Chapter 15: Orange Leaf Road
"See anything yet?" Arthur asked for the third time.
The muffled grunts and unintelligible threats from Jordan and Mordred, bound and gagged side by side on the sofa, had subsided more than an hour ago. But based on the information they'd gathered from Mordred's furious taunts and Jordan's ineffectual attempts to silence him, they'd decided to wait the day out at Number Fourteen with the two captives, hoping to catch a third red-handed, so to speak.
Merlin was in the kitchen, sitting on the low table, watching Orange Leaf Road between the folds of the yellow curtains. He didn't answer, straightening to peer down the street toward the unseen toll barricade. It was hard to mistake Taliesin's unique gait, but the woman with him looked like – no, surely not.
"You let Freya read the note I left in your pocket?" he asked. He and Arthur couldn't see each other around the corner, but the living area was small enough they barely needed to raise their voices to hear each other at opposite ends of the house.
"Not exactly."
"But you passed along the message for her at the end?" Merlin persisted. There was an uncomfortable pause, and his heart sank.
"I think so. I don't remember, I was quite angry with you. Why?"
Merlin had written a postscript to the small note, thanking Freya for her contribution to their investigation, with the intent of relieving her from any further responsibility for assistance. Watching Number Fourteen and following Mordred, Merlin hadn't had time to visit Taliesin or follow up on any information he might have unearthed.
He cursed under his breath, certain now that the woman in black was Freya.
She spoke with the little crippled singer for a moment, her eyes looking over his crooked shoulder – straight at Merlin, it seemed. Useless to hope somehow he'd missed anything significant at any of the other homes along Orange Leaf Road. Somehow Taliesin had discovered something that led them here. And he had only himself to blame that Taliesin would have brought her at all.
Then Taliesin swung about and continued down the street, out of sight around the corner, and Merlin cursed again, slamming his hand on the table where he sat. Why had the old man left her alone?
She stood there uncertainly, looking all about her, but mostly over to Number Fourteen where Merlin watched hidden behind the curtain. She was twisting her hands together.
"What is it?" Arthur lounged into the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.
Did Merlin dare risk dashing out on the street, bringing her in, hiding her safely away in one off the bedrooms upstairs? He hadn't noticed any interaction between the house's inhabitants and any neighbors, but… this was their one shot at catching Agravaine as a conspirator. If anyone tipped him off…
He and Arthur had come in the silent gray dawn, before the housekeeper arrived. They'd picked the locks, caught Jordan and Mordred asleep in their beds, then sent the housekeeper – innocent and ignorant, Arthur had proclaimed after a moment's conversation - straight back home again with two weeks' pay and a promise for an interview for her testimony in a few days. Arthur had then turned his attention to interrogating the two prisoners, his right as the arresting agent.
They'd discovered that the reeve was expected to check in with Jordan later in the day. So they'd waited, the rest of the neighborhood oblivious to the morning's events, and their presence.
It might be that no one would notice if Merlin did go out to Freya, but it also might look odd enough for a young well-dressed woman alone on the street to be suddenly ushered indoors by someone dressed as he was – enough for gossip to start and the neighbors to show interest in Number Fourteen. And even if he had no other contacts in the area to give specific information, their quarry was bound to be skittish enough to be scared off by just something as slight as gossip and interest. Yet Merlin couldn't leave Arthur alone with the two prisoners, expecting the reeve, who might not be alone, to escort her elsewhere.
Then the choice was taken out of his hands.
Around the same corner where Taliesin and Freya had appeared not even a quarter of an hour ago, came the unmistakable figure of Reeve Agravaine. He was alone, but he was wary and suspicious, and focused immediately on the nervous young woman standing alone on the walkway.
"Has Agravaine ever met Freya?" Merlin said to Arthur, who strode to his side at the window. There was no sound from the sitting room, which meant nothing good, and Arthur should not leave the prisoners unsupervised for long.
"Damn. Walk right past," Arthur advised the reeve under his breath. "Don't talk to her, don't – just – Merlin!" He leaped to the door and prevented Merlin from opening it only by leaning bodily against it. "You can't," he told him shortly, his blue eyes narrowed. "You go out there, he'll arrest you – you'll be on trial for murder, and he'll go free."
"You go then," Merlin demanded.
"Same thing. He'll be surprised to see me, but he'll claim to have legitimate business in the area, and we have nothing on him. He'll never admit he was coming here, no matter what these two say, he'll deny any connection and never set foot in this house again. She doesn't know we're here, does she?"
