Chapter 8: Turad
They paid their first toll mid-morning, moments after Turad came into view. Merlin held the horses still as the short, balding collector took a casual visual inventory of the supplies remaining in the wagon.
Arthur bantered with the other attendant, a tall paunchy man slouched in the shade of a makeshift booth that looked to Merlin as if it had been erected hastily and recently, with no thought to stability or continuity. He could tell Arthur was picking up information about the tolls the two collectors were authorized to collect, as well as whose pockets the funds would be lining. It sounded to Merlin like the city would only benefit from a small percentage, but he kept his mouth shut and handed over the coin demanded without challenging the amount.
Beside him on the driver's seat, Freya seemed not to be paying attention to any of the proceedings. Her gaze was fixed on the hazy spread of rooftops – towers, domes, clusters of green treetops marking parks – rising from the valley on hills to the north and south. And the silver ribbon of the Little Cross River wound down from the head of the valley, passing through the heart of Turad before disappearing in the distance.
At a nod from the short, bald collector, Merlin flipped the reins and the wagon lurched into movement, heading down the slight incline of the road. Arthur remained behind to chat; he'd catch them up before long. And if they reached the home of Freya's mother's cousin by sundown, they'd be lucky.
"Is Turad a larger city than Camelot?" Freya said, a slight hitch in her voice. She sounded overwhelmed, maybe a little intimidated at the thought of becoming a resident.
"They're comparable in size," he answered quietly. "None of the approaches to the capital command a view of the entire city, like here."
"What am I doing here?" she said to herself. Her voice trembled.
"You'll be fine," he told her.
Tolls had always been a fact of life in Turad. All three bridges over the Little Cross relied on the tolls for their upkeep; there had been two others when he'd lived there, at the west and south city gates. Those tolls ostensibly paid for road maintenance, lighting for the first and last watches of the night, and the salaries of the watchmen themselves – some of whom answered to the reeve as sub-deputies, some of whom answered directly to council members, depending on street and district. And some of whom, Merlin remembered, had been for sale to the highest bidder.
Freya gave him coin for the second toll, as well as half the third, as they entered the city through the west gate, and Arthur caught up with them again. Merlin refused to take any more from her thereafter; an agent's writ could draw pay from any bank in the city, and he was better able to replace coin doing odd jobs than she would be. And depending on the welcome she received from her mother's cousin…
"Tell me the address where you sent your letters," he said to her, and had to repeat himself twice before she attended to the question.
It wasn't the sound of the rough wagon wheels passing over the cobbled street, nor the open windows everywhere leaking household and shop noises into the air, the street performers looking for spare coin, the children chasing stray toys and the stray dogs. It was Freya's first look at the Daved Cathedral – and she didn't even hear his voice til a curve in the road hid the great two-domed roof behind a cluster of three-story tenant houses.
"Oh," she said, the word coming out in a long sigh. "I have never in my life seen a cathedral like that, not even in Camelot. Wouldn't Gaius have – oh, the address! I'm sorry. It's Number Five, Sycamore Avenue." She was blushing again, but Merlin pretended he didn't notice.
Sycamore Avenue faced Key Park in one of the northeastern residential districts, less than half an hour's walk from Morgana's chalet. He was faintly pleased to hear it; he felt an unusual sense of responsibility for her. He shouldn't care beyond dropping her at the front door and walking away. But he had no choice, he had to wait on Arthur's beck and call til the agent was satisfied he'd done all he could for the toll situation.
It was a comfortably well-off working man's neighborhood. A merchant or two, maybe an independent money-lender, a junior banker, retired men of means. Men who worked with pen and ink, figures and calculations rather than actual materials. Freya would live in a family with plenty to spare for her physical needs.
But would they care?
He paid a fourth toll as they crossed from the central business district into Key Park district. A young boy scraped carpenter's saw-horses aside so they could pass, as the two collectors turned to other folk approaching their makeshift gate, guarding their charge jealously so none could pass without paying. A quick glance to right and left told Merlin that at least three parallel streets had been hastily yet effectively blocked to prevent alternate routes avoiding the toll. He sent another glance aloft, gauging roof composition and angle, and was fairly sure he could pass the checkpoint without having to detour widely or dig in his wallet.
