Fox paused for a moment and looked hard at Jarrett. The other man didn’t seem to notice his presence, which wasn’t like him. If he’d been doing something like tending a skittish animal or something, perhaps, but never something like just raking leaves. That and he looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his mouth drawn at the corners.

Was he ill? Fox wondered, a thrill of fear snaking its way up his spine. He had no idea why Jarrett needed to talk with him, just that he’d sent Zarah past the shop. And pressing her for details was useless, she had all the staid seriousness of a kitten chasing a butterfly. And like most young things, an obsessive interest in herself only caring about others where they abutted her and her own self-interest. Surely, though, surely Lady Kennedy could cure any illness?

Jarrett wasn’t an old man for all that he seemed it sometimes. He was only three years older than Fox. Old enough that he could easily have resented having to start over. Could have resented it and no one would have blamed him for it. But that wasn’t like Jarrett, if he cursed and railed against the gods, he did so quietly with-in his own head and didn’t seem to let it stop him from doing whatever he needed to do.

Still, Fox had to admit to himself, if the plague had done nothing else, it had made them all far more aware of their own mortality. And that hung a lot heavier on Jarrett than it did on the rest of them, making him seem older than his six-and-thirty years. If he were sick…

“Fox.” Jarrett said with a smile looking up from his pile of leaves, finally, though the smile did nothing for the haunted look in his eyes.

“Jarrett.” Fox smiled, hoping that his concerns weren’t clear in his eyes. Fox had been a salesman far too long to not be able to read people and Jarrett more than most wouldn’t appreciate the perceived intrusion.

“I hope I’m not taking you away from anything important.” Jarrett batted the rake at the pile of leaves by his feet, shifting maybe half a dozen of them further onto the pile but otherwise the action was unnecessary.

“Of course not. I have plenty of time for my friends and the latest batch of cloth just came out of the dye vats and needs to dry before I can do anything else with it.” Fox said.

“Yes, but what if you have a customer?”

“It’s slow right now, pretty much everyone has either placed their orders or isn’t ordering anything at the moment. Besides Phoebe is tending to the shop and she’s better than me at any rate.” Fox smiled. “I swear she could sell a watering can to a raincloud.” Jarrett chuckled. Was it a bit hollow sounding? Fox closed his eyes and sketched a cross on his palm.

Some might have interpreted the gesture as being a ward against evil. But to Fox, it wasn’t so much a ward as a hope. A hope that the gods were with him and a those he cared about.

Jarrett didn’t seem to notice or if he did, he didn’t react. He was probably used to Fox doing that. Fox had done it so long that he wasn’t even aware of it half the time, like people biting their lip or tugging their ears.

“Well, I’m not glad your business is slow. I mean you’re in the process of making over your house.” Fox flushed.

“Aye.” Fox agreed.

“Preacher livin’ in sin, huh?” Rather than his face and eyes lightening with amusement, Jarrett’s eyes went dark and his face drawn.

“Actually, no. She has the master bedroom, I’ve got one of the upstairs rooms.” Fox said. “She says that marriage is a big step and that we should know what we’re getting into before we take that step.”

“Aye, I suppose she’s right.” Jarrett’s shoulders drooped.

“Jarrett, I know that you appreciate your privacy, but, I sense that all is not well. Would you like to tell me about it?” Fox asked.

“Actually, aye, I would, it was why I asked you to come by.” Jarret said, setting the rake against the fence, an action that caused Fox’s brow to arch upward, he never left his tools out. He followed Jarrett to the house, the older man hesitating at table, his hand reaching toward the chair Nessa normally sat in to talk before jerking back.

“Care for a game?” Fox gestured at the chessboard and saw, for the first time relief in Jarrett’s face.

“Aye. That–sounds good.” Jarrett said. The figures were lined up with precision on squares and Fox was contemplating his first move.

“Fox, I know you’re a good man, but have you ever done–that just–changed everything, and not–not in a good way?” He asked with a sigh.