Merlin moved back to the window. If the reeve thought she was watching this place, or if she told him anything, he'd either slip away, or come in anyway – and he wouldn't do that if he suspected an ambush. He took one glance out the window, and cursed again.
Agravaine had Freya by the elbow and was hurrying her along toward Number Fourteen. Her face was white, her dark eyes large and frightened. Whatever she'd said to him, or he to her, she knew she was in trouble.
"I'll go around the outside, get behind him," Arthur hissed. "Get him talking – he won't reveal much if I'm here. He expects the charge of murder discredits anything you say, though. Get back, out of sight. We need him inside and the door closed behind him. Then we're both witnesses to his intentional presence here, and his abduction of the girl."
The girl, he'd had said, not using her name. Arthur was every inch an agent, and would play the circumstances accordingly. Which meant he and Freya, to a certain extent, were on their own.
As Arthur slipped through the dining room and out the back door, Merlin retreated to the sitting room. He hustled Jordan and Mordred off the sofa, which would be visible from the front door, into the back corner by the bookshelf, kept them in place with drawn knife. Mordred he'd gut like a fish if he had to, and never regret it, and Jordan he'd subdue with force if necessary. They believed it, too, and though they exchanged glances and shifted their weight, neither one made a move toward him.
A heavy fist pounded on the front door three times. Then again, three times, and they heard him growl something. Merlin's fingers were cold, his weight on his toes, watching the eyes of the two captives for any indication that they might try something.
Then the latch lifted, and they heard the reeve clearly, "Elsie? Dammit, why didn't you answer?" Silence. "Hello? Jordan?"
Merlin had a second knife out, but to face the hallway, he had to turn his back to the men, stand next to one of them. Their hands had been bound in front of them, and he was close, very close. But he didn't think either would risk death or injury to warn the reeve. There was nothing in that, for them.
Footsteps came down the hall, heavy and slow, with a lighter shuffling that would be Freya, shoved along in front. Her eyes, dark in her pale face, found him immediately. She gasped in surprise, Agravaine swore.
"Merlin," she said. Tense and scared, but calm. He guessed she'd keep her wits about her.
Agravaine scanned the room, backed Freya toward the dining room to glance around the corner to the kitchen before returning his attention to the three men in the living room. Deliberately showing Merlin an inch of the blade he held to Freya's back, to keep him in place, he demanded, "Is the other agent here?"
"No," Merlin said. "And I want to know, why you want me dead."
Agravaine ignored him, looking to his confederates. Jordan and Mordred were both sweating, but looked at the reeve with relief in both pairs of eyes. Jordan jerked his head toward the back door off the dining room and grunted, mumbling behind his gag. It wasn't a straight affirmative or negative; Agravaine would need to know more.
"I advise you to put the knife away, son, before somebody gets hurt," he said condescendingly. Calculating, surely, to anger Merlin and provoke him to act rashly. It might possibly have worked, if the reeve hadn't forced Freya to enter the house as well. Rash wouldn't do, not when she was depending on him.
"I advise you to put your own weapon away," Merlin responded. "You don't want your boys hurt, do you? I expect you know plenty of killers personally, but you wanted a fall-man, didn't you? Someone else you could blame for hiring an assassin. Maybe you even wanted to apprehend these two yourself, take all the credit for arresting the murderers? That would get you elected to the council, wouldn't it?"
There was a tense silence. The reeve had surely promised them aid in his official capacity if any suspicion or blame came to them; if Agravaine denied any responsibility for them, any connection or concern, either prisoner could turn on him and spill plenty of details to incriminate them all. Yet if he acted to protect them, he'd have to make sure Merlin – and Freya, too – could not reveal that.
"Drop the knife, kid, or you're going to get this girl killed." The reeve's eyes narrowed, his shoulder twitched slightly.
Freya gave a startled gasp, and there was pain in it.
And Merlin was back in Emmett's Creek, in the dark and the snow, supporting her on the stolen horse that carried them both back to light and safety. Again he burned with rage over the cruel beating she'd endured that night, the blood from a stabbing wound already seeping onto his clothing, unknown to him.
He couldn't have that, not again. However it might help or hinder Arthur's evidence gained against the reeve. Her dress was fine and feminine, her hair combed smooth and arranged in soft curls pinned up on her head. Why had he ever asked her to speak to Taliesin instead of going himself? These risks were not hers; he had no right to take chances with her life.
