“I know that you still have family there,” he continued, serious once more. “I know you may choose to return to Valenia. But always know that you have a home here, with Luc and me.”
I met his gaze as his words settled like gentle rain over me. I had a home, a family, and friends on both sides of the channel. I thought of my brave Merei, who had departed Maevana to return to Valenia, despite my begging her to stay. She still had obligations, a four-year contract with Patrice Linville to uphold. But when those four years were over . . .
I had shared my idea with her, hoping it would eventually draw her back. It was a purpose that had begun to blossom in the far reaches of my mind, one I was almost afraid to speak aloud. But Merei had smiled when I told her; she even said she might return for such a purpose.
“Now,” Jourdain said, rising to his feet, offering his hand to pull me up along with him. “There is a horse saddled and ready for you.”
“For what?” I asked, letting him guide me from the copse of trees.
“Lord Morgane’s holding is only a short ride from here,” Jourdain explained, and I swear I saw a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Why don’t you ride there now, invite him for a celebratory feast in our hall tonight?”
I had to hold back another laugh, but he saw the helpless crinkling of my nose. I was surprised by how he knew it too, this irresistible draw between Cartier and me. As if it were obvious for the world to see when I stood near my former master, like the desire was a catching flame between our bodies. But perhaps I shouldn’t be shocked; it had been evident even before the solstice, before I had come to wholly realize it.
Jourdain led me to where he had the horse waiting, in the cool shadows of the stables. I pulled myself up in the saddle, felt the wind sigh golden with hay and leather in my hair as I looked down at my father.
“Take the western road,” he said, patting the mare’s withers. “Follow the Corogan flowers. They shall guide you to Morgane.”
I was just about to nudge my horse onward, my heart like an eager drum, when Jourdain took the reins, forced me to look at him.
“And be back before dark,” he admonished. “Or else I will worry.”
“Don’t worry, Father,” I replied, but I was smiling, and he gave me a pointed look that said I had better not go off and handfast without his knowing.
Nessie sat obediently at his side, as if she knew I needed to take this ride alone.
The mare and I took to the fields, chasing after the sun in the west, following the promise of blue wildflowers.
THIRTY-FOUR
AVIANA
Lord Morgane’s Territory, Castle Brígh
Castle Brígh stood in a grove of oaks, a beautiful crumbling estate built in the foothills of the Killough Mountains. My mare slowed as I approached the trees, as I realized that Cartier’s homecoming had been nothing like Jourdain and Luc’s.
It was quiet, dilapidated. For twenty-five years, the Morgane holding had been left to fall apart, abandoned, given back to the earth.
I slid from the horse and left her tethered in the shade of one of the oaks, next to Cartier’s gelding. And then I began to walk to the courtyard, my fingers brushing over the tips of the long grass, where the Corogan faithfully bloomed in a glory of cold-loving petals. I followed the narrow trail that Cartier had blazed through the thicket, stopping to pick several of the flowers, careful to avoid the thorns on their stems.
I remembered how he liked my hair down and loose, how he had once crowned me with wildflowers. So I took out my braids and let my tresses fall wild and free, tucking a few of the Corogan flowers in my windblown hair.
I looked down at my breeches, my boots, the loose draws of my linen shirt, the pendant that gleamed silver over my heart. This is who I am, all I have to give him.
I ascended the broken steps of his courtyard.
It was quiet. Nature had gradually regained much of the terrace; vines weaved down walls, through the broken windowpanes. An assortment of weeds worked their way up to fearsome bullies through the cracks in the stones, provoking me to sneeze when I passed them. But I could see the path Cartier had taken. He had chopped and beaten his way through the tangling greenery to the twin front doors, which hung at sad angles from their iron hinges.
The shadows of the interior were refreshing to my face—which would undeniably gain a sunburn come evening—and I walked carefully through the foyer, taking heed of the vines and plants that had claimed shattered pieces of the floor. Somehow, the disaster was beautiful to me. The furniture still stood, coated with dust and taken by cobwebs. I stopped at a chair in the foyer, and as my fingers touched a pattern in the dust, I imagined Cartier had once sat in it as a child.
“I wondered when I would see you again.”
His voice startled me. I jumped upright, my hand pressed to my heart as I turned to see him standing halfway down the grand staircase, watching me with a hint of a smile.
“You know better than to startle me like that!” I scolded.
He continued descending the stairs, through streams of sunlight that illumined the arched windows.
“Welcome,” he greeted. “Would you like the grand tour?”
“Yes, Lord Morgane.”
He wordlessly held his hand out for me, and my fingers wove among his. “Let me show you the second floor,” Cartier offered, guiding me back up the stairs, pointing to broken stones I should avoid.
“Do you remember living here?” I asked, my voice filling the corridor as I let him pull me through cobwebs and dust, through the places where he had once lived.
“Sometimes I think I do,” he replied, pausing. “But honestly, no. I was just a child when my father and I fled. Here, this is my favorite room.”
We walked into a wide chamber, open and full of light. Dropping his hand, I passed through the room, taking in the marble bookshelves built into the walls which still held an impressive collection of books, the cracked mirror that hung upon the rose-stoned hearth, the furniture that sat exactly as it had been left over two decades ago. I went directly to the wall of large mullioned windows, pieces of broken glass remaining as jagged little teeth, admiring the view of the pastures.
“Where are your people, Cartier?” I asked, unable to hold my curiosity.
“They will arrive tomorrow. I wanted to see the castle for myself, alone.”
And I could understand. I appreciated solemn, private moments, ones where I could reflect and think. But perhaps more than that, I realized that he had wanted to see his parents’ room, his sister’s room, without an audience.
Before the melancholy could creep upon us, I stated, “I think I could look at this view every day and be content.”
“You missed the best part of the room,” Cartier remarked, and I frowned and turned on my heel.
“What? The books?”
“No, the floor.”