“Oh, aye. I think we all have.” Fox said. Jarrett didn’t ask him to elaborate and he didn’t offer. Jarrett wasn’t asking for an anecdote as Blake would have been, from what Fox knew of his friend, it was more a question to put him into the right frame of mind.

“I still love Ivy.” Fox nodded and took one of Jarrett’s pawns. “But, lately, I’ve been–I’ve been thinking about someone else.”

“There’s no harm in that.” Fox told him.

“In that, nah, but, then the other night, I did something–I think there might have been harm in. After we left the castle after Hope was born, Nessa and I came back here–we–talked, well, more she talked and I listened. She told me–something about her previous life–about the man who–hurt her–and about the friend who tried to save her.” Jarrett took his bishop, but opened himself up for Fox to take his rook. The thread of conversation stopped as Jarrett pondered his next move.

If there was one thing any preacher got used to was when a man was making a confession of any sort, it was a long pause. Even those men who found words the cheapest were skinflints with them when it came time to admit a wrong.

“She blames herself for her friend’s death. And she had nothing to do with it, I mean, if we were all always to blame for not being there for a friend…” Jarrett trailed off and Fox nodded again. “I tried to tell her that things happen–that events are–bigger than we are–but…” Jarrett trailed off again.

“Check.” Fox said into the silence.

“I kissed her.” Jarrett said. Fox blinked.

“Is that supposed to mess up my game?” Jarrett chuckled as Fox hoped but shook his head.

“Actually–I–I did more than that.” Jarrett said. “We–um–,” He colored and looked away.

“You made love?” Fox asked when it was obvious that Jarrett was not going to continue.

“We–did.” Jarrett said, then fell silent.

“You know, Jarrett, the Gods have so much to worry about–a man and a maid, even those not in the bounds of marriage–probably matters very little to the Gods. You know, in some of the northern areas, a couple often doesn’t handfast until after the lass has missed her first course. It guarantees fertility.” Fox said causing Jarrett to blush again.

“It isn’t the love-making, Fox. I mean, I’d never taken a woman other than my wife to my bed.” Jarrett said.

“You’re a better man than many.” Fox said.

“But it was–never like that.” Jarrett said. “I never felt that way in Ivy’s arms, Fox. And now…”

“Now?” Fox prompted.

“I’ve betrayed a friend, a woman I care about, I’ve sinned, and I’ve betrayed Ivy’s memory.” Jarrett said.

“I think I missed something.” Fox said blankly.

“Nessa–She didn’t understand what she was getting into.” Jarrett ticked off on his finger.

“She did, I’m sure. You’re not the only one who talks to me, Jarrett.” Fox said when the other man turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t trying to–,” Jarrett cringed.

“Jarrett, if men only did the things they were trying to do–we would have no need for forgiveness.” Fox told him, shaking his head.

“Forgiveness? How could she ever forgive me?”

“She probably already has–if she blamed you to begin with.” Fox told him. “She has a great amount of heart.”

“Which she are you talking about?” Jarrett asked.

“Which one were you talking about, my answer’s the same both ways. Jarrett, Ivy loved you enough that she wanted you to go on. To feel again–to love again.” Fox said. “And Nessa, Gods above, Jarrett. Nessa! She wouldn’t have to forgive you, cause she’d never blame you and you know it!” Jarrett sighed and stared at his hands. Fox put his hands on Jarrett’s shoulders and looked at him for a long moment.

“The sin isn’t in doing wrong. Men do wrong. Men do wrong all the time. I think–the biggest sin–is not making things right. Jarrett, if you don’t make things right with her, then that is a very grave, very serious mistake and about the only way I see that Ivy would be unhappy with you.” Fox told him.

—

“Nessa–I–”

“Jarrett.” Nessa said turning to face him later that afternoon.

“It was my fault, I apologize.” Jarrett told her.

“No, really, it was mine.” Fox was right, damn him, how was he going to convince her…

“It wasn’t. I am to blame here.” Nessa started to open her mouth to refute it.

