Top of the Morning
By: Amber Michelle
One of many warm-up prompts my Friends list on LJ provided for my use during Nanowrimo. It may feel somewhat incomplete, but I won't be writing any additional parts.
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Wind and the patter of rain against her windows woke Lyn to begin her second morning in Caelin, the sun only a blurry yellow line to the east when she parted the curtains. Her clothes sat washed and folded on a trunk - her mother's trunk, the chamberlain told her, which used to sit in the attic, hiding an unused wedding dress, a half-embroidered veil, needlework, a quilt sewn by her mother's own hand, all crimson rectangles and large white squares with flowerpots bursting to life in complimentary pastel colors. She'd pulled it out to use, and even after all this time, it smelled like the woman who made it - lavender and soap.
Lyn dressed and ignored the call rope by her little table, where she was told a lady should eat breakfast. It was tiny - there was only one chair, barely room for the massive tea tray they tried to serve her with the day before, and knowing Kent - if she asked him to come in and talk with her over breakfast he would object. I apologize Lady Lyndis, but for a knight to intrude in your personal rooms--
Lyndis. Always Lyndis. Even Florina did it. One shouldn't refer to one's lady by a familiar name.
There was a commotion when she went downstairs to the kitchen - she should have rung for breakfast, she should have sent someone, should have warned them, should have - and even though Lyn was sure a cook shouldn't shoo her lady away like a child, Caelin's kitchen mistress managed to make it sound like a courtesy. Lunch was already cooking, and maybe dinner too, leaving the air heavy with the scent of roasting venison, potatoes, sweet peppers, rice and chicken, and something honeyed and tart. An assistant followed her to the drawing room with a plate of pastries, because Lady Caelin shouldn't exert herself by carrying her own breakfast. Kent was there as the girl promised, not yet armed, a book held flat open in one hand and a stick of graphite in the other.
A small fire burned in the grate opposite the window, which displayed the same vista she'd enjoyed from her own room, all rolling hills, misty mountains, straggling ivy over the glass. Lyn waved the assistant away when asked where her pastries should go. "Kent--"
Kent looked up and jumped like he'd been struck by lightning. "Lady Lyndis!" He shot up, almost lost his book, scrambled to catch it and hold it behind his back. His fingers were smeared gray. "I apologize-- it's a lovely morning, what brings you here?"
Rain struck the windows, driven by a gust of wind. It might have been her imagination, but his cheeks looked ruddy - on both sides, it wasn't just the fire. "I was going to ask if you'd eaten." Lyn reached back to tighten her ponytail. The cook's assistant squeaked when she was spotted by the table, staring, and hurried out. "Um..."
His shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'm not worthy of such an honor," Kent said, not quite looking her in the eyes.
No? After traveling together for months, eating at the same tables in the same inns--? Lyn clasped her hands back and looked at the gray sky. The window panes rattled in the wind.
"If-- ah, there is anything I can do, Lady Lyndis..."
"There is." She glanced at the table by the hearth. It was big enough for three or four, draped with a white tablecloth. The fire blushed her plate red and gilded the edge, made the sugar-dusted treats shimmer. "Florina used to bring treats to the plains, but I don't know what any of those are," Lyn said. "Why don't you explain them to me?" His gaze whipped to the table, and she grinned. "That's an order."
...