d finished her supper, her belly lay silent and content, and her head sat heavy on her shoulders. She still fretted over her father’s predicament, was suspicious of the strange de Sauveterres, and wondered if the family patriarch would survive the night. Still, the edge of terror that had shoved her heart into her throat as she rode to meet Cinnia had abated. Her sister was safe—utterly wrong-headed in her plan to extract her father from the disaster he’d caused—and apparently happy.
“You’re about to fall asleep in your trencher.” Cinnia tugged on her hand. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Louvaen followed her up a narrow stairwell until they reached a mezzanine drowning in shadow and another set of stairs. A single lit torch cast feeble light along a short corridor with doors on either side. Cinnia led her to one, her steps loud across creaking floorboards. “You’re here, and I’m in the next one.” She opened the door and stepped aside.
Fine candles lit a chamber swept spotless. Louvaen’s nostrils twitched at the scent of beeswax. Gavin’s garb had indicated he came from a family possessing a good measure of coin. She’d not fallen for that trap. Many a fop, barely able to feed himself, spent his last copper on fancy clothes to make a good if fraudulent impression in order to lure a wealthy bride to him. This was different. Only the wealthy could afford the extravagance of burning pure beeswax candles. Families of both poor and moderate means used tallow candles or wax mixed with tallow to light their homes. Louvaen wasn’t quite convinced Gavin hadn’t been filling Cinnia’s ears with all manner of tall tales, but this at least offered a hint that he’d been somewhat honest about his family’s means.
Candlelight revealed a box bed enclosed by ornately carved screens and a low step built against the lower rail that acted as storage. A mattress piled high with an assortment of pillows and blankets promised a warm and comfortable night’s sleep. Her pack sat next to the bed, and someone had laid out one of her two frocks across a chair near the small corner hearth. Her stockings fluttered on a drying horse next to her sodden boots. Shutters made of shaved bone blocked the window from the snow and ice whirling outside. The frigid chamber slowly warmed from the recently lit hearth, and the tapestries hanging on the walls worked to keep the growing heat from escaping through the stone.
Cinnia pointed to a low table set by the chair. “A pitcher and basin for you, and there’s a chamber pot tucked under the bed. I’ll show you where the privies are tomorrow.”
“You said your room is next to mine?”
“Yes. They gave me the bower. It’s lovely, and I have real glass in the windows.”
Louvaen eyed her sister. “And you’re sleeping alone?”
Cinnia crossed her arms. “Of course I am. That’s insulting, Lou.”
Louvaen shrugged. “It isn’t meant
Similar Books
