Chris left the Council room seething. They knew full well that her men faced trained soldiers – Tinto's regular army, no less – on the southeastern front, and not mere bands of seasonal bandits as they claimed. What was the point of pretending they weren't at war?
'Amassing greater numbers so close to the border might be construed as hostile', my foot, Chris thought savagely as she stomped down the stairs, her footfalls dissatisfyingly muted by the carpet. We must be facing the better half of Tinto's army already. I don't see how things could be much worse if they did officially declare war. A bitter smile rose on her face at the thought. That, if nothing else, would force the Council to see reason and give her the men she needed. She had fewer than half that at the moment.
Damned lot of fat-bellied paper-pushers playing at Goddess only knew what while her forces were being slowly ground down by superior numbers. And they had the gall to rebuke her for it.
The building seemed even drearier than usual; the white plaster walls and thick carpets seemed to be sucking up all the air. She nodded curtly at the marshals who opened doors for her as she made her way quickly out of the building. She couldn't quite manage a smile or thanks, but they did at least deserve acknowledgement. It wasn't their fault their masters – her masters, too, as she'd been forcefully reminded - were so infuriating. And standing door duty commanded little enough respect as it was, Chris knew; she'd taken her turn at the leg-cramping pastime as a cadet.
It was a relief to step out into the open square, where the laughter of children playing in the square and the cascade of the fountain made a welcome contrast to the officious silence that held sway in the building. She thought she saw a familiar face or two among a group playing ball, but only ordinary curiosity and awe shone in the children's expressions.
Although it wasn't yet suppertime, there weren't many people out on the streets. A well-dressed merchant hurrying towards the docks, a group of older women gossiping in front of a house, and a few other pairs and individuals on their way somewhere. Caught up in their own lives, none of them seemed to desire more than a smile and a nod from Zexen's lady hero, and she reached home unaccosted. This was just as well; right now she didn't trust herself to hold a civil conversation with a stranger.
The garden gate swung closed behind her with a familiar wrenching creak, and a light in one of the front rooms dimmed. Someone had been waiting for that sound, and was headed to the front door to greet her. Remembrance relaxed Chris's frown to a thoughtful line; she and her mother had often waited in that same room, listening for her father's return. They'd meet him at the door, and he'd embrace her mother, and then her. They'd retire to the parlor, sometimes, and if it wasn't too warm, her father would call for hot tea…
Hot tea, she decided, her hand on the door. Hot tea, a bath, and perhaps after supper, she'd read a book for a bit, to quiet her mind. Not reports, not paperwork, but an actual book. Maybe then, her mind at ease, she'd be able to sort out the Council's nonsense. Dinner, too, was something to look forward to; it might even have vegetables in it. There would be soft white bread instead of hard flat slabs so blackened she sometimes wondered if she'd been given a lump of charcoal instead. And she'd retire early, to a real bed. After a few months at the front, regularly covered in dust and sleeping on a pallet, she looked forward to these quiet pleasures and luxuries of civilization.
She opened the door and stepped into the softly lit foyer to be immediately welcomed by the two most senior servants: her butler Andrew le Beurre, and the housekeeper. Not that there were many needed to maintain the family manse, with only one Lightfellow remaining. After exchanging greetings and informing them of her plans for the evening and her departure the next morning, Chris ascended the stairs to her room, to wash and change for dinner.
The bath was everything she had hoped it would be. Muscles she hadn't realized were tight unknotted in the warm water, and her frustration with the Council washed away with the dirt. The porcelain tub was a bit cramped, especially compared to the large public bathhouses, but Chris treasured the solitude it afforded. Privacy was another luxury mostly absent in a war camp.
Afterwards, comfortably wrapped in a dressing gown, Chris sat on a stool by the fire while Molly brushed out her hair. It wasn't a very tall stool; now that she was grown, her feet easily reached the floor. There had been a time when they hadn't, though, and she would swing her legs impatiently as Molly – then her nursemaid, now her lady's maid – gently brushed her hair.
Both her hair and legs were longer now, but so was her patience. She no longer bent her head forward or back to escape the brush, nor took off as soon as she was out of the bath, running on a five-year-old's chubby legs and dripping all over the room. Instead she sat still while Molly tackled the snarls. There were more of these, too, than there had been when she was younger.
"You ought to wear your hair down more often, milady," the older woman told her as she pulled the boar-bristle brush through damp tangles. It tickled against Chris's scalp. "It suits you better than having it pinned up in braids."
They'd had this discussion often before; it was nearly ritual. "It won't stay under my helmet if I wear it down."
"Of course I didn't mean when you were away fighting. I meant when you're home." The brush stopped. "Not that you're home much these days, milady," the woman continued rebukingly, and attacked another tangle.
"Tinto's keeping us busy." A few years ago, she would have said Grassland. Before that, the training master.
"Your mother often wore hers down, you know," Molly continued. "Especially when she was younger. The other young ladies would tell her it wasn't fashionable any longer – and she'd retort that long hair never went out of fashion."
Chris closed her eyes; the gentle tug at her hair was soothing.
