Dancer took a few steps to the right.
Hadrian lifted his head and saw red hair, lots of red hair. Arms swung around his neck as Scarlett’s body pressed against his. She pulled, rising up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips pressed against his, gentle and soft, but firm—hungry. Fingers slid up his neck, reaching into his hair. He heard a sound, a soft hum. Hadrian couldn’t tell which of them made it. Scarlett’s lips parted slightly and lingered briefly on his. Then her hands released, the arms drew back, and those lips stole away, taking his breath with them.
Lord Fawkes led Royce to Nysa Dulgath’s bedroom, which looked unchanged from the last time he was there.
“Must be strange,” Fawkes said.
“What?” Royce asked. At that moment, he could think of half a dozen things fitting the description.
“Coming in here through the door.” Fawkes smiled.
“Why are we here?”
“Two reasons.” The lord crossed to the table with the shell collection, and opened the drawer. When he turned around he held out a brilliant white dagger. “Hadrian said you lost this.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t planning on leaving the providence until I found this.”
Fawkes raised a brow. “Really? Give it back then. I’ll have someone bury it.”
“Too late.” Royce said as he put the dagger away. “What’s the other reason you asked me here?”
“I wanted to show you this,” Fawkes said, pulling the cloth-covered painting from behind the headboard of the bed. He set it up on the desk. “Sherwood spent two months painting this portrait of Nysa Dulgath. I wanted you to see it. Frame got a little banged up recently, but I put it back together.”
Fawkes threw back the cloth.
Royce stared at the image of a young female elf. Her ears came to points; her eyes, a brilliant blue, were teardrop-shaped. Cheekbones were sharp and high, but the most surprising thing was that the elven girl was entirely bald—that and the fact she didn’t look like the elves Royce knew. Something in her face, in those piercing blue eyes—she wasn’t ashamed of who she was. This person was proud.
“This is you?” he asked.
“What I looked like before I died. I don’t know how Sherwood did it. I don’t know how he knew. Perhaps he was more than an artist. Maybe he unknowingly practiced The Art.”
Royce wasn’t sure what the difference was, but he didn’t want to interrupt her.
“Sherwood had the ability to see people. Really see them. He told me that, but I didn’t believe. He was killed before I saw this. Before I could tell him he was right.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Royce took a step closer to the image. “He knew.”
“Yes.” Fawkes nodded. He took a labored breath, then spun on his left heel and moved to the window, leaving Royce with the painting. “Do you…do you find it ugly?”
Royce reached up and touched the dry ridges left behind by the paintbrush. “No.”
“I can’t help wondering what Sherwood would have painted if he’d done your portrait.”
Royce found the thought more than disturbing.
“I’m more human than anything,” he said. “You can see that just by looking at me. I honestly don’t even know how you knew.”
Fawkes turned around and stared at him in surprise. “The same way you knew about me. Didn’t take you but a second. You came in the door ready to kill Christopher Fawkes but didn’t. What stopped you? How did you know?”
He shrugged. “The way you moved, the way you stood, how you talked. I recognized it. I recognized you.”
“We are more than the bodies we inhabit,” Fawkes said. “They’re little more than clothes, and yet we judge so much by them.” He laughed bitterly. “I, of all people, should understand this truth, and yet…” He looked at the painting. “I never gave Sherwood a chance. He saw the truth in me, but I refused to see the same in him.”
Fawkes took a step toward Royce. “You could stay.”
“Your king would object, and that would ruin your chance to be earl.”
“I’m not afraid of the king.”
Royce nodded. “No, I don’t suppose you are. But you also don’t want to start a war because you’re lonely.”
Fawkes scowled at him. “I’m really starting to hate this woman of yours.”
“Goodbye, Lord Fawkes,” he said, and moved to the door. Before exiting, he stopped. “The weather here—you control it somehow, don’t you? That’s why it’s always sunny and warm, but not too warm.”
“What’s your point? You don’t like fair weather?”
“Too much of anything isn’t good.”
“Goodbye, Royce Melborn.”
The inhabitants of Brecken Dale lined the streets of the village. Everyone was out: husbands, wives, and children held close to thighs. Each was dressed in their best set of clothes—which for many was their only set. But the collars were straight, the shoes bright, the hair neatly combed. Not a hood or hat could be seen, and all eyes were on Royce, Scarlett, and Hadrian. The crowd had been waiting for them.
Royce’s first reaction was concern; his second was suspicion. Has someone peeked into the ramshackle church this morning? Given how the townsfolk felt about Pastor Payne, Royce didn’t think so. Only when the stench becomes too unbearable will anyone bother to open that door. The following funeral will likely be attended by the fewest people needed to carry the body to a shallow, unmarked hole.
Why the villagers were out, each watching them with wide eyes and grins, eluded Royce. Given the numbers, the turnout had to be nearly everyone. One father went to the trouble of hoisting his son to his shoulders so the lad could see well. Even Scarlett looked puzzled.
“By Mar!” she said when they came into view of the village market. The place was full of folk. “It’s like a fair day.”
Wagner, Clem, Brook, and Gill stood with the others.
“Wag?” Scarlett asked, getting down from her horse. “What’s going on?” She tied the animal to the post and joined him.
“They know what you did,” Wagner replied. “What all of you did, and tried to do for Lady Dulgath, and what you’ve done for Lord Fawkes.”
“How?” Royce asked.
“Small town, people talk, and I might have mentioned something.” The bartender beamed a grin. Scarlett gave him a weak shove that made them both laugh.
Royce looked out over the gathering, boys and girls stared back at him with awe.
We’re celebrities. He shivered and thanked Maribor they were banned by the king.
Hadrian didn’t get off his horse. He’d said his goodbyes. He and Scarlett exchanged one last look; then she bowed her head, turned away, and headed for the sheltered ivy of Caldwell House. Hadrian watched her go. The door closed behind her, but he continued to look, even then. After a moment more he turned to Royce and asked, “You ready?”
Royce nodded enthusiastically.
Hadrian urged his horse forward, wading through the bodies that were slow to make a path. Royce followed.
“Thank you for everything you did,” said a woman, holding a less-than-content chicken in the crook of one arm. She reached out the other hand to touch Royce’s leg. He recoiled and gave his mount a kick, making the dawdlers jump back. Once clear of the crowd, he gave another light kick and his horse broke into a trot, heading for the pass. He kept up the quick pace until clear of the village and the nearby farms. Only then did he let his mount settle back into her relaxed walk.