“No one is to blame here! It was good sex, damn it. You’re not supposed to walk around flogging yourself, unless you’re into that, which I’m sure neither of you are, crying “Mea Culpa!” You’re supposed to be walking around saying “you know, that was completely fucking awesome, when can we do it again?” Get your fuckin’ script straight and stop sounding like a chick flick.” Olivia said from behind them and they both whirled to face her.

“It was just sex, you know. People bone each other every day.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. “Can things please get back to normal around here? Or close enough, I mean I’ll try to ignore any and all wall thumping if it means you’re both okay.” And just what did one say to that? Jarrett wondered.

If Jarrett had to lay money one way or the other, the only person in the room of two minds on the event that had called them all here was probably him. Lady Kennedy might still have been of two minds on the subject, but she wasn’t in the room. And she was apparently okay enough that she’d sent the king back down to the Great Hall.

Raquel had gone into labor earlier that morning and they’d all congregated in the Great Hall to await the arrival of the first born Crestian since the plague. There was a part of Jarrett that joined the others in their joyfulness, their hopefulness for the future. This event, more than anything, signified that the plague was behind them. Their desperate scramble to breathe life back into Shadowcrest had worked.

A baby was being born and that child was theirs. He or she would be a Crestian. It was oddly like the coronation that Lachlan had never had.

At the same point, Jarrett had never felt so old as he did now. He was alone in having been where Blake was now, staring at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on the table. Worried for his wife, worried for his baby, waiting and waiting. But all of the good feelings that were tied up in those memories were unfortunately also harnessed to the waiting and waiting of a more modern–and infinitely sadder–vintage.

Of staring at the ceiling and wondering if this would be the last night he would have his Rosie-girl, his little Frankie.

“Something wrong?” Nessa asked, leaning toward him and talking in a low voice that nearly blended into the buzz of conversation around them.

“Hmm? No.” Jarrett said glancing at her.

“Liar.” Though there was no venom in it, only a bit of–he hoped–fondness, she smiled at Lady Phoebe who was talking about something to do with some of her jewelery designs. She wrinkled her nose and winked at him before asking Fox a question.

“Does–does it usually take this long?” Blake asked, nervously twisting his wedding ring around his fingers. Eyes shot to Jarrett as if, because he had been a father, he ought to know. Or maybe it was just that he was older, or that he’d played midwives to calves, horses, baby piglets.

“My mother never failed to remind me that she was in labor with me for thirty-six hours.” Nessa laughed. “Thirty-six hours and twenty-minutes and fifty-seven seconds or something like that. The minutes and seconds tended to grow the more irritated she was with me.” Jarrett shot her a grateful look and she pressed her hand reassuringly against his.

“So have you thought about what you’ll name the baby?” Lady Phoebe asked Blake.

“We’ve narrowed it down. I had originally thought that we might name the baby after Raquel’s parents. But–she said she’d rather we didn’t.”

“What about your parents?” Ren asked. “Or your brothers or sisters, isn’t there that old legend that when people–,”

“Die?” Mistress Peyton asked. “It’s just a word, and everything does it. Only two certainties in life, death and taxes.” Ren laughed.

“Does that count?” Blake looked down the table at Fox. “I thought that it was only for…” He trailed off, eyes skipping toward Jarrett.

“I don’t know.” Fox said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“What is this?” Lady Phoebe asked.

“There is an old legend or wives tale or something. That when a child dies young, it may be reborn later to the same family.” Fox said. Jarrett felt his breath his in between his teeth, but no one else seemed to notice it, except a moment later a strong work callused hand gripped his just briefly a second time under the table. Nessa caught his eye and held it for a moment. He nodded once and she flashed something like a smile.

A wave of silence started as the door opened and Lady Kennedy stepped through. It moved slowly toward their end of the great hall, conversations dropping off. All eyes on the white linen bundle in her arms, Jarrett’s included.

Blake almost knocked his chair over scrambling to his feet as he realized what that bundle was. He looked terrified.

