He gave her a self-mocking smile. “Much has changed in a year. Including yourself. But I have been working on my manners. My sister is in charge of improving me. She will undoubtedly solicit your help. She would like to meet you tonight.”
Lia shrugged. “It is probably a hopeless quest, but we must try. I have not changed that much, really. I am still as filthy as when we left the Bearden Muir. My dress was in tatters from wandering the hills so I wear these clothes now. My skin is falling off like a leper because of a dangerous plant sap I stumbled into a few days ago. My clothes were blotched with it, which is why I screamed at you last night. I am even taller now, if that is possible, and it can hardly be called an improvement.” She licked her lips, trying to match his self-mocking smile. “If you were too ashamed to dance with me, I would understand. You are a knight-maston from Winterrowd and an earl no less.”
His smile faded. “I have three earldoms now, actually. But I do not care what anyone else thinks, Lia. I had not even noticed any of those things. To me, you could never be ugly.”
*
“Imagine, if you will, that the sum of all human thoughts could be represented on a measuring scale. The thoughts of a powerful maston, one enabled by the Medium to his fullest potential, could each be represented by a gold coin on one side. Imagine then that all of the evil, uncontrolled, vengeful thoughts have the weight of chaff and try to tip the scales. The world is a granary of ill-bred thoughts. There is enough to weigh down the world, to bury each one of us alive. Yet if we have enough of the good, it balances it out or keeps it firmly in the cause of right. Imagine then, scales the size of a kingdom. How many gold coins are there compared with chaff? Enough – just enough. There is enough weight and enough strength to keep the scales balanced. But if you begin to remove the gold coins, one by one? Then every seed of evil matters. Every little seed begins to tip the scales. As long as the scales are balanced to the side of the mastons, the Medium blesses everyone – both the evil and the good. But if the balance is altered, if the weight of the wrong begins to exceed the weight of the right, it triggers the Blight to purge the chaff. It is a warning from the Medium. There are curses that follow.”
- Gideon Penman of Muirwood Abbey
*
CHAPTER SEVEN:
Marciana Price
Lia’s curiosity about Colvin’s sister was intense. Since he had told Lia that she would meet her that night in the Aldermaston’s kitchen, as she went about her duties that day, she wondered what Marciana would be like. Wondering made her worry. Most learners were wealthy and spoiled, and only the rare ones like Duerden treated wretcheds with any respect. Each year, only a dozen or so new learners joined the Abbey and even fewer who fully completed the training. Fewer still who earned the rank of maston. Was Marciana selfish and spiteful, like Reome? Was she timid like Sowe? Was she like Colvin when she had first met him, always on the verge of anger and never bothering to mask his contempt? She hoped not. But still, she worried.
As evening came, and though she knew they were waiting for her in the kitchen, she had to finish walking the grounds. With Martin gone, she walked in measured steps, patiently, looking for any sign of passage. She checked the nearer shore of the fish pond, skirted the Cider Orchard because she had already checked it after visiting with Colvin, then came around to test the gate locks before returning to the kitchen. Her stomach was a hive of bees by the time she approached the door to the kitchen. What had Colvin told Marciana and Ellowyn about her?
She paused for a moment at the threshold, took a deep breath, and pulled on the handle. The moment would linger in her memory. There was Pasqua, in the middle, teaching everyone to make Gooseberry Fool.
“Whip it harder, like Sowe is. Yes, firm strokes. Yes, the sugar makes it sweet. There is the cream. Like Sowe, faster. Where are the spoons? Edmon, the spoons. Over there. We can share from the bowl.”
The opened door revealed both Sowe and Bryn in their aprons and each clutching a bowl. Bryn was trying to match the strokes of Sowe, but could not do it without spilling it. Two other finely dressed girls were nearby, watching the mixture happen.
“There she is!” said one of the girls, a smile brightening her face. She was as tall as Sowe, as slender and graceful as a swan. Her golden hair was crowned with a braided coil and her dress – it was as richly textured as the best in Muirwood, a deep green – like a velvet forest in the spring. Instead of a girdle, she wore a vest with thin lacings up the front. The sleeves were wide and pointed, barely covering her arms with an intricate stitching lining for the trim. There were no jeweled chokers or rings or necklaces, only a pendant with a deep azure stone set into it. Her arms and wrists were thin, her fingers delicate. She was beautiful and the beauty also shone from her eyes.