"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Freya said nervously. Her fingers were twisting in the fabric of her skirt over her knees.
"What do you know about your mother's family?" he returned, guiding the horses into the turn down Sycamore Avenue, facing the open gates of the park and the five-foot stone wall that ran the length of it on this avenue.
The homes were square and blocky stone, two- and three-stories above street level, all rubbing shoulders without so much as an alley between them. There was a huge spreading sycamore tree at the head of the avenue, and the cobblestones for ten feet around the base of the trunk were uneven, pushed up by the growing roots. The sidewalk and curb which rounded the corner outside the iron-gated front areas were tilted and raised as they approached the massive namesake also.
"They – they didn't actually answer the last letter," Freya quavered.
He said nothing as the horses clopped the wagon down to Number Five, but he thought through what they would do in the event the family had moved and couldn't be found, or if they rejected her outright. Morgana, he was sure, would let her stay at the chalet til Arthur was through with him, then he could take her back to Emmett's Creek.
"Number Five," Freya said, sounding near to panic. She was clutching his right sleeve near his cuff.
He figured anything he could say to try to calm her down would only increase her self-consciousness. So he simply halted the team, set the brake, patted her hand - and jumped down.
Arthur sat his stallion as Merlin circled the wagon, leaning over crossed wrists on his saddlehorn. He dropped his blue gaze from the imposing three-story home to meet Merlin's eyes momentarily. There wasn't much to his expression, but Merlin could tell he was impressed, maybe even refining his opinion and impression of Freya.
Merlin himself had known the address, remembered the district, and that had been a warning for him of what to expect. He was glad they had taken a longer break for their midday meal, to clean up as much as it was possible without undressing for a full bath. Even though the sun had set and they were pushing the dinner hour, it was better for Freya than arriving an hour earlier, but sweaty and dusty.
She tumbled down without his assistance, and was trying to reach her case in the bed of the wagon.
"Leave it," he told her quietly, taking her elbow and steering her around to the sidewalk.
Arthur had tied his reins to a finger-thick post of the wrought-iron fence, and reached to open the gate for Freya. Merlin stopped as the agent escorted Freya up the walk and the stone stairs to a white-painted front door, then turned to step up on a spoke of the wheel to reach for her traveling case.
A maid opened the door as he passed through the gate, a plump, short woman in a black dress with white apron and cap, whose mouth was pursed in skepticism as she perused Freya and Arthur. When her gaze dropped between them and she saw Merlin coming up the stairs, she actually started to close the door.
The thought he reacted with was an odd one – that they didn't deserve someone like Freya.
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"Freya," she said, again.
The expression on the middle-aged woman's ruddy face didn't change. If they'd gotten her letters, surely her name would be familiar. But she couldn't detect even a flicker of recognition.
"Gemma's daughter?" she tried, her heart dropping at the lack of welcome from her mother's cousin. Though this woman couldn't have looked less like a relative of Freya's mother if she was–
"Betsey, what is it?" came a light feminine voice from somewhere inside.
Freya was confused; her mother's cousin was named Emma, she was sure, that was what had been put on the letters. She dared to look past the woman in black into the house – pillared entryway, polished white stone floor, wide archway into another room. She glimpsed luxurious house-plant foliage, rich wine-colored rug, and massive gray-bricked fireplace. Then the woman in front of her turned, and though she was inches shorter than Freya, the starched white cap blocked Freya's view of the home's interior.
"A stranger, ma'am," the woman replied to the unseen speaker. "A lady by the name of Freya. Gemma's daughter, she says." Freya's confusion increased rather than otherwise.
"Show her in of course, Betsey," the answer came.
The door swung open, hiding the short plump woman behind it, and revealing an open stairway, also of polished white stone, ascending toward the back of the house on the right, and three closed doors at the back of the entryway – which was in itself half as large as Percival's common room.
