Chapter 6: Proof
"It wasn't murder," Merlin said finally. "The man killed himself."
"What?" said Zandy incredulously. Gaius looked thoughtfully into the distance; Leon inhaled, drawing himself up to his full height.
Merlin gritted his teeth, expecting the disbelief, the doubt of him because of – well, any of a dozen reasons, really.
Whatever the rancher would have said was forestalled. Cedric and Quen had finished arranging the corpse for transportation, and were coming to join them.
"Morning, Reeve!" the undertaker - a thin lathe of a man whose lank blonde hair and glue-green eyes looked bleached by too much exposure to the sun - called cheerily. "Bad luck to have to deal with a murder your first day back!"
Merlin hadn't met Quen face to face his first time in Emmett's Creek, but remembered having the impression that the man was too jovial for his work.
It was odd to look at the man's frying-pan hands and think that he had buried the man who'd murdered Merlin's family.
"Not a murder," Gaius answered as Leon opened his mouth. His voice sounded calm and sure – Merlin wondered if the old man had accepted his pronouncement, or was just pretending, to make things easier for him and Freya. "Reeve Merlin says Old Matt killed himself."
"Really?" Quen said.
"Can't be, Reeve," Cedric said positively. "I know me and Leon here would be first in line to be considered for the one who done it, but Old Matt was just too ornery to kill himself. What you don't know is, earlier this spring we were thinking Old Matt killed his wife, because my wife had come over with preserves or some such, and she wasn't around, and he wouldn't give my wife a straight answer where she was. Me and Zandy rode over here to have a look, but never saw where he might have buried her." Cedric paused, and added with a touch of maliciousness, "And without no reeve to investigate, we figure Old Matt got away with it." He turned to face Leon. "Maybe she had someone in town used to treat her nicer than Matt would, and he found out and got jealous, and then her lover found out Matt killed her, and killed him."
It would be a real problem if this rumor got started. Because if speculation started to grow, and Merlin refused to look for a murderer – because there wasn't one – the end result might be a posse with some unlucky nobody, and Merlin facing them down. If people believed there'd been a murder, Merlin might spend his lifetime trying unsuccessfully to live down a reputation of laziness or incompetence.
"Matt's wife had nothing to complain about," Merlin interrupted. "He loved her." Whether she'd known it or not, well…
All six men looked at him.
"You say he came before first snowfall," Merlin said to Leon. "Not many men would measure out their barn and start digging a well, in addition to having the cabin built."
"That don't mean he loved her," Cedric protested, ready to defend his slanderous theory.
Merlin pointed. "Water source fifty yards away, but he's digging her a well in the sideyard. There was her clothesline. And," he paused, "they were expecting a baby."
Gaius nodded corroboration. "Not many men would bring their wives to the doctor in the middle of the night when something's going wrong, either."
"They had a horse?" Merlin said.
Leon and Cedric looked at each other, remembering, and Leon said, "Sure did. Two-wheeled cart, too."
"So his wife loses her baby, and has a hard time of it," Merlin continued "Cart gone, horse gone. No dishes, no blankets on the bed – wife gone."
"The man who killed Old Matt could've stolen–" Cedric started.
"If Matt was as mean and tough as you claim – and I could see for myself he wasn't a small man – how does someone get a rope around his neck and string him up in his own kitchen – and Matt never fights back," Merlin said, starting to lose his temper. "The man loses his child, and his wife leaves him with next to nothing. He rips up the curtains, stops building the barn or digging the well. Doesn't even care to keep his woodbox full through the winter, he chops and burns his furniture instead." He held out his hand to show them the ashy dresser knob. "One day he's had enough – hacks off enough clothesline to hang himself with, chops a length of wood and kicks it out from underneath himself."
Leon and Cedric looked at each other again. Quen was nodding good-willed agreement, Dan and Zandy looking from one to the other, unsure what to believe. Gaius was watching Merlin as he used to his first few weeks in town – eyes sharp, speculative.
