Chapter 6

6

A islinn thanked her maid, Fia, as the redheaded beauty set down both Aislinn's plain fare and a hearty portion of Hugh's nightly feast for Merrick.

"Will that be all, milady?" asked Fia with a cheeky wink, making her brown eyes and many freckles dance.

Lithe, tall, and confident, the redhead was all easy smiles and jokes, exuding a warmth that put even the most anxious noblewoman at ease. They took to each other well, and Aislinn counted Fia as her closest confidante.

It was Fia who helped Aislinn choose what to wear when more than a simple kirtle was required. It was Fia who'd taught her to flirt and what to ask of a man to please her. It was Fia who made sure she ate when Aislinn would otherwise have completely forgotten in favor of drafting a new project.

Aislinn lived in constant terror that some handsome knight would finally turn Fia's head and sweep her away. Thankfully, Fia seemed unaffected by either men or women—although she certainly enjoyed being the one others fawned over. "I'm just waiting for something…special," Fia had explained one evening as she brushed out Aislinn's hair. "Pretty promises are just that."

Aislinn knew that day would come eventually, so in the interim, she kept Fia well compensated and thanked her every chance she got. With her friend Sorcha often busy with work and siblings and now a handsome halfling, it often felt like Fia was Aislinn's only friend.

"For now," Aislinn replied, making a show of unfolding her napkin into her lap. "Unless of course I'm displeased with the food."

"Hard to get mashed peas wrong," laughed Fia, and with a toss of her red ringlets, she strode from the high table to join the other staff. More than one head went up in anticipation of her coming.

Settling into her seat, Aislinn took up her spoon as her father tucked into his dinner with relish, a seasoned fillet with a swirl of cream sauce over it and accompanying roasted vegetables. It was hardly an elaborate meal for a lord's table, but then, her father had never been fussy. That was much more Aislinn's territory.

She didn't mean to make Hugh's life difficult—she just couldn't bear certain textures. Fish being one of them. But she was more than content with her hearty bowl of pea soup, a plate of the roasted vegetables, and a generous cut of the crusty loaf she'd helped knead that very morning.

Merrick made a few more appreciative noises before asking, "Which did you do for this?"

"Not much," admitted Aislinn, "just the bread. I couldn't stay long helping, there were another three guild-masters who requested an audience, and we're still trying to recover our stores of soap cakes after the council meeting."

In truth, it was a bit of a blessing that they hadn't enough soap to continue washing the volumes of bedding used to accommodate Dundúran's many guests last week. So many staff were needed for laundry that other tasks had fallen to the wayside. The gardens were going unkept, the corridors unswept. Hugh and Brenna were united for once in their chagrin.

Not a situation Aislinn wanted on her hands. "Leave the bedding that hasn't been washed until we can get more soap. Our things must come first if we have enough for an errant guest." Brenna hadn't liked that answer, her lips pinching, but Aislinn would much rather she, her father, and the staff had clean underthings than all the extra bedding usually kept in the vast linen cupboards was clean and ready for a possible guest.

If it means we can't accommodate more guests, all the better.

She didn't tell Brenna that, of course.

All of it only proved her point that having too many guests was a formula for upheaval. Unclean bedding and a lack of soap had upended the balance of Dundúran Castle, and Aislinn wouldn't rest easy until that balance was restored. She'd already lost two nights' sleep over it.

The thought of ever having to receive a royal visit, when a member of the royal family stayed with their courtiers indefinitely, sent a shudder of horror down Aislinn's spine.

"Ah yes," Merrick said. "I've heard rumblings of this soap cake crisis. Brenna is none too happy."

"When is Brenna ever happy?" Aislinn muttered. She didn't mean to be uncharitable, but little sleep rendered her cranky and short-tempered.

"Point taken." Merrick pulled apart a bit of bread, nodding appreciatively as he chewed. "Another excellent effort, kit."

"If only every problem was solved with a little kneading."

"Eh, it often is. Just in the more metaphoric sense."

Aislinn grumbled, making her father laugh. His jolliness lifted her spirits a little, and she decided to put her crankiness away for a while, her tasks and duties, too, and simply enjoy a meal with her father.

It was one reason why her father always insisted on taking evening meals together. It was a time to slow down, talk. He invited any staff who wished to eat in the dining hall to join them, five long tables laid out for the staff with cutlery and deep wells of stew, mounds of bread, and plates of whatever feast Hugh pulled from his ovens.