“I have someone to introduce to you, Master Blake.” Lady Kennedy said as she handed the baby to Blake. He took the baby gingerly, as if his fingers were clumsy and stiff and the child were spun glass.

“Did–did Raquel choose a name, Lady Kennedy?” Blake asked stroking the infant’s soft cheek, the soft coo seeming to echo from the rafters. “What–er–what is it?”

“A baby?” Lady Kennedy suggested sardonically.

“Of course, I mean–I know that–it’s uh–just.” Blake stammered.

“Kennedy, be nice, how’d you like it if someone handed you your first child with a it’s a baby?” Lady Tiffany said from the next table.

“I should hope that I wouldn’t ask that silly of a question–and if I did, I would have just been giving birth and would be excused.” Lady Kennedy said, turning back to the father. “Hope.” Jarrett blinked right along with Blake.

“Pardon?” Ren asked.

“Her name is Hope.” Kennedy said. “If that’s still too subtle for you, it’s a girl.” Blake looked at Hope for a long moment, then up at Kennedy, tears welling in his dark eyes.

“That’s rather–apt, isn’t it?” He asked. “Hope?” Lady Kennedy smiled, one that was surprisingly free of cynicism.

“Congratulations, Blake!” Ren said, thumping the young man on a shoulder–but with care for the baby in his arms. “She’s got your eyes.”

“Aye.” Blake said wonderingly.

“Now we just hope she doesn’t get his beard.” Mistress Peyton said with a laugh. Ren shot a dark look at his wife that just caused her to laugh harder.

“Raquel’s okay?” Blake asked suddenly, the tan draining out of his face.

“She’s fine, came through it like a pro.” Lady Kennedy said. “Will, I’m sure, be up long before I want her out of bed.” Blake smiled gratefully.

“So this is your uncle Ren.” Blake held the baby out to the blacksmith who seemed even more uncertain holding Hope than Blake had. “And your aunt Peyton.” Peyton waved at the little girl.

As the others gathered around the baby, Jarrett noticed a flash of red-gold moving away from the crowd. Nessa…

He slipped out of his chair and followed the flag of her bright hair through the mostly dark throne room and into the library. It would have been impossible to miss Nessa’s drawn in breath, the shaky exhale clear as it ricocheted off the panel walls.

“Nessa?” He asked, only then realizing that maybe the reason she had left was because she wanted to be alone. She turned back toward him, something on her face that he couldn’t read. The veterinarian shrugged, a faint lift of the lips as an excuse for a smile.

“It’s been a long day?” Jarrett offered. Nessa stared at him for a moment, then nodded in agreement, her eyes looking more lost than he’d ever seen them. “I bet Blake wouldn’t mind if we called it an early night.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nessa’s voice was wooden and she fell silently into step behind him, seeming to almost use him as a shield as they entered the Great Hall.

“She’s a baby, not a priceless antique, as long as the words ‘go long’ do not enter the conversation she’ll be fine.” Mistress Peyton was saying as they edged into the room.

Nessa stopped and murmured something at Blake and at Olivia, so by the time that they arrived at the door out, it was pretty apparent they were heading off for the night. The king stood in their path but after a look at Nessa simply offered her a hug and accepted her murmured apology.

“You think they’ll forgive us for skipping out?” Nessa murmured, the chill air thick with the smell of autumn leaves.

“If they really notice we’re gone, probably.” Jarrett said.

“Hope, it really is kind of an apt name, isn’t it?” Nessa offered as they walked past the windows, Mistress Peyton holding baby Hope and talking with Lady Heidi and Lady Fiona.

“Names have a way of being surprisingly apt sometimes. We–we named my daughter Rosie–she–had auburn hair–but she grew up to be a lot like a rose.” He offered.

“Yeah, I think about it, sometimes, what I might name my children–if–if I ever have the chance to have any.” Nessa sighed again and hugged her arms to her chest.

“Oh?” He asked, wondering if that was prying or encouraging.

“Kian–definitely–if I ever had a boy.” She smiled sadly.

“Kian?” Jarrett asked, then regretted it as her face fell.