"You're sure?" Leon said.
"There's no evidence he fought someone off, no evidence he was attacked without warning – Gaius agrees," Merlin said. "The rope was tied to the rafter first – someone committing murder by hanging ties the rope around the man's neck, throws it over the beam, pulls it tight."
Cedric glanced guiltily at Leon, who didn't look away from Merlin. He met the rancher's gaze squarely, not accusing or apologizing.
"Fresh sawdust under the rope on the rafter, one log kicked away, no other wood in the woodbox, ax left lying because he knows he doesn't need it anymore," Merlin finished. "You can believe me or not, but there was no murder. I'll talk to the bank manager–"
"Clayton," Gaius supplied.
"To see if there's been any interest shown in the property," Merlin continued. "If there has, I'll follow that up to see if I could be wrong. If not," he shrugged. "I hope I don't hear any rumors in town about a murder."
There was silence. Cedric wiped sweat from his face to his sleeve, turned to look across at the undertaker's wagon. Dan and Zandy exchanged glances, shuffled their boots, watched their elders for a reaction. Leon studied the grass at his feet, Gaius kept watching Merlin. He began to feel much like he had as a boy at school, waiting for the teacher to realize he was right and hoping she wouldn't disagree because she was embarrassed to be proved wrong.
He said to Leon, "The town pays for the burial?"
Leon and Quen said, "Yep," at the same time, and Quen elaborated, "If the deceased don't have no apparent funds."
"If you're going to talk to Clayton anyway," Leon went on, "you can mention Quen's fee to him – there's a fund from the taxes." Merlin saw a twinkle in the rancher's eyes. He added innocently, "The same as your pay, Reeve."
Merlin nodded without comment, turned toward the horses, but glanced back when Quen called, "See you tonight, Reeve." The undertaker backed toward his own wagon. "Got me some work this afternoon, but I'll be by at sundown." He grinned and waved, still cheerful.
Merlin continued toward his gelding; behind his back he heard Cedric say to Leon, "You coming to town for this?"
"I wouldn't hear the end of it from my wife, if I didn't," Leon answered. "She'll take any excuse to put on her best bonnet and go to town."
Gaius followed at Merlin's side in spite of the fact that the brown filly and his trap were waiting closer to Quen's wagon. "You're looking much better than when I saw you last," the old physician commented when they were out of earshot of the others. Merlin appreciated that, at least. "How does it feel to be a married man? And how's Freya?"
Merlin said, "She's happy to see her friends here again."
"Hm." He'd almost forgotten how sharp Gaius' eyes could be. "There's a great deal you left out, in that sentence."
He reached the gelding, placed both hands on the saddle to mount, but waited. The noon sun beat down, making him wish for the cooling breezes of autumn to come soon. He closed his eyes to Gaius' inquisitiveness and said tiredly, "Make it a question or make it goodbye."
"You've changed," Gaius observed; Merlin didn't answer. "When I asked you to look out for Freya on your trip and in Turad," he went on in a lightly scolding tone, "I didn't mean for you to marry her and bring her back here."
Neither did I, Merlin thought. But it had been the only way left for him to look after her. He jammed his boot into the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle, saying, "She turned me down when I asked her, the first time."
"What made her change her mind?" Gaius asked.
"Ask her," Merlin suggested. He turned his gelding's head in the direction of Emmett's Creek, across the countryside rather than down any road or track.
"I'll be seeing you," Gaius called after him.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Freya wasn't surprised to find herself alone in the room when she woke. Merlin was an early riser, habitually catlike about moving quietly. She dressed knowing she'd probably overslept breakfast by the better part of an hour, and expected she'd missed eating with him also.
When she got to the kitchen she found that Shasta had kept a plate warm for her. With Gwen married and moved and Percival in the common room, Freya and Shasta had the kitchen to themselves. Shasta sat down at the table with her to mix a mammoth basin of biscuit dough, kneading with strong fingers as Freya ate.