Watching the cheery talk of their people improved Aislinn's mood a little more. For all that she worried, her people were content. They rose to the challenge of the council meeting every season, and they'd all earned this respite.

"Well," Merrick said when he neared the end of his meal, "we may be lacking soap cakes, but we're rich in horseshoes. The new blacksmith is proving very industrious."

Aislinn's cheeks bloomed with heat, and she hid her face behind her goblet. The sip of mead wetted her throat but didn't cool her blush.

"Hakon is very talented. And driven," she said, hoping her father couldn't hear how her heart pitter-pattered at the mention of their handsome new blacksmith.

She wouldn't soon forget the sight he'd made that night in his forge, lit by firelight as his strong arms brought the hammer down on the iron. She'd lingered in the doorway, mesmerized by the methodical rhythm of his work, and although she didn't enjoy loud noises, somehow it wasn't so bad, the sparks that flew from the iron exciting, and the sure way he handled it enthralling.

"He is indeed," Merrick agreed. "Though I fear Fearghas is setting him too many tasks."

"Hopefully not. I've asked him to make me something already."

Her father made a noise of interest as he sipped his mead.

"A pair of shears. Morwen said I wasn't allowed another pair of hers, and I'll need something strong to get those brambles under control. The blooms are almost finished, so they'll need to be trimmed down for their winter dormancy."

"For your mother's garden?"

Aislinn realized too late that she'd not mentioned wanting to tame the garden to her father yet. She knew he'd have no objections, but any mention of Róisín always brought a somber pall to Merrick's face.

Just as it did now.

"Yes," she answered softly. "I…it's a peaceful place to sit. It reminds me of her."

Not looking up from his goblet, he traced the rim with his thumbnail. "Good. It will be nice to see it restored to its former glory. But wouldn't you rather Morwen and her staff took care of it?"

"No, I…I want to do it."

Finally, her father met her gaze. A look passed between them, short in length but significant in depth. Merrick reached out to squeeze her hand. "All right, kit," he said. "Let's see what you can do."

Aislinn's smile was bittersweet. She always loved her father's "Let's see what you can do." Where other fathers may have forbidden or reprimanded, Merrick Darrow only ever encouraged and advised. Even when Aislinn, and especially Jerrod, deserved reprimand.

Speaking of which…

Her father's good humor still hadn't returned, and Aislinn didn't see a reason to ruin it again.

Best do it now.

With a heavy heart, she pulled the Warden's letter from her pocket.

"We received this not long ago." Handing it to Merrick, she explained, "Jerrod's run away. Nobody can find him."

Her father's frown deepened as his eyes skated across the page. Stark lines carved across his face, making him look much more his age. Aislinn hated the reminder that he was growing older—she hated the hairs that had gone gray, the wrinkles that fanned around his eyes.

She hated Jerrod for putting such a look on their father's face.

After a grave stretch of silence, Merrick cast the letter down on the table in disgust. Sitting back in his seat, the look he finally turned on Aislinn was stoic, but she knew her father well enough to see the hurt pooling beneath the surface.

"As the Warden says, it's not wholly unexpected. It was perhaps too much to presume he'd accept his punishment with any grace."

The words weren't half as harsh as Jerrod deserved, but Aislinn couldn't help wincing. Whatever she felt, or didn't, for Jerrod, he was her brother, and if nothing else, she pitied him.

Yet Aislinn held her tongue, for what was there to say? Perhaps she might've mustered something in his defense were she able to forgive him for what he'd done, but she hadn't and couldn't.

Sorcha was like a sister to her, the sibling of her heart. A friend who knew Aislinn and accepted her for all she was. A friend such as that was invaluable—and came before even blood. Aislinn knew what it was to be misunderstood, to question why someone paid her any attention; neither was true with Sorcha.

His gaze faraway, Merrick brought his goblet to his lips and swallowed the last of his mead in a single gulp. Sitting straight in his seat, his look hardened, and Aislinn prepared herself for something she wouldn't like hearing.

"If he wants to make his own life, I suppose I can't fault him that. But we should find him, at least. Your brother has a penchant for trouble."

"Shouldn't he be returned to the Ward?" Six months hardly seemed a true punishment.

"Yes, but who will keep him there? Shall I send knights to guard over him and watch as he tends to the sick?"

If that's what it takes. If that will finally make him learn.

"No," Merrick answered his own question, "there's no point to it. Let him try on his own."

