enchantment. The house looked beautiful beyond words to Wistala, with the greenery silvered. From the ferns clinging to the wide chimney to the grass from the fountain to the wall along the road—a little despoiled by goat tracks—the house looked fairy-dusted in the early dawn light.
The new owner of Mossbell and her steward left Stog to wander on the lawn.
But the enchantment ended as soon as Wistala carried Rainfall into the house.
“Sir, you’ve returned,” Widow Lessup said. “We’re agog here. The thane! His Honor came looking for you in the night.”
“We saw him on the road. I’m sorry I was out—he didn’t threaten anyone, I hope?”
“Oh, no, sir! It’s—Lada’s room, you must go up to her. She ran out to him, barefoot as a nymph. I’m not sure what was said, but she came back into the house in tears. She’s barred her door somehow, and I’m afraid for her. I sent Forstrel for Mod Feeney. I was afraid she’d hurt herself!”
Wistala bore him upstairs. Lada was still in her room, sobbing, with two of the Lessup girls outside, tapping on her door and trying to bring her a morning infusion.
“Anja, tell my granddaughter that I saw the thane on the road. I’d like to see her in my library. And if she doesn’t want that infusion, I will be happy to have it. Tala?”
“The library?”
“Yes.”
Wistala brought him up to the top floor—the skylight admitted the diffuse morning light through a melting frost pattern. He moved from her back into his desk chair.
Rainfall sighed. “I’ve not used them, but my legs feel terribly tired.”
Anja brought in the infusion, and Rainfall drank it gratefully. “I’m forgetting you, my noble steed. Anja, can you—?”
“I can find food in the kitchen myself,” Wistala said. She didn’t like people waiting on her; not hunting for her meals seemed dissolute enough.
Lada appeared at the door, a housecoat over her nightdress, though she had on day-slippers and footwrap. Her nose was as red as the spots on the thane’s cheeks. The part of her hair not bound up fell in loose curls that reminded Wistala of flowering vines, though unlike her grandfather’s locks, her hair took after that of men or dwarves.
“Grandfather, I didn’t dress but came at once.”
Wistala made for the kitchen, but Rainfall halted her with a word. “Tala, I want you here so you may bear witness to the truth of what I say.
“Lada, I hope you know you have my love, as does the child you are carrying.”
Wistala’s chin dropped at this.
Rainfall continued: “You must listen to me now. You’ll come to the truth of this fixation now or later, and you can spare yourself much pain by accepting it now: Thane Hammar does not love you, does not care for you, and has no intention of taking you into Galahall as his wife or anything else.”
“Elves lie so—”
“Let’s have none of that,” Rainfall thundered. “You’re a fair token of elvish blood—”
He spoke no further, for Lada shrieked and threw herself against the bookcase with a wail. She began to cry, and push whole rows of books onto the floor.
Rainfall sighed.
Wistala stood frozen, paralyzed at the emotional display.
“Lada, stop that,” Rainfall said.
She threw another set of books on the floor.
Widow Lessup appeared at the library door. “Sir, may I—!” Her mouth clamped shut when she saw Lada knock down a map hung between bookshelves and a scroll-case, and her lips pursed so tightly Wistala would have sworn she was about to spit foua.
“Sir,” Widow Lessup said. “May I take her in hand?”
“Perhaps you can bring her to her room. An infusion might do her good.”