"She means something to you, my young fighting cockerel?" Agravaine said softly.
She probably shouldn't have said his name. Whether she realized that or not, she said to him, "I'm sorry."
Her eyes had not left his face. He said nothing. She said nothing further.
"Where's Agent Arthur?" the reeve demanded. "Was he here?"
Merlin didn't move, didn't answer.
"Untie those two," Agravaine instructed, a hint of condescension in his tone. He felt he had, or was quickly gaining, the upper hand. That was when the guilty would talk. He had not opted to bluff Merlin so far, blustering about Merlin's escape, which meant he didn't care if Merlin knew the truth. Which meant he'd already decided to kill both of them, or at least Freya, and bury Merlin under more false accusations.
He'd take Agravaine on, he'd even try for these three at once and give himself better than even odds in this small space, but he'd not do a thing while she was in danger. Merlin held out his right-hand blade, twisting it so the grip was upright and free, and swung it around so it was within Mordred's reach.
Mordred took the knife hesitantly, suspecting a trick, then turned it on the cords that bound Jordan. Hands free, Jordan ripped the gag from his mouth.
"Agent Arthur was just here, Reeve," he gasped out, dry-mouthed. "Went out the back door there not five minutes before you came in."
"Get Mordred free," Agravaine decided. "Then go after the agent to see where he went. Did he see me?"
Jordan and Mordred exchanged glances, and shrugged; Merlin's conversation with Arthur in the kitchen had been out of sight and hearing of the two prisoners.
"Make sure he doesn't come back in."
Jordan turned Merlin's knife on Mordred's bonds. As soon as he was ungagged, he spat an obscene insult at Merlin, and at a nod from the reeve, circled him to take the second knife from his left hand.
Merlin barely heard him, and cared not at all. He could have separated the one-time apprentice from a finger or two, as carelessly as Mordred disarmed him, but for Freya's sake, Merlin concentrated on cooperation. Jordan went to the door, glanced both ways down the alley before stepping out, and closed it behind him.
"Hands on the back of your head," Agravaine commanded. Standard procedure til materials could be found to tie his hands – the cords Arthur had used on Jordan and Mordred were cut now and worthless.
Merlin lifted his hands, clasped his fingers together across the back of his head. Mordred snickered.
"You think that killing council members means they'll elect you to a vacant position?" Merlin said, directing the comment over Freya's head to Reeve Agravaine. "Or maybe you always wanted to write the title Judge in front of your name?" He used a mocking tone to goad the other to speak, to focus on him.
"What does someone like you know of ambition?" Agravaine returned contemptuously. "You know the crisis Turad is in; with me on the council–"
"So the judge was useful for discrediting me," Merlin interrupted, still taunting. "But a liability after that? Was he too honest for you, you thought he'd end up confessing, revealing too much? Or maybe he was too crooked for you, started blackmailing you – as soon as you were elected, you'd be nothing but his pawn on the council?"
"You best keep your mouth shut, boy," Agravaine said dangerously. "Mordred, get him tied and gagged."
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Freya felt humiliation flush all down her body as Merlin allowed himself to be disarmed. Once again, she'd stepped blind into a situation and made things worse. Where was Arthur? Why had he left?
Merlin's face was unreadable, his eyes dark and focused over her head on the man who'd taken hold of her in the street and forced her into this house – Reeve Agravaine, as it turned out. Tears came to her eyes when Merlin raised his hands vulnerably behind his head, and the man who'd remained, Mordred, laughed derisively, but Merlin paid him no attention that she could see. Grimy, unshaven, dressed as the lowest of laborers, Merlin still carried himself as the equal of all in the room, remained as fiercely intent as ever.
"Mordred," he spat at the reeve contemptuously, still ignoring the man behind him. "If you wanted to hire an assassin, why'd you let Jordan pick him? The judge was an old man, asleep in his bed – I didn't even have to do anything at Drew's, could've sat in a chair and watched him miss his mark by a couple of yards at least–"
"Bastard." Mordred punched Merlin in the side, at the bottom of his ribs.
Merlin doubled over, hands remaining on the back of his head, half-coughing and half-laughing. It teased a memory from her, of the night he'd first showed her defensive tactics, and – she'd elbowed him. Merlin restrained and abused was so wrong somehow, Freya's heart rebelled at the thought of him suffering for her headlong thoughtlessness.