He sighed, his face gone haggard, and Aislinn bit her cheek to keep silent. The decision sat like lead in her stomach, uncomfortable and heavy. Were they to just never see him again? Never speak his name or know what became of him?

Her father took in her silence and raised his hands. "I know, kit. I just…what he did is…" Merrick shook his head. "I suppose it will be worthwhile to keep an eye out for him. If he's gone south, we'll surely hear word of him."

"South?" Aislinn repeated, frustration prickling at her neck to think she'd missed something.

She didn't miss her father's wince.

"Yes, that." Leveling her with a look, he said, "Ciaran and I have decided to make another expedition south. It's obvious we haven't accomplished nearly as much as we'd hoped against the slavers, and the ones who took Sorcha are still at large."

The words rang in her ears with an echo of disbelief.

"But you and Sir Ciaran have retired from that. I thought Connor and Niall Brádaigh were to take up the mission."

"They certainly are, but there's much their father and I must show them. People they must meet. And…" here he sighed again, "Ciaran and I…our work isn't complete. I can't rest knowing that, kit. To have slavers here, so close—I won't have it. Those who took Sorcha must be punished and made an example of. Else what will all our work have come to? Nothing."

Aislinn shook her head vehemently. "That's not true. You've already done so much good—it's time for others to take up the work."

"Soon," he said, as if that would reassure her. "And we don't intend to leave until after Sorcha's wedding. Wouldn't miss that, of course."

"You can't just leave again."

She hated how petulant she sounded even to her own ears. And how small.

Merrick's brows drew low in concern. He offered his hand in comfort, but Aislinn sat back in her seat, out of his reach.

"We must see this through, kit. I'm sorry."

"I'm not ready to be Liege Darrow."

"We both know your brother rarely carried out his duties—you've been in charge of Dundúran since you were small."

I shouldn't have had to be. I shouldn't have to be now. The words squeezed her throat until she could hardly breathe.

"It's not the same."

"It's just this once more. It has to be done."

" Father —"

Merrick shook his head once. "I'm decided, kit. This needs doing. You'll get on fine, you always do."

To her horror, hot tears pricked her eyes. When she stood to leave, he gaped up at her.

"Kit—?"

Upset unsettled her stomach, what food she'd eaten churning around inside her in a tempest. Her skin felt too tight, her throat, her chest, her very heart squeezing past discomfort.

Fates, not again!

Rounding her chair, she hastened from the high table and made for the side door, left ajar by one of the serving maids.

Why must he leave? Always her father had to find peace outside Dundúran, outside the Darrowlands. He made something good out of his grief, but why did it have to be out there, so far away?

Don't go, the girl inside her always begged. Don't leave me by myself.

Aislinn could hardly see through the watery blur of her gathering tears as she hurried through the castle corridors, but then, she didn't truly need to see. She knew every stone of this castle, every nook and corridor and hidey-hole.

Her whole life was in this castle, all her hurts and secrets and projects.

She'd left the Darrowlands only twice in her whole life. If Liege Darrow was needed at court in Gleanná, someone had to stay behind and steward, and that was never Jerrod.

Aislinn will see to it. Aislinn will take care of it. Aislinn will understand.

And she did. No matter the cost, no matter how she laid awake at night counting the things she had to do and dreading most of them.

She couldn't disappoint her parents. They'd given her so much, been so good and patient with her—she could oversee the home they built and loved. She could help her brother until he learned for himself. She could she could she could —

Aislinn sobbed. At first, she'd thought to flee to her study, but the stones of the castle seemed to warp, closing in around her. Aislinn picked up her skirts and pace, hurrying down down down into the west bailey below.

The night air was cool on her skin, damp from her flight and contained tears. Her breaths came in great heaves, each a battle to keep her dinner in her stomach.

Hand clasped over her racing heart, Aislinn slowed to an aimless walk. She shut her eyes tight, against her tears, against her reality.

Already she barely kept her head above the surface with all her tasks and duties. There was the new bridge to plan, too, and soap cakes to source, and two kitchen staff were leaving soon and would need replacements, and more otherly folk had sent petitions asking for an audience, and she still had to meet with the bricklayer and stonemason guild-masters to start negotiations for the supplies for the bridge, and Brenna would always have something for her, and she needed to draw up plans for the rose garden and and and—

"Are you well, my lady?"