"How did you sleep last night?" she said conversationally.
"I had a hard time falling asleep," Freya answered honestly, before she remembered the previous evening's incident, and blushed. "Oh, Shasta – I'm sorry I didn't empty my bath – I'll be sure to remember that next time."
"Don't worry about it," Shasta said. "I expect you had a lot on your mind, hm?" Freya looked up to catch her grin and wink and felt her warm face flame even hotter. "I gather he walked in on you, just like you did him, remember?"
Freya raised her hands to cover her cheeks, and nodded without looking at Shasta.
"Honey, he's your husband, he's gonna wanna look at you now and then, and enjoy the looking, and whatever else it leads to."
"But it doesn't lead to anything," Freya said softly, not sure if she should feel miserable or relieved.
"Still not?" Shasta said, surprised even though Freya had already told her Merlin hadn't so much as embraced her since their wedding ceremony. "Well, you can rest your mind on one point, it ain't because he's not interested. You could've clubbed him across the back of the head and he never would've noticed, when he came out of there last night."
Freya winced, thinking of the deputy with the truncheon behind Merlin at the reeve's holding in Turad.
"And the way you galloped up the stairs after him, I thought surely he'd have taken your invitation, like."
"My invitation?" Freya said. "I didn't say anything."
"How did you behave?" Shasta said. "Are you letting him know he's welcome to you?" She let the roll of dough drop back into the basin and leaned forward to study Freya's face, her expression suddenly serious. "Freya – is he welcome to you?"
"He's my husband," she answered, feeling a little silly to be stating the obvious. "I belong to him, of course he can take me whenever he wants."
"But he hasn't yet," Shasta said, as if she expected an answer, so Freya shook her head. "Do you want him to?" Shasta demanded.
Freya desperately wished she didn't have to answer, but Shasta caught the truth of it just looking at her.
"You don't want him to come to you?" she asked, sounding as confused as she looked. "Freya – whyever not? He's good-looking as they come – when he's not glaring murder at you. He's clean, and young, and seems to treat you right nice."
"I know," Freya whispered, pushing her plate away; again she had no appetite.
"You know, dearie, your face is easy to read as an open book," Shasta said thoughtfully. "And Merlin is quick to see more than most realize. You ever consider he ain't coming to you that way because he can tell you don't want him to? I guess you didn't want Padlow, and I guess it never made no difference to him, but most men are too proud to keep trying for what you're not giving, even after you're married."
"But I would have," Freya objected. "I mean, I'm his wife, I have to–"
"There's an attraction," Shasta said dryly. "You'd give yourself to him if you have to, but you don't want to. And if you don't find him repulsive or mean, I gotta ask you again, why not?"
"Can we please not talk about it?" Freya said, feeling close to tears.
Maybe Merlin could tell she was scared to face that part of marriage again, and maybe that was keeping him from taking her. She didn't know whether she should be sorry for that, if it kept her from pain and humiliation, but it felt selfish also. And it made her wonder and worry if Merlin would lose his patience with her some violent day or if years would go by with her anxiously waiting and him growing more resentful. Why did the thought of both those options bother her? She'd been with Padlow enough months to know she could endure such a marriage. It was the idea of Merlin stepping into that role that made her feel sick to her stomach. Maybe she should just throw herself at him, suggest he quit waiting, just to get it over with.
She'd just as soon discuss the issue with Gaius, as bring it up to Merlin.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face. "You gotta learn to talk to your husband," Shasta advised, picking up the dough again. "How else are you gonna known what he's thinking, or let him know what's on your mind? You're either building up your marriage like a wall to be a strong defense and comfort against the world, or you're building up a wall between yourself and him. And that won't lead you an easy time of it, at all."
Freya wanted to say, Merlin's not the easiest person to talk to. But in all fairness, she knew he'd listen to whatever she wanted to say, and do his best to answer anything she asked. It was her own reluctance and embarrassment she had to fight against. Just as in her 'marriage' to Padlow. She sighed.