"Enough for now, Mordred," the reeve drawled patronizingly behind her. "You'll get paid for your results. And these two will be a bonus. Now get something to tie his hands with." Mordred shot the reeve a resentful look as he passed between her and Merlin toward the arched doorway leading to a dining room.
Quick as thought, Merlin's heavy boot shifted, and the man tripped sprawling, Merlin's knife clattering from his hand across the tile under the table. Mordred rolled over on the carpet, gaping; Merlin's gaze never shifted from the reeve.
Freya's mind raced frantically – Mordred unarmed and on the floor was in a bad position. What could she do?
Only one idea presented, one image – a dark night by the side of the road, a campfire with the wagon beyond. Merlin's hands guiding her, his voice in her ear.
Without stopping to reconsider, Freya acted as decisively as she ever had, fully committing as she raised her foot to stamp the pointed heel of her boot down into the instep of the man behind her, clasped hands breaking his hold to drive her elbow back into the pit of his stomach, heedless of where his threatening blade hovered. Dimly, as she spun to punch the reeve's neck, she saw Merlin's hands swing free, his body turn as he kicked the man on the floor with all his strength. She mimicked his uninhibited force, lifting her knee upward as hard as she could.
Agravaine howled and dropped the knife, shoving her away reactively.
Somehow her boot came down on the hilt of the discarded knife, and her ankle twisted sharply. She let her weight continue to the carpet, catching herself on her hands and lowering to a sitting position.
The reeve stumbled backward down the hall, clutching at himself and groaning, just as the door opened and Jordan leaped through. He side-stepped into the kitchen, avoiding the reeve – but Arthur, immediately behind, did not, and both men went down in a fighting tangle.
Shaking, Freya turned her attention back to the sitting room in time to see Jordan enter in a rush.
Merlin spun to deflect his charge, aiming another kick at Mordred, who was trying to rise dizzily to his feet, flattening him back to the floor. He didn't move again, but Jordan, with Merlin's first blade still in hand, slashed at Merlin, trying to take advantage of the split-second division of his attention.
Freya's breath caught at Merlin's sheer ferocity – he was a wolf, a panther. He fought without hesitation, without fear, his moves calculated and precise but lightning fast, his reactions accurate without thought or plan.
Merlin avoided the swipe of Jordan's weapon half a dozen times, retreating, then tripped back over Mordred's inert body and went sliding into the next room, headlong into a jumble of chair legs.
Jordan started after him, but before Freya had time to gasp a warning, Merlin had twisted and his right hand flashed forward. Jordan screamed and fell to his knees, the knife in his hand dropping as he reached for a hilt suddenly protruding from the front of his shirt. She stared, uncomprehending, as he crumpled down, then realized that Merlin had retrieved the knife Mordred had lost, while luring Jordan on with a pretense of vulnerability.
Merlin lay back on his elbows for a moment, his head dropped back, his chest heaving with gasps for air.
She suddenly realized that Arthur and Reeve Agravaine were no longer in the hallway. Not even in the house, she suspected; the front door was unlatched and swinging on its hinges, everything still but for Jordan's whimpering, which stilled after a moment as his consciousness slipped.
Merlin stood up then, and she shifted her feet to a more comfortable position, her left ankle beginning to throb sharply.
"You all right?" he said shortly, giving her a searching glance and assuming her answer as he disappeared around the arched doorway.
She could hear drawers and cabinet-doors banging, then he returned with a length of kitchen-twine, which he sliced in half with his knife. He slid the blade into his belt and knelt to roll Mordred's body enough to retie his hands behind his back, swiftly and expertly. He dragged Mordred out of sight through the dining-room doorway, several feet further along the same time floor, by the sound of it, then returned to inspect Jordan, checking for a pulse in his neck.
"You are unhurt?" he said again, his blue eyes on her as his hands were busy with the other man. She nodded though it wasn't strictly true; it was odd and a little awing to see him do these things so efficiently, yet focus on her at the same time.
Evidently he found that Jordan wasn't dead, for he repeated the hand-tying and body-dragging, without much care for the knife in the man's shoulder. He didn't reappear right away, and when he did, it was down the hallway from the front door.
"Did the reeve escape?" he said to her, fierce and angry. But not at her. Never at her.
