“Hello,” he said awkwardly. “I’m Myron.”
He held out his hand. Alenda, still in full curtsy, looked up, confused. She spotted his outstretched arm and gave an odd glance to the other woman before taking it. She kissed the back of his hand.
Myron hauled his hand back, shocked. A long uncomfortable silence followed.
“I really wish I had some cookies to offer you,” he said at length.
Again, silence.
“We always had cookies at the abbey for guests.”
“I want to ask your forgiveness, Your Lordship,” Alenda burst out in a quavering voice, “for failing to meet you before this. I know it was wrong of me and that you have every reason to be angry. I have come now to beg you to be merciful.”
Myron looked at the woman before him, baffled. He blinked several times.
“You are begging mercy—from me?”
Alenda looked at him, horrified. “Oh please, my lord, have pity. I didn’t even know you lived until I was fourteen, and then I heard about you only in passing during a dinner conversation. It really wasn’t until I was nineteen that I fully realized I had another brother and that Father had sentenced you to that awful place. I know I am not blameless. I realize my misdeeds and fully admit to you my foul nature. When I heard you lived, I should have come at once and embraced you, but I did not. Still, you must understand I am not accustomed to traveling abroad and visiting strange men, even if they are my long-lost brother. If only our father had brought me to you—but he refused and sadly I did not press.”
Myron stood frozen in place.
Looking at him, Alenda wailed, “Sentence me as you must, but please do not torture me any longer. My heart cannot stand it.”
Myron’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He stepped back, stunned.
Alenda stood wavering on her feet. In the silence between them, she looked at the frayed, coarse woolen frock he wore and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward him, her hands shaking. She reached out, touching his garment, letting it play between her fingers, and whispered with a closing throat, “I am sorry for how Father treated you. I am sorry for how I treated you. I am sorry for all that you have been forced to endure by our selfishness, but please don’t turn me out into the cold. I’ll do whatever you ask, but please have pity.” Alenda fell to her knees before him weeping into her hands.
Myron fell to his own knees and, reaching out, put his arms around his sister and hugged her. “Please stop crying. I don’t know what I did to hurt you, but I’m very sorry.” He looked up at Emily and mouthed, “Help me.”
The maid just stared at him in shock.
Alenda looked up, dabbing the tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “You aren’t going to strip me of my title? Drive me off our land and force me to fend for myself?”
“Oh dear Maribor, no!” Myron exclaimed. “I could never do that! But—”
“You won’t?”
“Of course not! But—”
“Will you—could you also grant me my dowry of the Rilan Valley?” she said, and then very quickly added, “I only ask because no decent man would ever marry a woman without an adequate dowry. Without this I would continue to be a burden to you and the estate. Of course, the Rilan is very good land and I understand that you may not want to part with it, but Father promised it to me. Still I would be happy with anything you are willing to grant.”
“But I can’t give you anything. I’m only a monk of the Winds Abbey.” He pulled the cloth of his frock out from his chest. “This is all I own. This is all I’ve ever owned. And technically I think this belongs to the abbey.”
“But—” Alenda looked at him, stunned. “Don’t you know?”
Myron waited, blinking again.
“Our father and brothers are all gone, fallen in the battle against the elves. They died at Drondil Fields—”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Myron said. He patted her hand. “I mourn for your loss. You must feel awful.”
“They were your family as well.”
“Yes, of course, but I was not as close to them as you were. Actually, I only met Father, and just once. But that does not diminish my sympathy for you. I am so sorry for you. Is there anything I can do?”
A questioning furrow across her brow, Alenda exchanged looks with Emily.
“I’m not sure you understand. With their passing, our family’s fortune and title passes to you. They left you your inheritance. You are the Marquis of Glouston. You own thousands of acres of land, a castle, villages—barons and knights are all yours to command. You control the lives of hundreds of men and women who live or die at your decree.”
Myron shivered and grimaced. “No, no. I’m sorry, you must be mistaken. I want none of that. I don’t suppose I could trouble you to take care of those things?”
“So I can have the Rilan Valley?”
“Oh no—well, I mean, yes—I mean, everything. I don’t want it. You can have it all—well, are there any books?”