A lady glided into view from the arched doorway; she wore a pearl-gray dress with lace at collar and cuffs and a fitted bodice with four vertical rows of tiny buttons – which served no other purpose, Freya was surprised to note, than decoration. This, Freya sighed to herself with relief, was cousin Emma. The lady's hair was lighter than Freya's mother's had been, and streaked with gray, but dressed handsomely around her face and pinned up in back. Dark eyes regarded Freya from a face youthful in spite of a few wrinkles only momentarily before she swept across the stone floor to wrap her arms around her.
Freya took two deep, quick breaths that just missed being sobs, and held the older woman as tightly as she was being held.
"Oh, my dear girl," Emma said into her ear, releasing her and stepping back to beam joyfully. "Welcome – welcome! We only received your letter yesterday – you look so much like your mother, do you know? Randall hasn't come home from the exchange yet – you'll be staying upstairs with Viv – we were sorry to hear you were in mourning – ah, your companions?"
Freya turned. Arthur stood just inside the door, gazing up at the ceiling of the entryway, that rose to the level of the second story, and the crystal-bedecked chandelier suspended there. He was grinning wryly, hands loosely on his hips.
Merlin was still on the doorstep, her case in one hand and his hat tucked under his elbow. His eyes were on her, his expression calm, his demeanor unruffled. For some reason, she felt calm herself just to see him, less like bursting into tears or floating away on the breeze. She gave him a smile of relief – she was staying upstairs with Viv! Then – Viv?
"Mama? Is she here? Is it her?" A sweet young voice – she saw Merlin's gaze rise before she turned.
The speaker was a young girl, no more than sixteen, she'd guess, leaning over the rail of the stairway. She wore a dark blue dress with thick lines of silver embroidery at collar, shoulders, and down the middle of the bodice to her waist. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat, and hung loose and curly over one shoulder.
"Come meet your cousin Freya, Vivian," Emma said, beckoning her down.
The girl's feet were so light on the stairs she seemed to float down to them. And unreasonably, it occurred to Freya to wonder what expression was on Merlin's face as the beautiful girl descended. Vivian's smile was as warm and genuine as her mother's, yet as she reached to hug Freya, her eyes went over Freya's shoulder to Merlin, still at the door with Freya's case.
And behind her, a gruff throat-clearing was followed by a genial demand, "Excuse me, man! Can't a fellow even enter his own front door?"
That would be Randall, Emma's husband, someone Freya's mother had never met, but knew of from infrequently-exchanged letters. She turned, Vivian's arm still draped over her shoulder, to see a tall man, stoop-shouldered – from days spent at a desk, she assumed – slightly thick-waisted, the tight brown curls that covered his head going to gray more swiftly than his wife's hair, but serving only to make him seem more distinguished. His tone had been impatient but not unfriendly, and there was a good-natured glint in his gray eyes.
"Cousin Freya has arrived, Randall," Emma explained, as Merlin silently stepped aside to allow the master of the house to enter.
"Welcome, cousin," Randall said, taking one of her hands between both of his and pressing it kindly. "And these gentlemen?" He turned first to Arthur, the better-dressed and free-handed, standing already inside the door.
"I'm glad to meet you, sir," Arthur said in response, reaching to shake Randall's uncertainly-offered hand firmly. "I am Agent Arthur from Camelot. This is Agent Merlin."
Merlin nodded to Randall without trying to free a hand for a tactile greeting. The calmness was gone, edged out by a stony wariness that made him seem less like a powerful guard dog on a leash and more like a hungry wolf surprised on the doorstep.
Randall nodded also to acknowledge him, then looked back to Arthur, his own demeanor changing from relaxed head-of-household to business-like leading citizen. "Are you in Turad on official business?" he questioned.
"Yes, sir, we are," Arthur answered.
"The toll situation?" There was a faint surprise on Arthur's face; Randall noticed, Freya saw, and nodded sagely. "You'll be wanting to meet with Judge Alined, then, and the council?"