“Someone–very important to me was named that. He was my–best friend doesn’t even cover it. I used to call him my guardian angel. Cause he was, he was always there for me. I didn’t even have to say anything. No matter how fucked up Mitch left me, he’d be there with a pack of beers and a bag of Ol’ Red’s pork rinds. Just like magic. I think–of everything I regret–the fact that I couldn’t save him like he saved me–is my biggest one.” She said shivering a little as the breeze picked up and moaned through the trees. “I never even got to tell him how much he meant to me.”

“I–dunno about where you’re from–but they always told me that they know–the people you love like that–they know.”

“Ugh, I’m beginning to feel like I should just have Kennedy graft this dress onto my body.” Peyton said, glancing to up meet Ren’s eyes in the mirror over the dresser. “It seems like I’m wearing it all the time anyway.”

“But what will you do if it goes out of fashion?” Ren asked curiously. Peyton snorted and tossed a platinum curl out of her face. It would probably only be another few days before she handed him the scissors and told him to trim the ends off it. He couldn’t help but wonder though, what she’d look like if she ever grew her hair out completely. Not that he didn’t like it short, Peyton could shave herself bald and he would still think she was beautiful, but he still, sometimes, wondered.

“Since when do I follow fashion?” She turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Okay so she had him there.

“You don’t, but–well what about when it wears out, it’s only cloth after-all.” She sighed and rolled her eyes.

“I suppose you have me there.” She echoed his thought from only a moment before in that odd way she had. He remembered his mother telling his sisters that good wives could do that, but given what his mother had also said, somehow he doubted that Peyton’s ability to do it had anything to do with being a good wife the way Martine had thought of the title. “How many festival days does one season have to have?” She turned away from the mirror and slid onto the bed next to him, smoothing the coverlet with an absent hand.

“There’s really only one more.” Ren said. “Then we get into harvest season and all there’ll be time for is harvesting or finishing up the last of projects before winter sets in.”

“Yeah. Vikki said that at least from what she and Camden have talked about, the borders maybe reopened before the harvest faire, I guess it won’t be like last year.”

“Oh?” Ren asked. Did Lord Camden really tell Lady Victoria about what happened in counsel sessions? Was the king really expecting that they would get a lot of visitors for the faire this year. By the time Harvest Faire came, there wouldn’t be a lot of time for merchants to return home, most who had come before the plague had come with the intention of wintering over.

Would anyone want to winter over in a country that had so recently been closed to a plague. It seemed odd to be thinking of winter, he glanced at the window, at the sunny summer sky visible over the town wall that backed the property, on a summer day, but it wasn’t that far off either. Peyton’s lips pursed as if she were trying to decide between sighing at him for stuffing so many questions into one word or smiling because he did stuff so many questions into one word.

“I more meant that it just doesn’t sound like we’re all gonna have the big feast that we did last year.” Peyton clarified, her fingers flicking at an invisible piece of lint on her dress. “Vikki doesn’t give me a lot of details, I have a feeling that’s part because most of what she tells me is pillow talk.” Ren couldn’t help twisting to stare at his wife for a minute.

“Oh, don’t look at me that way.” She laughed, that deep throated chuckle that made Ren’s knees turn to water. “People with brains have to talk about something in bed other than just sex–and,” The sentence trailed off.

“And?” Ren prompted.

“Babies, you know, like Raquel’s going to spawn–soon–like Heidi’s gonna have, like Vikki’s going to have?” Peyton tucked her hair behind her ear and looked at her hands.

“Lady Victoria is–” it was Ren’s turn to trail off, the tips of his ears burning. Maybe some people talked about the occupants or future occupants of noblewomen’s tummies, but not any of his mother’s children.

Peyton glanced at his ears and grinned. “Yep, she told me right after she came back from Kennedy. It’s a girl thing.” Peyton shrugged, her grin fading as she plucked at the bodice on her dress.

“What’s wrong?” Ren asked, his eyes widening slightly in panic.