"Have you got any work I can help you with?" she asked Shasta, who grunted, but caught Freya's wish to drop the subject.
Alice stopped by shortly after to welcome Freya with a heartfelt hug, and the news that Merlin was out to Leon's ranch but still planned on the inauguration that evening.
Freya soon found herself relaxing into the familiar pace of keeping the tavern. Though she stayed in the kitchen during the noon hour, she kept checking to see if Merlin had returned for the meal, and had to admit her disappointment to herself when he didn't. She ate with Percival and Shasta, when most of the customers had gone back to their afternoon tasks, then Shasta got on her hands and knees in the garden while Freya filled the washtub for laundry in the fresh air and sunshine of the back area.
As she scrubbed Merlin's spare shirt down the washboard, her thoughts were in the washroom at Morgana's – the grass stains from the vicious match with Gwaine, Morgana's claim about Freya's feelings toward Merlin. And how Merlin himself seemed as comfortable and natural in the rough workman's tunic, the cadet uniform, and these country homespuns as the suit with jacket or vest he'd worn in Turad.
The garden plot was a sufficient distance from the clothesline that she and Shasta would have to raise their voices to converse, so they didn't. And the sound of his voice startled her so thoroughly that she jumped and splashed suds into her face.
"You know you don't have to do that," Merlin said.
She shook the water from her hands and raised her apron to dry her eyes before she turned. He was down on the back step, one forearm resting on his knee, rubbing the back of his neck with the other hand. She was dismayed at the feeling of irritation that rose in her that he could just arrive without her noticing, that she was always so undignified when he did.
Then she noticed how tired he looked, how dark the blue eyes that watched her. He hadn't been in the tavern at all when she woke; she wondered now how long he'd already been gone by the time she opened her eyes.
"Do what?" she said only.
He pointed, but whether at the apron covering her blue dress, the wet shirt on the washboard in the laundry tub, or the clothesline some paces behind her, she wasn't sure. Off to the side she saw Shasta straighten and peer back at them, shading her face from the sun with her hand, then struggle to her feet and wade down the row of leafy vegetables toward them.
"There's folks in town I can pay to do laundry," he said.
She looked down at her hands, rough and red from the work and the water, twisting the material of the apron, and didn't know what to say. Padlow had never asked for her help; he just hit her when things weren't done, and done properly. Merlin was just the opposite; he never asked her to do anything for him because he seemed to want her – still! – to leave him alone.
"I'm going to look at the reeve's quarters," he said then.
She nodded, and because he seemed to have paused for a response, hurried to say, "Do you want me to come with–"
At the same time he added, "If you want to walk with–"
Both of them stopped. He didn't say more, so she finished, "I'll just be a minute." She turned and hurried with the shirt to the end of the row of clothes already hung to dry.
Because it wasn't far, she heard Shasta demand of Merlin, "Why'd you do that?"
Whether he made any answer, she didn't hear, and tried to concentrate on the clothespin, fastening the shirt properly to the line so it wouldn't wrinkle as it dried. But she could hear Shasta go on.
"She's your wife – who do you expect to do your washing?" A quiet murmur from Merlin, then Shasta again – Freya's friend wasn't making any effort to keep her voice down. "And what do you think the folks in town would say if you're paying Miss Whoever down the street to wash your clothes? You want them thinking she's lazy and a bad wife, or that you've got another reason to visit Miss Laundry?"
Freya took her time straightening the wet cloth along the cord over her head, wishing for a breeze to cool her cheeks, or an excuse to move where she couldn't hear them. She appreciated Shasta's concern, but…
"And how else is she gonna show she loves you, if not by doing for you?" Shasta said.
Freya turned and fairly flew down the row of swaying laundry. Merlin was on his feet, his hands on his hips, his attention on Shasta, but he didn't reply. And he didn't look angry.