"Ah, tolls, tolls," Emma broke in. "That's all we ever hear about these days. Randall, if these gentlemen – these agents – have business that keeps them in Turad a while, perhaps they might stay here with us?"
Randall agreed by saying, "If you don't have other arrangements made, agents, we'd be proud to have you stay, to offer our thanks for Freya's safe arrival, as well as our assistance with anything at all you may require in the line of duty."
"Thank you, we would be honored to accept–" Arthur began.
Merlin interrupted, "No, sir, I'm sorry to decline – I have other friends in Turad I have obligations to."
Emma and Vivian both made disappointed sounds. Freya's heart sank – those friends he'd been eager to see were better friends than she'd thought, if he was sure of being offered a place to stay on such short notice. Arthur looked at him a moment, then nodded.
"I know where to find you when I need you," he said, and Freya hoped she was the only one to hear the unspoken warning.
She stepped out from under Vivian's arm to take her case from Merlin; he hadn't even set foot inside the house. "Are you sure you won't–" she began softly.
"I'll take the wagon and team with me," he said, looking past her into the house. She wondered if not meeting her eyes was deliberate or incidental, or maybe he was still watching Vivian. "You can think about selling them, or not, and let me know. I'll handle that for you, if you like."
"I will see you again?" she said, suddenly unwilling to watch him walk away. Irrational it might be, she felt as if he was her last link to Emmett's Creek, to the place she still counted home. If she lost him–
Merlin handed her the case and turned without answering, settling his hat back on his head, low over his eyes. He fairly bounded down the stairs, swinging the gate shut behind him without stopping to check if it latched, leaping up to the driver's seat of the wagon.
Was he in such a hurry to leave her, responsibility thankfully discharged? Or was he impatient to see this friend, this – Morgana? she dredged the name up in her memory.
Lose him, she scoffed at herself. She'd never had him to lose.
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Morgana's chalet, on the rising northern hill of the city, was probably the most well-known private residence in Turad. Built into the hillside as it was, it was visible through most of that district and into others as well. There was a place on First Bridge, the northernmost of the three, where one could see the whole structure at once.
It was L-shaped, with one wing extending backwards into the hillside, the wing that housed kitchen, servants' quarters, a small sick-room with medical supplies for common illnesses and minor injuries. The second and third floors of that wing were all rooms for apprentices and junior revengers. The front wing, that spread handsomely across the front of the hill, with balconies and crenellation and a dozen or more full-length windows, was all for Morgana's use. Dining room, receiving room, office, library. Second-floor bedrooms twice the size of the apprentices' for guests, with small adjoining sitting-rooms and bathing-rooms and even a small corner game room. The third floor was entirely Morgana and Gwaine's chambers – not many had been to that floor of that wing.
In the crook of the L, at second-story height, was the flattened training field and a large equipment shed in one corner. It was possible, he'd heard, to come and go from the back of the property without ever entering Turad proper, but if Merlin ever attempted it, he wouldn't do it with a wagon and an agent in tow.
As high on the hill as the chalet was, it was at the end of a street – aptly if not imaginatively named Hill Street – the front entrance at the apex of the two wings, with the stables set further up into the trees. Merlin stopped at the entrance and set the brake; Morgana would buy the remainder of their supplies for her own kitchen and pantry, but the servants wouldn't want to tote it all back from the stable.
The man who answered the door, though an unfamiliar face to Merlin, would be a combination of butler and bodyguard. Morgana had rough and sometimes unwelcome visitors, and there were plenty in Turad who had reason to hate her organization. Though the man, muscular and quiet and blank-faced, didn't react to Merlin's name with recognition, he was shown directly to Morgana's office instead of left cooling his heels in the sparse entryway. He wasn't dressed well enough to be an important visitor shown to the comfortably sumptuous receiving-room, but he wouldn't be allowed to wander about on his own, either.