"I think Arthur followed," she whispered. She didn't care; it didn't seem to matter where either of them had gone – or where she was, either. Only that they were alive – blissfully, vibrantly alive.
Merlin's stormy blue eyes had never been more brilliant, his unshaven face so rugged and firm, his mouth so interesting – and then there was the rest of him, roughly dressed but strong and capable, completely unself-conscious as he came down the hall, towering over her. She ought to be unutterably satisfied just to live in this moment and drink him in with her eyes, indescribably and overwhelmingly happy.
So she burst into tears.
Sobs which she could not stop or stifle shook her, and she dropped her face into her hands to hide it from him as she cried.
He didn't say anything. After a time of seemingly interminable exhaustion, she calmed herself enough to look up – had he walked out? Was he tapping his foot, waiting for her to pull herself together?
She was startled to see him closer than she'd expected, hunkered down on his heels and leaning against the wall, hands hanging loosely over his knees, one thumb bandaged. Just waiting. He wasn't impatient, nor so overly solicitous that she would doubt his sincerity. If he chose to go elsewhere, he would go. But he chose to wait sympathetically beside her.
"Arthur will have to catch the reeve," he remarked, as if he hadn't noticed her hysterical outburst. "He'll either catch him or lose him – either way, he shouldn't be gone long."
She took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm so sorry," she managed, her voice sounding unsteady. "I didn't know that you and Arthur had already–"
"Did your cousins allow you to walk out with Taliesin?" he said mildly, ignoring her attempt at apology.
"No, I – was at the Daved Cathedral, and Taliesin said he'd been shown the home of the man who paid to help break you out of prison…" Freya let the sentence drift away, curiously disinclined to explain about Philbert – who was waiting still, presumably, at the cathedral for her return. But she couldn't seem to care about his pique or worry, or reaction.
"And Taliesin left you alone because…" Merlin sought further explanation.
"He was going to Morgana's, to ask if someone could be sent to watch the house, so I didn't have to stay." She drew a deep, wavering breath and concentrated on letting it out steadily.
He nodded, accepting what she told him without assigning blame to her at all, by look, attitude, or word. Then he said, "In the note I gave Arthur, I thanked you for your help."
Not fully understanding, she said, "You're welcome."
He gave her a pained look. "I did not intend that you should be the one to follow up with Taliesin."
"I see." She felt herself blushing, and couldn't look him in the face.
He pushed himself upright again, and reached his hands down into her view. Yes, she guessed it was pretty silly to keep sitting on the floor. Instinctively she put all her weight onto her right foot as he lifted her easily and steadied her.
The shooting pain in her left ankle had remained muted while she was resting, but when she tried to test her weight on it, she gasped at the sudden splintering agony, and almost tumbled to the floor. He caught her around the waist and she clung to his arms, balancing only on her right foot – not an easy thing in the high-heeled boots.
"Your foot?" Merlin said with concern.
"My ankle," she told him.
Merlin bent as if he meant to lift her to carry, but she turned away from his arm in embarrassment and began to hop toward the sofa. He followed, letting her hold his arm for support, then lowered her to the cushions and knelt in front of her. He seemed to study her boots for a moment, or maybe the hem of her skirt, then lifted his eyes to hers – no fierceness or anger, just inscrutable blue depths.
If only there was some way she could tell what he was thinking.
"If you wait to have someone else look at it," he told her without emotion, "it may well swell and stiffen. In any case, if you've broken a bone, it will be extremely painful to remove your shoe."
She nodded agreement, but he still didn't move, until she bent to unlace the boot and take it off, then he retreated to give her space. Using her skirt as a shield as much as she could, she unrolled her stocking carefully, then held her breath as he touched her; she couldn't tell herself truthfully that it was due only to anticipation of discomfort. The front door down the hall was her point of focus, but she nodded or shook her head when he glanced up to question her level of pain, hoping her face wasn't too red. Without her weight on it or her own muscles moving it, the ankle didn't really feel so bad, and she was relieved when he finally sat back to pronounce his opinion that no bones were broken.
"I'll be right back," he told her, surging to his feet and striding down the hall. She heard his boots go up the stairs, move around in one of the rooms, heard tearing sounds.
Then the front door opened – and before she had a chance to panic and wonder, Arthur entered. He appeared hot and winded, and glanced to his left – into the kitchen where Jordan and Mordred apparently remained. Then he looked down the hall at her.