And he didn't look at her right away as she yanked the apron off, declaring, "I'm ready we can go!"
Shasta reached to take the apron, and Freya started down the alley to the front of the tavern, not sure if she should feel apprehensive or glad to hear his boots crunching down the alley behind her. She thought she should probably slow down, when she reached the board sidewalk, but the thought of him seeing her face – or what might his eyes tell her? – after Shasta's comment had her hurrying from his footsteps. How ridiculous they would look tearing down the street in this heat, ten paces apart!
But he caught up and stayed with her easily, his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, focused down to the reeve's office at the end of the street. She was relieved that he seemed inclined to let the moment pass, and by the time they reached the reeve's office she and her heart had calmed closer to normal.
She wondered if he'd want to look at the office, or the cells behind it, wondered what memories would come of the last time they were there, but he kept walking past the door, stepped off the sidewalk around into the alley. She followed, leaning around the corner to watch him mount the stairs to the upper story of the reeve's quarters and the outside door.
He seemed to be paying more attention to the quality of construction of the stairs and handrail than to her, so she trailed along behind him.
"Do you have the key?" she asked, when the knob didn't turn in his grip.
He answered by slipping his lockpicks out and going down on one knee. "Leon will bring it tonight when he comes."
"How many people do you think will want to see you swear in?" she said, and in the time it took her to ask the question, he had the door unlocked.
"I guess we'll find out," he said noncommittally. He pushed the door open as he stood, then stepped back for her to enter first.
The landing was tiny, and as she paused to allow her eyes to adjust from the brightness of outdoors to the dimness of the one-windowed interior, she was aware that he was close enough for their clothing to touch, to hear his near-silent breathing. And then it occurred to her – absurd notion – that it was traditional for newly-married men to carry their brides across the threshold, and if he decided to set up housekeeping here, it would be the first place they'd lived in as their own home, and not as guests.
She remembered how he'd supported her after she'd hurt her ankle during the fight at Jordan's house, how he'd tried to pick her up to carry her, and she hadn't let him.
"That bad?" he said from behind her, and she skipped startled forward into the semi-gloom.
Once inside, it was easier to see. There were two smallish rooms, to the right and left, and she'd instinctively entered the one on the left, toward the main street. It held a cookstove on the front wall and a rocking chair in the far corner, and in the wall closest to Mike's Mercantile, the window covered with a piece of sacking.
Mindful of his presence behind her, she crossed to it – it smelled of dust and disuse – and in trying to tuck it aside, the fabric parted and the whole thing came down in her hand. It felt grimy and she dropped it. But then they could see better, even if the window was filthy and only looked onto the mercantile's roof.
The walls were plain white plaster, dirty of course, but no holes or obvious stains that she could see. Merlin came toward her and she ducked to the side, but he was only examining the window to see if it would open without sticking, stay open without props, and shut without gaps. She went back to the open door and from there peeked into the second room at the back of the building.
It was the bedroom.
The head of a bed big enough for two was up against the partition, and the opposite outside wall was actually part of the roof, sloping inward to the ceiling. There was a small wardrobe against the far side wall and a dingy rug on the floor between the bed and the commode to her right. There was no cover for the shuck mattress, just a faded blue blanket crumpled at the foot.
Freya couldn't help thinking of Whatley's last morning. And now Merlin was reeve.
The thought sent a chill through her, like she wanted or needed to warn him, caution him to be careful. Life was so uncertain, so fragile.
He came to the doorway behind her; a quick glance showed he was visually checking walls, floor, ceiling. "What do you think?" he said, and his voice sounded both familiar and strange in the quietness of the space.
"Well…" was all she could manage, looking around, her awareness of their own living space, their bedroom, their bed, heightened.