There were chairs in the office, three of them in addition to the large, comfortably-stuffed armchair at the corner writing desk. The round table in the middle of the room was bare; all books on the shelves, all maps stored. Everything safely locked, even the lid of the writing desk.
"Ah, my wolf cub," Morgana said from the door, her voice low and throaty as always, sounding amused.
He turned, and her green eyes studied him before narrowing slightly. She entered the room, pacing around him to the table, watching him as she went.
"But maybe he is a grown wolf, now? I hoped you'd return someday, but I didn't expect it. Why are you here? Did you catch up with your murderer?"
"Emmett's Creek," he said. "Little town two weeks west of here. His hometown."
"You killed him?" she said, leaning backwards against the table and crossing her ankles in front of her.
He felt his jaw tighten at the memory. "We were interrupted, and he was hung by a posse."
"Was that before or after your agent caught up with you?"
He didn't think he allowed his reaction to show, but Morgana lifted her chin in a full chuckle, and the ends of her short inky hair almost touched her shoulders. She pushed herself up from the table, reached and stroked a hand over his short hair.
"They shaved my wolf," she said, which explained her guess about his meeting with Arthur – his short haircut partially gave away his whereabouts during his absence from Turad. "About a month ago?"
"We met by chance in Camelot, and made a deal," Merlin said. "The time and chance to kill, in exchange for an - unresisting - return to the capital. The cadet corps instead of prison."
"And now?" Morgana said. "Are you interested in an offer for a junior partnership?"
Possibly, Merlin conceded to himself. But he said, "I've a temporary agent's writ."
"I see." She considered him, all amusement gone. "You're here about that problem." She was silent for a moment, thinking, then glanced at him as though no longer quite sure of him – well, cadet to agent was a big step, and one that he was still surprised he'd taken. "We shall have much to speak of, you and Gwaine and I. You will stay here? Maybe there will be some matters of interest to fill your time. And when your temporary writ is fulfilled – who knows?" She shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject. "You still riding that old nag?"
He grimaced and shook his head. "Sold when I entered the corps."
"Didn't bring much of a price?" The amusement was back. "So you're traveling light, then?"
"I've got a wagon and team outside."
One dark eyebrow arched. "From one old nag to a team and wagon?" she said. "They pay you well for a cadet? Or an advance on the agent's pay?"
He shrugged at the sarcasm. "They aren't mine." He sketched an explanation of Freya's situation and the decision to accompany her, leaving out the fact of her husband's identity, and finishing with an offer to sell.
"Hm," Morgana responded, lips twisted and eyes sharp. "Young and beautiful, is she? Can't wait to meet her."
"What do you mean?" he said, swinging around to scowl at her.
"You've never been in love before, have you?" she said.
He didn't answer; her insinuation was absurd. He turned and yanked the door open, stalked down the hall. She knew about the wagon, it would be taken care of. She'd invited him to stay, so stay he would. But he did not have to remain to discuss such – ridiculousness. Morgana's voice followed him down the corridor.
"Gwaine is working some of the apprentices out on the training grounds – he'll be happy to see you. Dinner in half an hour; claim any of the unused rooms."
He kept walking. Her chuckle followed him.
Love had never been something he'd thought on much, nor something he'd felt in a long time, nor yet something he expected to experience after his family had been taken. Love – he remembered the look on Will's face, the softened note in his voice, as he spoke of his wife and their unborn baby. Was that ever to be for him? He couldn't imagine any woman who'd want a man as tortured and twisted by the past as he was, no mother or father who'd want to give their daughter to the dangerous scarecrow he'd seen in the mirror for years.
The torches around the training ground had already been fired. In the near corner there was a match underway, with a row of spectators, four male and two female dressed in trousers and tunics, partially blocking his view of the combatants. As Merlin moved closer, he saw that it was Gwaine and a young man he didn't recognize.
