92. Jest

I spent the rest of the day napping and then sitting in the dormitory listening to my friends discuss their day.

Helena was not present, having joined Thatcher in their room for the night.

I leaned against the wall behind Mischa’s bed with her by my side, sipping on lightleaf-infused white wine that was nearly too sour to enjoy.

I laughed at her story of how she had asked for it at the kitchens, Perch having told her it was his favorite vintage.

“I wanted to try it,”

she explained.

“But now I think the fish man plays me.”

“This,”

I said with a cough, “is for cooking.

Not drinking.

The man is having you on.”

Maureen and Catrin both spat out the wine in their cups, River laughing at them and shaking her head at Mischa’s offer to pour her some.

Quinn, from where she sat on her bed, held up her cup to mime clinking hers against ours.

“More for the three of us.”

“Quinn, you really are a legend,”

Mischa said and gulped the rest of her cup.

“This one’ll drink anything you put before her,”

she said to the rest of us.

“No turning up her nose at it.

It is called gratitude, ladies.”

Quinn and I snickered at each other.

It was a night of antics and teasing, a good night for a last one with friends.

As I slept, I did not notice my husband’s return or departure.

In the morning, I bathed one last time with my friends, feeling a quietness after all of my crying the day prior.

I blamed the wanness of my face on Perch’s recommendation and Mischa declared she would get him back tonight.

I walked with them all, minus Helena, to the city center, blue pennants of every shade fluttering on early spring breezes.

Bundles of drying kelp hung dripping over doorways, smelling of brine, offering a nod to Sister Sea.

Musicians were everywhere playing and singing shanties and fiddling jigs.

Children with blue waves painted on one cheek scurried by, waving cerulean flags on sticks.

Soon the sun would shine down on the sea’s holiday and my teal fall dress would feel warmer than I liked for an hour or two.

But in early morning, I was comfortable and grateful.

I knew I owed my goddess an apology and I could not delight in a pretty day after so many gray ones or at the cheer in my niece’s voice at some addition she had just completed in the mural.

I could not until I had made amends.

“I am sorry,”

I murmured.

“I yelled at you.”

Her voice was tired.

You were in sorrow.

And I am sorry for it.

“But I took it out on you,”

I went on, a step behind my friends.

“I should not have.

I should have sought comfort in you.”

Mother Earth hummed like a bee at my ear.

I am glad your man was there.

Now.

This is a fine day.

Be well in it.

At present, I intercede on your behalf.

I try to delay the end.

I asked her what that meant, but she did not reply.

We joined Thatcher and Helena at the brewery, luncheoning with them and some of the other Procurers.

The Anglers arrived shortly after, beckoning me over to their tables.

As I sat with Anwyn and Vincent, explaining my husband was supposed to be here at noon, I saw Helena get up with an empty water pitcher, on her way to refill it.

Thatcher, sitting, pulled her to him, his face kissing her belly.

My friend laughed and put her free hand on his shaved head.

He looked up at her with open wonderment.

It is for the best, I thought to myself.

The babe will distract from my passing, like dressing on a wound, a door opening when another shut.

And no child could ask for a better mother.

I felt my husband’s hand on my shoulder and looked up to meet his gaze, but he was nodding at his family, “I am taking Edith somewhere this afternoon.”

“Oh, newlyweds,”

said Anwyn to Vincent.

“They are always escaping."

“She only just joined us,”

Dora protested.

Alric lifted a shoulder.

“I will bring her to the forge on the next day of rest.”

I looked away at his words.

We said our farewells and I followed him out of the brewery into the street.

He explained we must walk back to the keep, that we needed Maggie for where we were going and he had not ridden her into the city center because she did not like music.

“I have skirmished with Helmsman from her back and she has obeyed my every direction, but she hears a harp and spooks like a foal,”

he explained.

“Where are you taking me that we must ride?”

I asked.

I was presumptuous and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

My depression was lifting just being near him.

He gave his huff-laugh.

“You are impatient.

Give it time and you will see.”

We passed a stall where children were having the waves of Sister Sea painted on their cheeks.

They were squealing at the coolness of the paint and I laughed.

Alric halted our progress down the road and turned to the women wearing aprons, children’s chins and crude brushes in their hands.

“May I paint something on my wife’s face?”

Eyeing his obvious rank, one of them nodded and produced a brush and a small clay cup of paint for him.

He thanked her and turned to me.

“What are you about?”

I was dubious, but also amused.

“Hold still,”

ordered Alric.

“Pull your hair out of the way.”

I turned to him, one cheek cleared for his brush.

“My breath is bated to know what you paint.”

It was not until the third stroke when I realized he was mimicking the lines of ink from my old pen nib that I had placed on all of our cheeks in the chapel of Saint Agnes.

“Oh for gods’ sake!”

I thought I could see the beginning of a true smile on his face.

But he had turned away, handing the brush and cup to the woman, his back entirely to me.

I then heard him laugh, the first ever laugh in nearly four full seasons that I had heard from him.

I was stunned and more desperate than ever to know what his smiles looked like now that I had heard that laugh.

It was scratchy and out of use, but it was laughter.

“I am serious.

That is not in good humor.

You joke at my attempts to save my own life!”

I began to laugh again, despite myself, but I was still half angry with him.

“What were those lines supposed to represent?”

he asked over his shoulder, covering his mouth with one hand.

“I was trying to appeal to your Tintarian savagery and superstitions and sigils.”

“Madam, have you wet cloth?”

he asked and the same woman offered him one.

He turned to me, his face now composed and wiped away each line while I glared at him.

“Forgive me.

I like to think on my first vision of you.”

“The day you set out to kill me?”

“The day I met the bravest of women.”

“You have yet to dig yourself out of this hole.”

“You do not like my jest.

Well, then we should continue to our destination.”

I pretended to be angry with him for the rest of our walk to the keep, but held onto his arm.

Maggie was saddled and ready for us.

I sat in front, his arms around me, and we descended the horses’ ramp to the city, taking side streets until we were out on a dust road.

It was not the road that connected with the bluff paths, but one that led further inward.

I wondered if he took me to Nyossa, but that was too far.

There was still so much farmland in between the city and the forest.

But why would he take me to a farm? I guessed all of this out loud, but he would not answer me.

He only kissed my temples or removed one of his hands from the reins to place against my waist.

As there were few people on the dust road, only some wagons with holidayers arriving to The Thawing late, he was more demonstrative.