“Well, it’s just–babies, Ren. Three out of four of the married couples in Shadowcrest are expecting one–and we’re four.” Peyton said.

“We hadn’t really talked about–children.” Ren found himself hesitating over the word.

“I know, that’s the problem.” Peyton admitted. “We haven’t talked about kids.” She gnawed on her lip before exhaling a sigh.  “At all.”

“Uh.” Well that was intelligible. He hadn’t brought up children because he didn’t want to seem like he was putting pressure on her. The same reason he didn’t harp on her wardrobe, even though Fox seemed to think that he should. (Well, in part, the way her trews showed of her long, athletic legs certainly didn’t hurt Ren’s–er–views on the subject.) He wanted her to be happy here in Shadowcrest. If she was happy in trews then she should wear them. If she wanted to talk about children, he would have thought that she would have.

Was this something he was supposed to have brought up? He knew that Lady Kennedy had insisted that Blake and Raquel wait, but that mostly seemed to be because of Raquel’s age. Lady Heidi and Lady Victoria hadn’t waited, but…

“Do you want–kids?” Peyton asked tentatively. “I mean I know we’ll need them eventually, but–” She sighed.

“I…” Did he want kids. Not did he think they should have them, but did he want them, as in right now? “Do you want them?” He asked. She turned and looked at him for a long moment, something sad lurking behind her gray eyes. He’d put every royal in the cash box on it having something to do with Peyton’s mother.

Martine had raised her children not to speak ill of people, but Ren once again was completely grateful that he would never meet his mother-in-law. She had to have no idea of how amazing her daughter was. He felt a deep smoldering anger once more that she had been so dismissive and restrictive to Peyton that even simple conversations like this hurt Peyton.

“I–Well, we’d talked about opening a shop, for my pottery. Right now it’s kind of stuck in with your metalwork, which I mean I guess is as good a place as any. It isn’t quite like my fabric samples hanging in Fox’s workshop though.” Peyton said. Ren nodded. “And if the borders are going to be reopened, there might be more interest in it–if it weren’t sitting in between the horseshoes and the penny nails.”

“Right.” Ren nodded, if still slightly confused.

“I–I don’t know that I want to deal with trying to get a new shop off the ground and swollen feet and general waddles, Ren.” She turned and looked at him, hurt and shame in her eyes.

“That makes sense to me.” Ren said. Her gaze returned to him from where it had retreated to off the footboard.

“It–it does?” Peyton asked. Her voice seemed near to cracking. “But–don’t you want children?”

“Of course I do eventually but I think that right now it’s as much your choice as mine.” He said taking her hand kissing it. “If not more so. Maybe I would think differently if I were going to be the one carrying the child, but I’m not. And if you want to wait, then we can wait. Until you’re ready.” Ren said.

“Or until the gods have other ideas.” Peyton laughed ruefully. Ren looked at her curiously. “There’s an old saying back home, if you want to hear the Lord, meaning God, laugh, just tell him what you have planned. The only way we’ll completely one hundred percent for certain not have kids is to one hundred percent for certain stop–any bedroom activities that lead to kids.” Ren’s ears burned. “We should go, shouldn’t we?” Peyton asked.

“Fox is expecting us.”

“If he’s not busy trying to convince Phoebe that she should join us.” Peyton smirked.

“Do you know why Lady Phoebe doesn’t like him?” Ren asked, swinging his legs down off the bed.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with like, I think it has more to do with trust, she doesn’t trust him.” Peyton said after a moment. Huh? He turned and looked at his wife, who was looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Fox is smooth as silk and charming as a fairy tale prince. But that doesn’t always add up to trustworthy. Sure, he’s charming, but is he sincere?”

“Well…” Admittedly not always, Ren thought. He’d known Fox before the plague and he had always treated every woman who walked into his master’s shop as if she were the most beautiful woman on the planet. It helped him sell more dresses, and unlike some of the other salesmen who would adopt the same thing, he never turned to one of his fellows after she left and commented that the woman in question was a dog–or any other insult. But he couldn’t have meant all of that flattery to all of those women.