"Where's Merlin?" he said, and she pointed upward. Merlin's boots thudded back down the staircase, and Arthur motioned for him to continue into the sitting room, remarking, "I see you've got things here under control."
Merlin didn't immediately respond, but went on one knee before her again and began to wind what looked like a strip of white sheet around her ankle, gently but firmly. Then he said slowly, as if his mind were mostly occupied with his task, "Those two in the kitchen should be taken in. Jordan will need a doctor."
"I'll send for a carriage," Arthur said.
"Send for two – I'll take Freya home," Merlin suggested, tying the ends of her bandage and tucking them under securely. He lifted both her feet, indicating that she should turn sideways on the sofa to elevate them, and she obeyed.
"That might not be the best idea you ever had," Arthur commented, and Merlin shot him a glare with a trace of heat. "I lost Agravaine at the bridge – he went over the side, and I saw him surface downriver. I'll admit the odds are against him, but it's possible that he'll manage to get up one of the banks, and then… He'll either flee, or come after us again. Until we know for sure, you need to keep your head down. That means no driving about in carriages, especially somewhere you'll be recognized and maybe reported. If you're arrested, they'll take her along as well."
And he couldn't run or fight, if she was present, Freya suspected.
"I don't like leaving you here alone," Arthur added, "but Freya can't go with me to the holding cells with these two, and I can't take those two – especially considering Jordan's wound – by Sycamore Avenue first."
Merlin pushed to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. He was scowling now, looking like he wanted to pace. "If Agravaine doesn't run, he may look for us at Freya's cousins' place, or the chalet, before he comes here," he said. "Someone should be coming from Morgana's shortly; I'll send her home with whoever that ends up being. Then I'll wait to see if Agravaine comes here."
"I'll be the rest of the evening dealing with these two," Arthur said. "Tomorrow I'll begin to gather some first-hand testimony, something we can present to the council."
"I know someone you need to talk to," Merlin added, and Arthur nodded; Taliesin, Freya supposed. Merlin turned back to her. "Just rest for a little while – one of the apprentices should be here soon."
And he'd send her home like a child that had tagged along where she wasn't wanted. She sighed as the two men left the sitting room for the kitchen. She could hear them talking, but they spoke in low tones, so she couldn't tell what they said.
She still felt unsettled, scattered, as though she'd just scrambled through a whirlwind; rest sounded like a good idea. Leaning back against the padded arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes.
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From the kitchen window Merlin watched Arthur drive around the corner in the hired carriage with the two prisoners.
He hesitated over returning to the sitting room, but Freya had said nothing since they'd left the room. She was unused to the rush and subsequent drain of emotion and energy that danger always brought – well, that a fight brought. The afternoon's violence might have returned her fears of her dead husband – but who was he to help her with that? He should at least check on her, he decided.
Freya was asleep on the sofa.
Merlin watched her for a moment in silence, then sank down in the armchair at her feet. He was glad she hadn't received a worse injury than a sprained ankle; his heart had frozen in panic when she'd stomped on Agravaine's foot, heedless of the knife at her back. His body, watchful and eager for just such a chance, had gone into immediate action to take advantage of the distraction she'd provided.
He cursed himself for teaching her those moves, yet if she hadn't acted… He hoped, he wished that she would never be in such danger again because of him.
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When Freya woke the first time, it was with a sense of sleepy confusion. She was not in her bed in the alcove of Vivian's grand bedchamber. She lay on a dark narrow sofa, her bodice comfortably loosened, both shoes off, her feet propped on a small pillow. One foot was bandaged; she looked beyond them to a large mustard-yellow armchair, a single candle on a small end-table.
Merlin was sprawled in the armchair, slouched down so his head could rest on the back of it. His sleeveless tunic was unlaced at the throat, his heavy boots kicked off. There was an open book tilted atop his left hand on the arm of the chair.
She smiled to herself, remembering the rancher Chadin, nodded off in the corner rocker after a hard day's work and a hearty dinner, while Helen mended his socks and rocked the baby in the cradle by her foot, and Donny and Anna Jo played on the rug.
Then she noticed the glimmer of a blade unsheathed under the fingers of Merlin's right hand on the other arm of the chair.
There was something that should have occurred to her, something that should have happened and hadn't, but she was only half-awake and so tired. Merlin was close by, and sleeping. There was no threat to her, and if one arose, he would wake to handle it, and protect her.