"It's solid enough," he said, looking at her then. She noticed that he'd bared his head to come indoors; sometimes Padlow hadn't even removed his hat to sleep. "There's no sign the roof will leak, the walls and floors are good, the window adequate. You'll want to buy some things at Mike's, won't you, dishes and sheets and whatever; Mike will give you credit. I'll make sure of a table and a couple more chairs. To start with."
She was glad in a warm quiet way that he'd assumed she'd be with him; she didn't think she could handle a conversation with him asking her to make the decision to live with him or with Percival and Shasta. She knew she did much better when she was told what was expected, than if she had to decide, and maybe that made her a coward.
Then he said, "I can pay someone to come and give the place a good cleaning tomorrow."
She could do it. Did he think she couldn't, or that she didn't want to do the work? He didn't have to spend the money on someone else cleaning his house, when his wife was perfectly able to do it.
"Freya," he said, and she realized he'd been watching her expression. "You don't like it? If you don't want to–"
"It's fine," she interrupted. "It's fine." It was smaller than the suite at Morgana's, larger than Padlow's hut. It was about the size, she realized, of the small house she'd shared with her mother – half a lifetime ago, it seemed.
He rubbed at the scar on his forehead again, eyes closed momentarily. She thought he might say something further, but he simply nodded and left the room.
Why did she get the feeling that he was sad for some reason? That was a side of him she'd never seen – furiously grief-stricken, yes, but never just quietly sorrowful. She leaned against the partition and looked around it at him. He was standing at the window, but staring down at his boots.
Are you all right? she thought to ask, but he always answered in the affirmative and she suspected that wasn't always completely truthful. What are you thinking? She wondered what Gaius would say when he saw them – and she realized she hadn't seen her old friend yet. Perhaps the physician was busy, perhaps he hadn't yet heard they were back. Perhaps–
"What happened?" she said.
He turned, half-leaning and half-sitting on the window ledge. And he looked at her for a long time, studying her. Not in that piercing way he had of seeing her soul, but as if he were counting her parts, adding her up.
For the first time she didn't feel self-conscious; she wanted him to know exactly who and what he had for a wife. She wanted him to assess what she was capable of. What she could be strong enough for, for his sake.
"Some of a reeve's business is confidential, even from a wife," he said. She nodded understanding, prepared to take the statement as an explanation of why he wasn't going to talk to her, but he went on. "Some of it is very public, even when it shouldn't be. Some of it isn't going to be fit for a lady's ears." She thought again, suddenly, how very tired he looked. "I won't be perfect in deciding what to say to you and what not, and you may hear more from other folks. Just, please–" he took a deep breath – "don't ask me to tell you what I can't."
"I know it's going to be – awkward," she said haltingly. "For both of us. Because of – who we've been – in the eyes of the people here."
There was more that she wanted to say - I'm here for you, every time, all the time, I won't hurt you, betray you… Whatever happened that morning must have been very bad – but at least he didn't look injured in any way.
"You once told me I wasn't really much for talking," he said. "That's – not an easy thing to change."
She thought she understood. Shasta had told her they needed better communication; here was Merlin saying he would try. She guessed she would try, also. Part of that was giving him the benefit of the doubt on what he didn't say.
"Did you eat today?" she asked.
That was something she could do for him, though not yet here in the dust and grime, without wood and water, without food or pans. Whatley had taken most meals at the tavern – she supposed they could too, for a few days. Thinking about her growing mental list of items she needed to purchase from the mercantile while she waited on his response, her mind hadn't registered that he'd pushed up from his position at the window, and crossed the floor.
Merlin put his arms around her, under hers as she lifted hands instinctively defensive, held her close and firm, though not tightly. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, inhaling deeply several times.
And she wasn't afraid.
What he was taking from her now was something she wanted to share with her husband – comfort, support, reassurance, companionship – maybe there wasn't a word for it. It was something no one had come to her for, ever. Even Merlin hadn't seemed to need her before, hadn't seemed to need anyone. But maybe he'd been pushing away all this time because the last ones he'd loved and needed had been taken abruptly out of his life, leaving him alone.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing that he knew she loved him.