“I’ve known chicks like Phoebe before. She strikes me as the type who has been burned before.” Peyton shrugged. “Probably by a guy who talked very pretty but meant about every third word. If you wanted to pass along a bit of advice to our dear friend, the tailor, I’d start with, skip the flowers and go straight to the truth, it’ll get him further.”

“Oh.” Should he have done that? He wondered, chewing at the corner of his lip. Ren didn’t think of himself as a man who was overly flowery, most of the time he couldn’t think of ten words to say, let alone how to make them all sound pretty.

“Now me, I’ve always had the opposite problem. Guys have a very hard time being flowery or flattering with me, but I get more truth than I’d ever want.” Peyton laughed. Oh. “But I guess he’ll have time to work on his game, what with her helping him out for Joey’s wedding.”

“Will it be that hard?”

“If what I’ve heard is any indication, it’s a damned good thing that the King is footing the bills for weddings, and that ours was less than extravagant.” Peyton laughed, Ren sat back down the bed next to her in wonder. He thought their wedding had been fine. “Sawyer’d be in hock until his great-great-great-grandchildren.”

“Really?” He had no idea.

“Oooh yeah,” Peyton shook her head. “I’m half getting the idea that she’s going so overboard for the whole thing because she’s hoping someone will call the whole thing off rather than accede to her demands, after all if the king says no, then she doesn’t have to.”

Except of course if Ren knew anything about Lachlan as a person he would never say no, not on something like that. If that’s really what Lady Jolene was doing, then she was bound to be disappointed.

“So she doesn’t want to marry him?” Ren asked. Peyton shrugged.

“I don’t know. Joey’s not got the easiest head to climb into. I think there’s more going on there, but it’s not as if she talks to me.” Peyton shrugged again.

“We really do need to go.”

“I know,” Peyton sighed. “But I don’t really want to go. Fox is so boring when he’s talking saints.” It was Ren’s turn to shrug. “You know, it’s almost too bad that we didn’t decide we really wanted to have kids.”

“Why’s that?” Ren asked.

“Because I can think of a lot better ways to celebrate the feast of For Pete’s Sake, or whatever today is. Lots and lots and lots.”

Suddenly, so could he.

Emanuel looked out the front window, his gaze barely taking in the winter dormant trees and not taking in the glazed window at all. Here in a minute or two he would blink his eyes and try to bring them into focus, when he noticed that they were out of focus at all. Still, he wasn’t too far gone, his gait was steady, there was no palsy in his hand as he reached for the wine bottle sitting on the desk. The good stuff. He half smiled. His father had always had it, and now that secret stash was Emanuel’s. But it wasn’t bottomless and some part of him knew that at the rate he was going he’d run out.

But the wine was working, maybe not as well as it once had, but it worked well enough. He sighed and sat down at the desk. Not the scarred table that his father had taught him to read and write and count at, this one was new with nary a scratch or scar in sight. That old table was long gone. Burned when they burned his shop.

Blake had given this one to him for a midwinter gifting, the mellow dark wood silky smooth under his fingertips. It showed the carpenter’s careful attention to detail, all the edges rasped smooth and fine. It was a beautiful desk. One that he might, before the plague, have been able to afford when he was a tottering old man. And what had Emanuel given Blake? Herbs. Various remedies and such, some that he’d been making for years, many more that had been dictated to him by the lady doctor.

But he didn’t want to think of her, not when the wine was so pleasant and making his head foggy. He thought perhaps that there was something that he was forgetting. something else that he was supposed to be doing, but damned if he could think of anything that it might be.

Through the siren song of the wine sloshing in his glass as he picked it up, there was a faint call of something, but his slightly soggy brain couldn’t pick it out. Only that it didn’t involve the king or one of the nobles. And it probably didn’t have anything to do with the ladies, so he took a long draught of the wine and felt the pleasant rush to his head as the twilight crept into the house and coiled in eddies around the furniture and around Emanuel.