Both were shirtless and barefoot, the blades of their foot-long knives protected by wooden shuttles that wouldn't allow for cutting or stabbing, but provided extensive bruising where contact was made. Gwaine hadn't changed much; he was still lean and tough, with maybe a little gray above his ears and in the short scruffy beard. His opponent looked a few years into his twenties, unremarkable physically, dark-haired and half a foot shorter than Gwaine.
Merlin joined the row of observers; the nearest man glanced over and nodded, but said nothing. None of them said anything, and the only sound was the grunting and wheezing of the two fighters, the thwack of the shuttles making contact. It was almost over, Merlin saw, the younger man was tiring quickly. And just as soon as he thought it, Gwaine was plucking the knife from the other's hand, his own holding the wooden shuttle against the base of his opponent's throat.
Several of the onlookers nodded in satisfaction, Merlin noted, and wondered if the young fighter was unpopular for some reason. Mostly his own fellow apprentices had reacted with good-natured disappointment that their trainer remained undefeated. Towels were tossed to the two fighters, and Gwaine spoke a few words as he returned the younger man's shuttle-guarded knife.
The young man received it with an ungracious, almost sullen air, avoiding Gwaine's eyes as he rubbed his towel continuously, up his chest and over his shoulder. Gwaine finally turned away, ran his eyes over the row, lingered on Merlin at the end. Then he grinned.
"Clean yourselves up and get to the table," he ordered the apprentices. He didn't take his eyes off Merlin or try to hide the smile; several of the others looked over at Merlin curiously. "Don't be late, you all know how Morgana hates that."
The watching apprentices dispersed slowly, leaving the young fighter alone on the field.
"Merlin!" Gwaine said, approaching Merlin. Behind him, the young man's head snapped up to stare over Gwaine's shoulder at Merlin. "Surprise, surprise," Gwaine went on, shaking his hand with genuine heartiness. "You here long? You back for good?" He took it for granted that if Merlin had returned, his quarry had been dispatched satisfactorily.
Merlin shrugged. "For now. I've got a little business in Turad."
Gwaine nodded, accepting without having to pry. Then his grin widened, took on a feral element. "Care to try your hand?" he said, flipping the shuttled knife and jerking his head back toward the field.
"Not a chance," Merlin returned. "Another time. When I get back into shape. When you get old."
Gwaine laughed. "You're going to make me wait that long?"
"Merlin?" the young fighter spoke up, tossing the towel down and drawing the wooden shuttle from his knife. "This is your Merlin? The one you say, none of you will be like Merlin?" He came closer, affecting to pay attention to the state of his blade than to the visitor, as though he found Merlin wanting in interest, after all.
Gwaine rolled his eyes and grimaced wryly. "Merlin," he said, "this is Mordred, one of our apprentices."
Merlin nodded shortly to acknowledge the introduction. Neither of them offered to shake the other's hand.
"Maybe I will get you onto the field," Mordred said, with the air of making a threat. "See how tough you really are."
Merlin shrugged unconcernedly, and Mordred's blue-green eyes glinted dangerously.
"Mordred. Wash for dinner," Gwaine ordered, and the apprentice swaggered off with a challenging smirk, leaving towel and shuttle behind. "I'd warn you not to get a big head over what you just heard," Gwaine said to Merlin, "if I thought it meant anything to you." He pretended to punch Merlin's shoulder lightly, and added, "She wants to talk tomorrow?" referring to Morgana. They'd worked for years together, and well.
Merlin nodded, and followed Gwaine in Mordred's wake, to the door nearest the apprentices' communal wash-room.
"Don't let Mordred rile you," Gwaine said over his shoulder, and it was a warning as well as an apology. "I don't know how rusty you are – or even will be… You could take him easy, as you were when you were here last. But he's stubborn, and he's mean, and he's sneaky. I taught you to fight dirty if you absolutely had to, but I never saw you use it. Mordred, though…" He paused to let Merlin enter the chalet ahead of him. "He came here with nasty tricks like I've never seen, and I've had to remind him more than once not to use them. You were the quickest to fight over nothing that I ever saw, but you'd never come at a person's back. See that you don't turn yours on him."
