they not made her so afraid. He picked up the spoon, intrigued by her thoughtful expression. “Yes.”
“This isn’t red. It’s very nicely made, but this is blue. Is it what you meant me to have?”
He dropped the spoon in the bowl. Unless his skills had slipped, his little sparrow had seen through one of his simplest but most effective glamours. “By the gods of the waters, Nin, you may have a talent after all. I know the tunic is blue, but it should fit you well. You put it on.”
“What, change here?” Her swift glance held the spark of challenge he saw so much of yesterday.
“Is the cloth not to your liking?”
Only as she continued to stare, did he notice the little tremble of her chin. He turned his back in sudden haste to give her privacy. Fabric rustled.
“I’m changed.”
He swiveled around and smiled. The tunic covered to her slim ankles, enough for modesty, indeed. The fine-spun, blue wool hung at her small waist, for the thing was too big. “Hmm, not a bad fit.”
Her chin quivered. She gnawed at her lip.
“What is the matter with you, girl?”
“Oh, there’s nothing the matter.” She picked up the grubby brown gown. “Shall I go to wash this now or start to clean up? It will take me a while to tidy in here.” Her eyes glistened, reflecting the torchlight as she stared at the hearth.
He ignored her remark. She had the makings of a sharp tongue, a trait he would curb before it became a real irritation. “You may begin on the kitchen and be quick. I have tasks I must complete. When those are done, we have business in the forest.”
Her gulp in response amused him. She would learn her place quickly if she possessed a modicum of sense.
Chapter 4
The dishes done, Nin picked up the broom to sweep the grimy cinders from the hearth. He must be in his workshop by now. She let go of the anger she’d held in check since his glance swept over her, and with him safe out of the way, she scoured hard at the hearthstones.
Was she such a trouble? Did he not know she was a woman grown?
The broom slowed as her temper cooled. She wished he wouldn’t frown so much.
Her heart beat swift when she stood beside him. No matter how gruff he seemed, she didn’t think him cruel. He’d not beaten her like he threatened over the mushrooms. She didn’t think he ever would. When she woke this morning, she’d made a decision. She wanted to stay with him.
What was it about his eyes that made her believe all his words were true? Why did she want him to be pleased so she could see his smile?
She crossed her hands over the handle, rested her chin on the top, and leaned against the broom as the dust motes sailed in the light. He’d said Agnes lied. She so wanted to believe him, to trust his words. The mark showed she should be his. That was part of what Agnes told her. Thankfully, the brutal way he’d make her his hadn’t come to pass yet, and she didn’t think it would. Not in the way Agnes had said.
He’d never force anyone in that way.
Sudden warmth crept over her face. His hands were smooth and his fingers skilful. She’d like him to… Though no one could see her hot cheeks, she closed her eyes for shame. Appalled the idea had been hers, she shook the thought away, opened her eyes, and poked at a cobweb.
Should she feel this way?
His smile, when it came, touched her heart, but he didn’t smile half as much as she’d like.
She’d believed the very worst of what Agnes told. Yet it seemed not even the behavior of a man with a woman, the things she had whispered about with Alicia when no one could hear them, were in his thoughts.
Was it because she was ugly? Maybe he didn’t like her at all. Would she live her whole life this way?
Colors glowed in the hearthstones once she swept away the dusty ash. Green streaks gleamed like those in his eyes.
Why did his eyes return to her mind so often?
She glanced at the flagstones of the rest of the kitchen. They all needed a good scrub, a long job that would probably take most of the morning. Should she begin them now or go to wash the brown dress? She didn’t want to be out of the room when he came down, but needed to go outside. No sound came from above so she hurried out to race over the rise to the stream.
The grubby fabric sank beneath the surface of the rippling water. She hoisted the tunic she wore up to her knees to walk on the cloth where it settled on the streambed. Her toes squeezed out the dirt, mud, and the stink of fear. The stream ran clear. Delicious cool water swirled around her calves. Pebbles on the bed rolled as she rubbed her feet over her old dress.
She looked up at the sound of a horse. Across the stream, at the top of the rise, a fair young man curbed a white stallion.
“Girl!”
She frowned. Would she be called “girl” by all for the rest of her life? “What do you want?”
“Is the Mage home?”
“He’s up at the tower. What do you want?”
“That, little blossom, is his business, not yours.” He turned the horse in an elegant circle so she could get a good look at him before he rode on. He was handsome, with ripples of gilded fair hair, and she’d bet a bead, if she had one, he knew it.
She hauled the sodden bundle from the stream and wrung it out as best she could. A convenient branch gave a place to hang the sopping dress to drip-dry in the sun. Wiping at the damp patches on the tunic, she hurried back up over the rise.
The pale horse sped past, heading away from the tower now, kicking up clods of earth that forced her to jump into the heads of cow parsley.
“Sorry, little blossom, take more care,” the fair youth called back.
She glared as the horse cantered away. Her mood not improved by the messenger, she strode back to the tower.
The Mage waited with a dark wooden stave in his hand. She quickened her steps. He leaned against the wall surrounding the well. A large, wide-brimmed, straw hat shaded his head. He also held something she recognized instantly. The fabric gleamed red, yellow, and orange, with purple and blue splashes shimmering in the sun.
“Oh, there you are. Good.” He held out the long, fringed scarf. “This is for you.”
He gave her a smile, and her heart galloped faster than the white horse. “Thank you,” she whispered. The linen slid through her fingers like the softest down, the tiny little shells sewn onto it chinked. “You make these, don’t you?”
“Yes, one of the goods I make to trade. The village women seem to like them.”
“I know it.” Emulating the way one or two of the women wore them, she wrapped the soft fabric around her head and stroked the long tail of fringed cloth as it hung over her shoulder. All the women in the village prized the scarves he made, the most colorful garment they could possess. No one knew how to dye things in the way he did. She never imagined she would have one of his scarves for her own.
“Come on, we are going for a walk.”
She hurried to catch up with his long-legged stride. “Where are we going?”
“You, Sparrow, will learn your way home.”
“Please, no. Don’t.” Her heart thumped. She swallowed down the sudden panic. “Don’t make me leave.”
“No, no, Sparrow. I want you to know your place in the forest. I will not have the time to fetch you if you decide to stray. When I send you collecting, I will want you to bring back what you pick.”
Was Sparrow any better than girl?
“Keep