chickens and gathered eggs, lugged buckets of water from the well for washing and helped Gurn fold the clean linens on the line. Only when Gurn signaled a pause, and indicated she was to follow him to the grove, did she recall the nature of her mission, and her mouth went dry.
They returned to the house, navigating the maze of dim hallways until they reached the back of the manor and a richly carved door aged to a black patina. Martise squinted against the bright sunlight when Gurn opened the door and gently urged her outside. From this vantage point, she could turn around and see the manor’s back façade. Windows faced south with shuttered eyes, and she located her room at the far end of the building. Only one window remained open, in the chamber below hers. Curtains, flags of faded lapis and rust, fluttered outward, snapping in the wind like a Kurman dancer’s skirts.
She faced the grove again. Orange trees covered the field in an orderly pattern, their leafy branches bowed with ripe fruit. Dark green leaves camouflaged the birds nesting in the branches, revealing the occasional glint of sunlight on a black beak. Somewhere, within that rustle of wings, Cumbria’s messenger crow waited for a sign from her.
This was the first time she’d walked the grove. Until now, her forays had been limited to the manor’s interior and bailey. She’d only seen the grove from her window each morning and evening, admiring the ordered rows of trees and breathing in the scent of orange blossom lingering in the balmy air.
Gurn led her into the grove, his steps sure as he navigated the orchard’s maze. Martise stayed close to him. Each shaded path looked as the other did. Even the manor could no longer be seen as a landmark.
They rounded a corner and stopped before a line of crates filled with oranges and a tall ladder leaning against a tree’s yielding branches. The top of the ladder disappeared into the leaves, but Martise saw a pair of shoes balanced on one of the rungs. Gurn whistled low, and the shoes moved. Silhara descended the ladder partway and faced them. She swallowed a gasp, silently admonishing herself for her gut reaction to his appearance.
Working in the morning heat had left a sheen of perspiration on him, and his swarthy skin glistened in the light.
His shirt was plastered to his back and chest, giving her a clear view of lean, sinewy muscle and shoulders rippling with the strength built by hard labor. A pink flush graced his prominent cheekbones, and a bead of sweat trickled down his neck, sliding in a meandering path across the white ligature scar before disappearing beneath the shirt’s open neckline.
He swiped his sleeve across his forehead and adjusted the sack, half filled with oranges, across his shoulder. The ladder creaked under his weight as he climbed down to the last rung. Martise looked down, hoping her face didn’t reveal her fascination. What was the matter with her, desiring the man who had nearly killed her with fright only hours before?
“Was she a help or a hindrance?”
Her head snapped up. Hindrance? Her fingernails dug into her palms. There were many things she could be rightfully accused of—plainness, shyness, sometimes cowardice—but never laziness or incompetence. She clenched her hands into fists, stopping short of lashing out at him. She was slave-bound and had mastered the art of submissive behavior at an early age, yet there was something about the Master of Crows that made her forget all her training, her low place in the world. He was no more imperious or overbearing than any other landed noble, but he struck an angry chord in her every time he spoke.
Gurn motioned with his hands, his bald head nodding in time with his enthusiastic gestures. Martise felt vindicated. At least one person here was pleased with her performance so far.
The mage grunted and walked away to rummage through an empty crate. Whether he
They returned to the house, navigating the maze of dim hallways until they reached the back of the manor and a richly carved door aged to a black patina. Martise squinted against the bright sunlight when Gurn opened the door and gently urged her outside. From this vantage point, she could turn around and see the manor’s back façade. Windows faced south with shuttered eyes, and she located her room at the far end of the building. Only one window remained open, in the chamber below hers. Curtains, flags of faded lapis and rust, fluttered outward, snapping in the wind like a Kurman dancer’s skirts.
She faced the grove again. Orange trees covered the field in an orderly pattern, their leafy branches bowed with ripe fruit. Dark green leaves camouflaged the birds nesting in the branches, revealing the occasional glint of sunlight on a black beak. Somewhere, within that rustle of wings, Cumbria’s messenger crow waited for a sign from her.
This was the first time she’d walked the grove. Until now, her forays had been limited to the manor’s interior and bailey. She’d only seen the grove from her window each morning and evening, admiring the ordered rows of trees and breathing in the scent of orange blossom lingering in the balmy air.
Gurn led her into the grove, his steps sure as he navigated the orchard’s maze. Martise stayed close to him. Each shaded path looked as the other did. Even the manor could no longer be seen as a landmark.
They rounded a corner and stopped before a line of crates filled with oranges and a tall ladder leaning against a tree’s yielding branches. The top of the ladder disappeared into the leaves, but Martise saw a pair of shoes balanced on one of the rungs. Gurn whistled low, and the shoes moved. Silhara descended the ladder partway and faced them. She swallowed a gasp, silently admonishing herself for her gut reaction to his appearance.
Working in the morning heat had left a sheen of perspiration on him, and his swarthy skin glistened in the light.
His shirt was plastered to his back and chest, giving her a clear view of lean, sinewy muscle and shoulders rippling with the strength built by hard labor. A pink flush graced his prominent cheekbones, and a bead of sweat trickled down his neck, sliding in a meandering path across the white ligature scar before disappearing beneath the shirt’s open neckline.
He swiped his sleeve across his forehead and adjusted the sack, half filled with oranges, across his shoulder. The ladder creaked under his weight as he climbed down to the last rung. Martise looked down, hoping her face didn’t reveal her fascination. What was the matter with her, desiring the man who had nearly killed her with fright only hours before?
“Was she a help or a hindrance?”
Her head snapped up. Hindrance? Her fingernails dug into her palms. There were many things she could be rightfully accused of—plainness, shyness, sometimes cowardice—but never laziness or incompetence. She clenched her hands into fists, stopping short of lashing out at him. She was slave-bound and had mastered the art of submissive behavior at an early age, yet there was something about the Master of Crows that made her forget all her training, her low place in the world. He was no more imperious or overbearing than any other landed noble, but he struck an angry chord in her every time he spoke.
Gurn motioned with his hands, his bald head nodding in time with his enthusiastic gestures. Martise felt vindicated. At least one person here was pleased with her performance so far.
The mage grunted and walked away to rummage through an empty crate. Whether he
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