"I won't," Merlin promised.
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After dinner, Randall and Arthur retired to the sitting room to smoke and discuss the toll business, and Emma vanished into the kitchen, excusing herself on hostess duties with a theatrical wave of her hand. Vivian took Freya's hand and pulled her up the white stone staircase.
"I'm so glad you're here," she chattered, repeating herself for the tenth or eleventh time. "I've never had a sister – not that my parents will try to treat you like a child, especially since you've already been married – what was that like? Oh, I have so many questions for you! You'll sleep in here, with me."
She drew Freya into a room easily the size of Percival's common room, done in white and yellow and light blue, lacy frills everywhere. On the left-hand wall was a wide low bed with dozens of fluffy pillows, elsewhere large chests waited, graced with a childlike collection of toy animals, lace doilies, and dried-flower arrangements. Two enormous wardrobes stood against the front wall, and a dressing table to the right had three mirrors and two lamps, and a confused assortment of bottles, vials, and brushes scattered carelessly across it.
Through an arched doorway beyond the dressing table was another room, half the size of the main room, with a smaller bed covered by a neat colorful quilt and a single pillow. There was a lamp on the table in the corner under a face-sized mirror hung on the wall and a large potted plant in the opposite corner. Through another little door around the corner was a bathing-room – on the third floor! – and an inset clothes rack that was open to the room.
"I can't wait to help you unpack your things!" Vivian gushed, but stopped when she saw Freya's small battered traveling bag on the table. She turned in a circle, searching the room for other luggage. "They haven't brought up your–"
"This is all I have," Freya explained gently. "It was all I needed."
"Well," Vivian floundered. "Then… we'll have the fun of shopping for you. A whole new set of dresses!"
Her cousin was strong-willed, Freya had noticed, with a slightly unrealistic, almost spoiled view of the importance of money and material things. Having no wish to offend so early, she merely smiled, and reminded Vivian she'd be wearing mostly black for five more months. "I truly appreciate your family taking me in," she added, resting on the edge of the bed that was to be hers.
"I wish you'd come when you first said you were going to," Vivian said, with a warm smile that took the edge from her petulant tone. She hopped up on the table and swung her crossed feet. Silk stockings, Freya noticed, and black leather button-up shoes. With heels. "We'd have had years more fun. You really would have been my sister, then. But how exciting for you to run off and be married instead!"
Exciting wasn't the word she would have chosen, Freya thought. It was a topic she'd expected to come up, and she wanted to deal with it decisively so it wouldn't be revisited in conversation again and again. But Emma should be part of that first conversation, so she'd wait.
"You were really lucky, I guess," was Vivian's next comment. She was smoothing her dark blue skirt over her lap and so missed whatever reaction Freya hadn't been able to keep from showing on her face. "It's not exactly common knowledge, of course, but my mama let slip once that your mother and father weren't married. There wouldn't have been many men willing to marry a girl like that, here in Turad, but I guess that didn't matter to your husband – how old were you when you married him?"
"When he married me," Freya corrected automatically. No men would have been willing to marry her had she come to Turad unwed at fourteen? Mother and father weren't married – what? But… "I was fourteen."
One of Vivian's wing-like eyebrows rose. "Oh, my. And too young to marry without a guardian's consent. Good thing you didn't come here first; my parents would never have allowed it. But now, as a widow, you're perfectly free to remarry whoever you choose. Mama will surely make plans for you to meet all the right eligible men."
Did Freya understand her young cousin correctly? Those five years with Padlow meant that her prospects for a good marriage were now completely unrestricted?
But – did that mean she would be expected to meet and entertain potential suitors – and then choose one of them to marry?
Vivian looked up. "Oh, no, I've upset you," she exclaimed, jumping up to flounce onto the bed and drape her arms around Freya. "Mama told me I must be very careful not to upset you. Did you love him very much? How did you meet him? How did he die? Or – you don't want to talk about it, do you?"
"No, I don't," Freya said. How could she answer any of those questions honestly without shocking her innocent cousin?