"It'll be sundown soon," he said, raising his head and moving past her.
Her palms tingled from the weave of his shirt, and she realized belatedly that she'd been rubbing his arms up to his shoulders as he held her. Merlin settled his hat on his head, low to his eyes, and didn't look at her when she exited the room, passed him on the landing. He shut the door, locked it again with his picks, and came down the stairs behind her.
But – he hadn't answered her question.
"Do you want–" she started, watching him and waiting for him to reach her, but a shout from the street interrupted.
He reacted by stepping in front of her smooth and quick as dancing; she peeked over his shoulder and saw Gaius on his lively filly just coming into view. Merlin continued onto the street as if nothing had happened, but she realized Gaius had noticed Merlin's instinct by his first words.
"What did you think was going to happen to her?" the old physician said. Merlin didn't respond, and Gaius chuckled, dismounting stiffly. "Yes, I'm early," he added, tying his filly's lead to the post in front of the reeve's office. "I just wanted you to know, Quen and I found nothing to warrant changing your mind."
Quen? That was the undertaker, Freya remembered. What had happened that morning?
"Here's Leon," Merlin said, his head turning to the left, watching down the road that led into town.
"And half his crew," Gaius added.
Freya came around Merlin on the board sidewalk. They were right – Leon's wagon with his plump wife beside him on the seat and the two little boys hanging over their shoulders was trailing and flanked by half a dozen riders. Leon pulled the wagon just past them, whoa-ed his team, and set the brake. The children tumbled down from the back, and Leon's wife clambered down over the wheel. Leon himself came around the back of the wagon as the riders continued down the street, and his wife herded the boys into the mercantile.
"If you want to get some dinner," Merlin said aside to her, "Gaius, will you walk Freya down to the tavern?"
She wasn't hungry, but she had been asking him about eating, so the misinterpretation was understandable. Whatever had happened, it was clear Gaius had already seen Merlin, already knew. And by Alice's report, Merlin had been planning to see Leon when he left town that morning, so Leon probably knew, too. Freya supposed she was being dismissed, but it was so much more gracefully handled than Padlow's customary, Git outta here! that she was grateful to him. She accepted Gaius' arm and started back toward the tavern as Leon came to speak to Merlin in a low voice.
"I already told Merlin welcome, but welcome to you also," Gaius said. "I'm glad to see you." She murmured her thanks; Gaius added, "I hope you can settle in without incident."
She sighed, glancing back at Leon and Merlin, who had his hands on his hips. "He didn't tell me."
Gaius grunted. "I'd be surprised to hear he had," he declared. "Probably you'll hear rumors, but he'll tell you the truth if you ask. And if you don't feel comfortable asking him, I'll set anything straight you might be wondering about." She nodded, though she didn't figure she probably would. Then Gaius said, "Speaking of wondering, Merlin told me this morning that you turned him down when he proposed. Mind telling me why you changed your mind?"
She did, a little, it was partly to do with the letter he'd sent. And she appreciated that Merlin hadn't told him that. "Are you surprised?"
"I'm surprised he asked you," Gaius said. She guessed that meant the reason the marriage was necessary was still private to Shasta and maybe Percival. "He didn't ever strike me as the marrying kind."
She agreed. Merlin as a husband would have been hard for her to see, as he was when he'd left Emmett's Creek a year and a half ago. She said simply, "He's changed a lot."
"Freya, are you happy?" the physician asked directly.
She thought. She had food, clothes, and shelter of better quality than she'd had for most of her life, and a pretty sure guarantee of the same for the future. She had good friends to support and defend her, and the man she was married to was protective and courteous. What was the awkwardness of town gossip or the reticence of her husband or the fear of future pain – maybe seldom and fleeting rather than often and overwhelming – compared to that?
"I am," she said, and since her voice sounded surprised, she repeated more firmly, "I am."