Aislinn gasped, skirts snapping as she jerked toward the deep rumble.

She'd come to a stop in the center of the bailey and blinked owlishly at the voice coming from the smithy. Hakon the handsome blacksmith sat on a stool just outside the well-lit smithy, his elbows on his knees as he bent over something in his hands.

Fates, he has lovely, strong hands.

Turning away so he couldn't see her face, Aislinn quickly wiped away the escaped tears.

Mortification crept up her neck, but the surprise of seeing him there seemed to have shocked her roiling emotions, allowing her to bury them back into the pit she kept inside her just for them.

It was a long while before she turned to face him again, long enough that she knew it was rude, but there was nothing for it. She wouldn't allow him or anyone else to see her tears.

"Forgive me," he said, "I didn't mean to startle you."

She shook her head. "I should've paid more attention." The last thing she needed was to turn an ankle. That wouldn't spare her from her duties.

Out from the smithy trotted the mighty Wülf, tongue lolling. He headed straight for her, pushing his snout into her hand.

Aislinn petted him enthusiastically, welcoming the distraction.

"He's very fond of you," said the blacksmith. "He doesn't usually take to others. Or even me, really."

"Truly? But he's such a friendly hound." A deep scritch behind his ear with her nails had his back leg thumping on the cobblestones.

Hakon chuckled. "Only with you. I'm not sure he sees me as more than the one who fetches the meals."

"I'm sure that's not true." She bent to peer into the dog's eyes, finding them a soulful brown. "You're a noble beast, I'm sure."

"Careful, my lady. You'll spoil him."

A smile strayed onto her lips, surprising her. All the ugliness she felt was still there, still bubbling inside her, but out in the fresh air, petting a dog, talking with the handsome blacksmith, it didn't feel quite so… unbearable .

Shoring up her courage, she nodded at his hands. "What are you working on?"

"Ah." Straightening, he held up the little bauble.

Captivated, Aislinn crossed the bailey, her curiosity piqued. He held the object out to her with his fingertips, and Aislinn took it as gently as she would spun glass.

"Careful," he warned, "I need to smooth it."

Holding it up to the light, she marveled, "It's a rose."

"Yes, my lady." His gaze drifted dreamily, and his voice pitched even lower when he said, "Your project had me thinking of the mountain roses that grow on the southern slopes of Kaldebrak. In summer, the mountain is covered in their blooms."

Enchanted, another wider smile pulled at her lips. "That sounds so lovely." Handing the rose back to him, she said, "My mother's garden has the only roses here, I'm afraid. But there are lovely tulips and daffodils in spring. And for a few weeks, the wisteria blooms. It's beautiful."

"I look forward to it, my lady." He smiled up at her, his own soulful brown eyes catching the firelight from the forge.

Aislinn's stomach swooped—not with weighty worries but airy lightness.

"You whittle as well," she said to distract herself. "What can't you do, master blacksmith?"

"Plenty, my lady," he chuckled. "But I find it is good to practice different crafts." He held up the small knife he used to carve away flakes of wood. "In truth, it helps me think."

"Does it?" she asked, charmed.

"I've been thinking over your garden shears, planning it in my mind. This keeps my hands busy and my mind clear."

"I do the same, with my designs. Drawing helps my mind focus."

His smile returned, somehow even warmer than before. That dimple appeared, casting a captivating shadow across his cheek.

In the firelight, he might have otherwise struck an imposing figure, even sitting down. Those wide shoulders cast a wide shadow, and the darkness emphasized the slightly inhuman shape of his mouth. Yet, it also offered a velveteen softness to his skin, and the firelight caught in the dark swoop of his short hair and along the ridges of his knuckles.

The soft darkness suited him. And so did that dimple.

"If you come tomorrow, I'll have a…" He frowned, pausing as if to think of the word. "An example to show you."

Her heart leapt in pleasure. "A prototype? Already? Wonderful! I can come tomorrow afternoon?"

"Whenever suits, my lady. I hope you will approve of them."

She assured him she would. After a few more questions on what he liked to whittle—animals, mostly—and what Wülf liked to do—sleep, mostly—Aislinn bid him goodnight, her spirits lighter as she climbed the stairs back into the castle.

She could already hear the scolding from Brenna, that she hadn't the time to spend lollygagging in the smithy over a project, but Aislinn would make time. As she quietly walked the corridors of her castle, she found herself eager to discover what else the handsome blacksmith could create with those big hands.