"Are you tired," Vivian said next. "It's early yet; I don't want to go to bed. We can talk about something else. Since we can't talk about your clothes, how about – those agents? How did you come to have two agents escorting you here? Agent Arthur is certainly very handsome – maybe a little too old for me, I'm too young yet, Mama says, to think seriously of marrying – do you know if he's married?"
"Yes, he is," Freya said. A headache was starting subtly in her temples.
"Oh… Well, Merlin, now, I could definitely let him get a little closer to me. You know, that's a good idea. I don't know if Mama and Father would actually allow me to marry an agent, but he might be fun to practice on. If I could get him to fall in love with me–"
"Please don't do that," Freya said quickly. "Don't toy with him if you're not serious." At Vivian's startled and questioning look, she tried to explain. "I think – if Agent Merlin ever did fall in love – I think he would take it very seriously. I – I just don't want him to be hurt, if you only meant to play a casual game. He – he isn't a flirt; he won't know you're only teasing, or – or practicing."
Vivian's eyes were cool and calculating. "Are you saying that because you want to keep him to yourself?"
"Because I – what?" Freya said. "No, Viv, he doesn't belong to me. He doesn't belong to anyone. I just know him well, and he doesn't deserve to be hurt."
Her cousin's manner didn't relax. "How well do you know him? Have you slept with him?"
Sleep? How would sleeping with a man help her to know him better? She thought of the first night she'd sat up with him, unconscious with Gaius' sleeping draught – the night she'd gone to him in his nightmare – the night she'd been stabbed and had woken to him lying on the bed next to her.
"Slept with him," Vivian repeated patiently, watching her sharply for a reaction. "Have you lain with him? Let him have his way with you? Known him, in an intimate physical way?"
Freya couldn't have been more shocked. If Vivian was asking what she thought she was asking… Freya felt her face flame into a hot blush. Almost all of what Padlow had forced her to do, the first night and afterward, had been unknown to her, never even discussed with her mother. She supposed that, with Vivian facing marriage herself in a couple of years, it shouldn't have been so surprising that Emma would have explained certain… requirements of marriage. Or that Vivian would rather discuss details with a widowed cousin rather than her mother. She wouldn't burden Vivian with the distasteful truth… but they were discussing Merlin…
"But we weren't–" she began, shamed to hear herself stuttering a little. "I've only been a widow – seven months, now. It's five more until I can marry again." She firmly shut out thoughts of Merlin in his bath, in the rain… But only a minute ago, Vivian had been discussing suitors for Freya, what–
"I'm not talking about marrying, for goodness' sake," Vivian said, sounding exasperated though she was smiling sweetly. "You don't have to be married to… you know… explore the possibilities. Physically. With a man." She giggled in a way that alarmed Freya. "Obviously."
"No, I – we never–" Freya took a deep breath, laid the back of her hand against her forehead to see if she was as feverish as she felt. "I'm sorry, do you mind terribly excusing me? The trip was – I'm very tired."
"Oh, of course." Surely it was Freya's imagination that Vivian sounded disappointed. "Sleep as long as you like in the morning. We have lots of time to talk… and shop." She gave Freya a mischievous grin, and skipped to the larger bedroom, sprawling on her bed with a small book.
Freya prepared herself for sleeping perfunctorily, washing and undressing, then turned down the lamp and lay facing the darkness. She was exhausted from the trip, but her mind wouldn't stop whirling.
Vivian hadn't been explicit. Perhaps when she referred to physical exploration, she had meant kissing and… groping. Yes, only that. Burton had done as much, when he'd caught her off guard, without changing the fact that Padlow had already married her. But… lie with him, Vivian had said.
And her mother had taught her, the first man to lie with you must be your husband.
Vivian talked as though the physical act could be separate from a marriage. Could be done without ending in a marriage. Your mother and father weren't married.
The first man to lie with you must be your husband. She remembered now, scraps of conversations with Shasta, that she'd tried to avoid.
What if I misunderstood?