Wynter shuffles toward the serving tables, head bent, eyes focused on the floor a few feet in front of her. Groupings of Elves cast disdainful looks in her direction and hide their whispers behind graceful hands. The Gardnerians give her a wide berth, avert their eyes and touch fists to heads then hearts to ward off her evil.
The Icaral-Elf takes a bowl and timidly approaches one of the Urisk kitchen workers. The elderly woman sneers, then slops some bright green porridge into her bowl.
I’ve seen them preparing this in the kitchen—ground Alfsigr acorn meal. Staple grain of the Elves. There are so many odd foods in the kitchens with foreign smells and exotic spices, each culture partial to certain dishes.
Wynter turns, bowl in hand, searching for a place to sit. Spotting an empty table at the far corner of the room, she starts for it.
Fallon’s, Sylus’s and Damion’s eyes narrow in on Wynter.
Fallon whispers something to Sylus. They both laugh as they munch on their muffins, a cruel glint in their eyes. Fallon reaches over and inconspicuously slides her wand into her hand, flicking it slightly in Wynter’s direction.
Wynter trips forward, her porridge spilling all over the floor before she lands, stomach down, on top of it.
I instinctively move to get up, aghast at Fallon’s behavior, the memory of how she tripped me stark in my mind. Falling in front of all those people—it was frightening and humiliating.
But...that horrifying night, when Ariel attacked me... Wynter made no move to help...
Rafe, across the room, shows no such hesitation. He strides over to help Wynter as everyone else around her steps away. He kneels down and gently takes hold of her arm to help her up. The moment he touches her, her head jerks up and her eyes fly wide-open.
“Get your hands off my sister, Gardnerian!”
The dining hall grows quiet as an Elfin male pushes through the surrounding scholars and quickly makes his way toward them. He has backup—a younger, willowy Elfin lad, the two of them armed with bows and quivers slung over their shoulders, Elfin blades strapped to their belts.
Two Elfin archers—some of the most dangerous warriors on all of Erthia.
Worry spears through me. Rafe’s competent, to be sure, and skilled with a variety of weapons. But he’s no match for Elves.
Rafe immediately releases Wynter’s arm. She’s risen to her knees, green porridge all over her ivory garments. She stares at Rafe, wide-eyed.
“Stay away from my sister!” the older Elf snarls, the words heavily accented as he takes a threatening step toward Rafe and reaches for his knife. “Stay away from our women!”
Rafe holds his hands palms out to the Elf. “Relax, friend, I was only...”
“I am not your friend!” the Elf hisses through gritted teeth.
Rafe carefully steps back and bows. “I was only trying to help her. With respect.”
“Your kind don’t know the meaning of respect!”
Rafe takes a deep breath as he warily regards the Elf. He turns back toward Wynter, who’s still kneeling on the floor. “Are you okay?” Rafe asks, careful not to touch her this time.
Wynter looks up at him and nods slowly.
Wynter’s brother pushes past Rafe and helps Wynter to her feet before turning to glare at my brother. “Don’t ever speak to her again. Do you understand?”
“You’ve made yourself quite clear,” Rafe replies calmly.
The Elf shoots Rafe one last, withering glance before leading Wynter out of the dining hall, the two of them trailed by the other Elfin archer.
Fallon is looking at Wynter, a pleased expression on her face, her brothers talking with each other, already having lost interest.
And then she turns her head and looks straight at me.
Her smile is slow and malicious, and it sends a chill down my spine. She leans to say something to her brothers, and they both glance over at me with the same dark smiles. I inwardly recoil as Fallon lightly pats her wand, then laughs and leaves the dining hall with her brothers.
I slump down in relief.
A few moments later Rafe returns to our table. He’s carrying a stack of small bowls and a large, steaming bowl of oatmeal coated with a generous helping of roasted chestnuts, honey and sweet butter.
“Stop attacking the Elfin maidens,” Trystan wryly advises Rafe as he fusses with Gareth’s splint.
Rafe shoots Trystan a look of mock scorn as he sets out the stack of wooden bowls for us and spoons oatmeal into them.
“You’re going to get yourself shot,” Trystan warns. “With one of those long arrows of theirs.”
“I guess that’s what you get when you try to help Icarals,” I say stiffly as Aislinn accepts a bowl of oatmeal from Rafe.
“The girl’s brother is rude,” Rafe says as he hands me a full bowl, “but his hostility is not completely unjustified.”
“How can you say that?” I snipe. “He should have thanked you. Ancient One knows, she doesn’t deserve your help.”
Rafe’s brow tightens, and he pauses in his serving. “I thought Ariel was the one who attacked you.”
“She was, but Wynter made no move to help me, all night long, knowing I was being terrorized.” I feel a fresh prick of angry tears.
Aislinn puts a comforting hand on my arm.
“Even so,” Rafe says as he pours himself hot cider from a ceramic pitcher, “she’s an outcast among Elves and Gardnerians, and Kelts as well, to some extent. That puts her in a dangerous situation. Her brother’s just trying to protect her.” He sits down and stirs his oatmeal. “I shouldn’t have touched her. I forgot that their etiquette is different.”
“It’s best to stay away from non-Gardnerians,” I comment bitterly.
Rafe and Trystan shoot me looks of alarmed censure.
I color. “I don’t mean Gareth. Gareth, you know I don’t mean you. You’re Gardnerian.”
Gareth winces as Trystan tightens the bandage. “It’s okay, Ren. I know you’re not talking about me.”
I look to Trystan for reassurance. My quiet younger brother is always long on listening and slow to judge. Trystan gives me a small, encouraging smile, but Rafe is still blinking at me with concern.
“They hate me,” I defend myself to him, feeling lost. “They all hate me just because I look like our grandmother.”
Rafe takes a deep breath and reaches across the table to put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. I wish we’d been here.”
“I know,” I mumble.
Rafe squeezes my hand in solidarity and smiles resignedly. Quiet for a moment, he glances down at the table. When he looks back up at me, his expression has grown strained. “Ren, Uncle Edwin...” His voice trails off.
“I heard,” I say sadly. “The Lodging Mistress told me he was ill. Do you have any news? Is he getting better?”
“Aunt Vyvian has him under a physician’s care.” Rafe is quiet for a moment. “Ren, he’s lost use of the left side of his body.”
I can feel myself growing lightheaded as the weight of this new reality sinks in.
“Will he get it back?” I force out.
“Maybe. A little.”
I swallow, my throat gone dry. “Enough to make violins?”
Rafe pauses before answering. “No.”
“Oh, no. Oh, Ancient One, no...” I hang my head as the tears come.
Aislinn hastily fishes a handkerchief out of her pockets and I absentmindedly take it. A thousand memories swirl around me. Uncle Edwin teaching a small me to make braided holiday bread with his nimble fingers. Uncle Edwin guiding my tiny hands on my violin. The sweet sound of Uncle Edwin playing by the fire on cold winter nights. A jagged fear rides in close on the heels of these images from my happy childhood.
Uncle Edwin will lose his business. We’ve never been well-to-do, but now we’ll be poor. And beholden to Aunt Vyvian.
Perhaps I’ve no choice. Perhaps I’ll have to fast to wealthy Lukas Grey.
“In two years Trystan will be able to earn a wage as a Weapons Mage, and you’ll be apprenticed to a physician,” Rafe says, as if reading my mind. “You’ll make a good wage, as well. And you’ve work to pay off your tithe.”
“Rafe,” I say, my voice low. “Lukas Grey...he wants to fast to me.”
Rafe’s face darkens. “You’d be a fool to fast to Lukas Grey. Especially for money.”