"She was right, of course. It made her very popular with the young gentlemen, although she had only eyes for your father. People didn't think much of him at that time, either – he was just foreigner who came to stay with the Lightfellow family. And by the time he became Captain and everyone realized what a catch he was, he was already married to your mother." Chris felt the older woman take careful hold of a length of hair, and heard the clatter of the brush being set down. Molly's next words were accompanied by the musical pinging of a comb's teeth as they came free of a snarl. "Their engagement was quite the seven-days'-wonder. The only daughter of the prestigious Lightfellow family and a foreigner so common he didn't even have a last name! But for all that, their courtship was a proper one. They were never without a chaperone, and he did all the proper things – he asked your grandfather's permission just to court her. And of course there were the letters he wrote her!"
Molly sighed contentedly, as she always did here, and Chris felt her drop the section she'd been holding. "Such scandalous things! Nothing improper of course, but young men do let their hearts run away with their head and their pens. We all giggled and teased her at the time – I was with your family even then, milady, although I was but the youngest maid, and Lady Anna always was the sort to include us in her life and ask us for counsel." Normally Molly was still sighing at this point, her tone as much a part of the ritual as her words, but this time Chris caught just the faintest note of rebuke in her voice.
"But they were quite kind letters. Very tender, your father always was towards her." A stroke of the comb whispered gently through drying hair, but the next cut rudely into the familiar ritual as Chris leaned back from the pull of comb caught on snarl. "Even after they were married, he always said such sweet things to her. Just pulling her chair out for her at dinner, he'd often bend over and whisper some compliment or sweeting to her."
Molly sighed again; she clearly found that quite romantic. Privately Chris thought such behavior might get rather tiresome, especially if there was something more important to discuss. Then again, her parents had never had work in common – her mother had been a knight's daughter but never a soldier herself. It was doubtful that they had discussed squad assignments or a squire's investiture at the table.
"Your mother was always tickled by that," Molly continued as she always had, comb exchanged for the brush again. "And every time he came home from fighting, after dinner, she'd tell me, 'Oh, Molly, he still says the sweetest things to me. I'm so glad the war hasn't turned him ungentle.' She did worry so when he was gone, because that was the part of his life where he had the greatest burdens, and where she could do nothing for him."
There was more to the ritual, more about her parents, if her hair was still tangled, but the brushing stopped, so Chris rose from her seat. "Thank you, Molly."
"You know, milady…" Molly returned the brush and comb to Chris's washstand. "I rather miss those evenings when your parents – and you, of course – would dine together. This house has been empty for so long."
"I'm afraid it's going to be empty for quite a while longer," Chris said, reaching for her chemise. "I'm only here for this night, and then it's back to the front. And the Council refused my request for calling more soldiers…" She could feel herself tensing again, just at the thought of the Council, and yanked the undershirt over her head roughly. "I have no idea how long this war is going to last."
"It was nice last winter, when Lords Borus and Salome would come to visit," Molly said reflectively. "You ought to have invited them over more often."
"Yes, that was nice, wasn't it." Why did the Council refuse to listen to her? Chris fumbled with her stays, her mind only half on the task. They knew, they had to know, what the situation out there was like. Getting them to approve returning the fifth and seventh infantry units this spring had been like pulling teeth, and they'd almost not granted her Percival and his cavalry company…
"You know, milady, no one will think it odd if you were to invite Lord Borus – or the pair of them - over for a purely social visit when you're home next time," Molly suggested. "You needn't wait until there's knights' business to discuss."
"A purely social visit?" Chris blinked, mind still on the Council and hands still struggling with her stays. "Oh, I see. I didn't really mind that they were for work." Her consternation grew as it became clear that her stays weren't going to fit properly. It was too loose in back, and the boning seemed warped. Surely two months wasn't long enough to forget what civilian clothes felt like.
"It's done up in the back," Molly said helpfully, just as Chris realized she'd had the thing on backwards. "I've got your others airing out, for your return."
Turning so Molly could lace up the canvas bodice for her, Chris quietly took a deep breath, only to let it out in a sharp gasp when the maid slapped her across the rump.
"I know that trick of yours, milady," the older woman said reprovingly, cutting off her outcry. "I may be a city woman, but I've a cousin who knows horses, and they do the same if they don't want their saddle so tight."
Chris decided to salvage her remaining dignity by not answering, since that was exactly where she'd gotten the idea.
Molly wasn't done rebuking her. "You'll develop a slouch if your stays are too loose, you know. I suppose there's nothing to be done if you've got to be swinging a sword all over the place, but when you're home safe, there's really no reason to let it slide." She emphasized her words by pulling the laces tighter. Chris grunted.
"There we go." Molly thumped her gently between the shoulder blades. "And don't pull faces at me. They aren't that tight, milady, nowhere near the things young ladies wear for fashion. And you're thinner these days. Don't they feed you properly in that army of yours?"
So that was what this was about. "I get the same as the others," Chris replied as she shrugged on a blouse. "And there's plenty, even if it is half beans. We're short on men, not rations." She tried to smile. "We haven't had many casualties, either – most of our engagements are too brief for that. There's nothing to fret about, Molly."
Molly sighed, a very different sigh from her sentimental nostalgia earlier. "I suppose not, milady."