She turned her head on a cushion softer than the arm of the sofa, never wondering at it, and closed her eyes again.
When she woke the second time, she looked instinctively to the armchair for Merlin.
Instead she saw a bright-eyed girl with sun-touched brown hair pulled into a band at the back of her neck, wearing men's trousers and a leather vest over a light green shirt. Was it morning? Freya sat up quickly, glancing around the unfamiliar sitting room, and remembering the events of the previous day. Oh, her cousins would be worried.
"Good morning," the girl said, friendly enough. "Merlin said your name is Freya? I'm Amery, one of Morgana's apprentices."
"Where is he?" Freya said. It was morning, clear enough; daylight came in the windows in spite of the fact that the window-less back of the house was to the east.
"Gone back to the chalet." The girl slid to the edge of the armchair, her movements easy and unconstrained, comfortable in her male attire. "How's the foot? Can you walk to the table?" She jerked her head to indicate the direction. "There's some breakfast."
Amery, who was inches taller than Freya, helped her to stand. She put the foot down gingerly, but it bore her weight with little more than a twinge, and she made her way slowly but with increasing confidence to the table for bread, bacon, and some shriveling fruit.
"Sorry about last night," the girl said, straddling the chair next to Freya's. "The little crippled man waited several hours before Morgana returned from visiting friends, and it was late enough she decided not to send someone til this morning. Merlin was furious; I guess no one else thought but you'd gone on home. Soon as you're done here, I'll call for a coach and see you home."
How was it this girl could roam Turad alone? Freya thought rebelliously, jealously, then tried to let those feelings go with a sigh. Amery probably had no high-standing cousins to care about her reputation. She was probably armed, and trained to defend herself. She was probably not expected to make a good marriage.
The ride back to Key Park and Sycamore Avenue was quiet. Amery did not pry into the previous day's events, and Freya felt she should not discuss these matters, either. She would have loved, however, to talk about Merlin with this girl who evidently knew him, but was too shy to betray her interest to a stranger. For all that, Freya felt more at home with Amery than her own cousin Vivian. Would she ever fit into Turad's society?
When they pulled to a stop at Number Five, Amery helped her to the curb, then paid the driver.
"Take care of yourself," the other girl advised, and with a cheery wave and a loose stride, departed on foot.
As Freya opened the gate, she noticed that Emma and the sharp-nosed neighbor Marcie were standing on the steps, both staring at her. She had no idea of the hour, but Emma was still wearing her robe over her nightgown, as if she'd rushed to the sound of Marcie's knock on the door. Freya winced, remembering again their worry, before beginning to move somewhat stiffly to them; Amery had suggested leaving the supporting bandage on inside her boot, and she'd complied.
"She is wearing the same dress," Marcie commented acidly to Emma.
"Where have you been?" Emma demanded. There was a white line around her lips; Freya remembered belatedly that she'd never returned to Philbert at the Daved, and sighed. She hoped he hadn't made too much of a scene.
Searching her memory, she couldn't recall if anyone had mentioned the address of the home Taliesin had led her to. So she answered simply, "With Merlin."
Emma drew herself up, struggling for a second for words which seemed to elude her, then their neighbor interjected, "Did you sleep with him?"
Freya frowned with some puzzlement; she'd slept with Merlin close by dozens of times, in Emmett's Creek and on the two-week trip to Turad. There was something wrong here, but she couldn't put her finger on it, so she answered as before, simply and honestly, "Yes, ma'am."
Marcie gasped as if offended, and Emma actually swayed on her feet. But what could they possibly… The implications of the phrasing caught up to Freya, and she felt a fiery blush sweep over her, halting her tongue.
"Well, no, we–"
"Not another word!" Emma snapped. "Marcie, please excuse me this morning, I'll have to pay you a call very soon."
The neighbor bowed her head stiffly, and detoured widely around Freya as she swept to the gate, sniffing as she passed her, as though she passed a garbage heap.
"Honestly, Cousin Emma, I didn't–" Freya tried again, truly horrified at the misunderstanding.
"Inside – now." Freya had never seen Emma so upset. Her brown eyes, usually warm and caring, were stark and blank with something like shock. Freya wordlessly entered the house. Emma didn't look at her, but shut the door behind her, and took her wrist to lead her upstairs as if she thought Freya would bolt.
Her heard sank at the stoniness of her cousin's countenance. Weren't they going to let her explain?