What was I supposed to be doing? It didn’t have a call of urgency, so maybe that was why the decanter called louder than the responsibility. He reached for the wine and the release it held in it’s depths.

—

Fox pushed open the gate to Emanuel’s house and paused at the foot of the stairs. The house was mostly dark, but that told him absolutely nothing. Even if Emanuel was up and around the house would have been dark. The porch light was lit, which said that he had been up when dusk had started in, but beyond that, the cottage told Fox nothing.

So he steeled himself, wondering what he’d find when he walked into the house, wondering if this time he’d find Emanuel drunk, or passed out, or maybe this time dead. He hoped not, by the gods, he hoped not. Shadowcrest didn’t need another death, not now.

The door opened when he tried the knob and swung to reveal velvet dusk wrapped around the edges, held barely at bay by a few candles. Fox’s eyes swept over the gloom before alighting on the settee. Emanuel. A drunken snore ripped through the gloom, followed by a barely audible exasperated sigh. The former was of course Emanuel’s, the latter was Fox’s.

Passed out again. Thankfully the decanter was still on the desk, Fox barely refraining from grabbing it and pouring it out. It wouldn’t do any good. Emanuel had a stash somewhere and all that pouring it out would was make the apothecary pissed at him. Instead he made his way past the stack of books on the floor, a stack that worried Fox. Emanuel was nothing if not neat. His books were put away, always, so either he’d taken this stack of half a dozen down for reading tonight and fallen asleep before he made his way through them, or he’d forgotten the past couple of nights to put the books away and not noticed them.

He had heard that heavy drinking could lead to dementia… The tailor breathed a small prayer to the gods that it was just the books weren’t a symptom of something more. That Emanuel had just forgotten that he was supposed to come to dinner tonight. That it was just the drinking.

Fox knelt down by Emanuel’s prone form and gently shook the other man’s shoulder. Impossibly blue eyes blinked at him, disoriented.

“Fox?” The slightly gravelly voice seemed to creak like a gate hing in need of oiling. Emanuel sat up, rubbing at his eyes which looked thick and gummy even from the outside. It was really no surprise that the house was dark, though Fox sometimes wondered how the man avoided tripping over things. “What–what are you doing here?”

“You were supposed to come to dinner, when you were late, I was–concerned.” Fox said. There were other ways to say that, but one of the unspoken agreements between the two men was that Fox would leave his flowery charming speech on the sales floor where it belonged and Emanuel wouldn’t lie. It was a small thing, but it was all that Fox could get. And with Emanuel small concessions were about all one could ever get.

“Oh, dinner. I knew I was forgetting something.” Emanuel murmured.

“Well,” Fox laughed, faintly. “Have you anything to eat here?” I don’t fancy trying to make sure you get to my house and home even if it isn’t that far, stayed behind his teeth. But if he didn’t make the apothecary eat, then it was likely to be the next noon before he did eat anything.

Emanuel didn’t answer right away, instead making his way to the water bowl to splash water on his face. Fox wondered yet again at Emanuel’s ability to be too drunk to see straight but be as steady on his feet as any man Fox had ever met. Maybe it served him well, but the tailor thought, perhaps a little too well. You couldn’t always tell if he’d been drinking and the herbs that he worked around could easily mask the lingering smell of alcohol on his breath.

“There should be stew in the larder.” Fox almost jumped when Emanuel answered. The apothecary turned as if to make his way to the larder, but Fox really didn’t trust the other man around flame right now and the hearth fire was half dead and the candles half guttered, so he waved Emanuel away, it wasn’t as if Fox didn’t know his way around Emanuel’s cottage.

They were both silent as he pulled out the pot of stew, a quick sniff told him that Emanuel hadn’t made it. It was probably Ren’s, and that meant that it was more than likely traded. Even after all those months that they had lived all together, Fox was fairly sure that Ren and Blake didn’t know the extent of Emanuel’s problem with the bottle. He was also sure that that was at least a portion of his fault.

Knowing how much it would hurt Emanuel to have the others lose their faith in him, he’d kept Emanuel’s secret as best he could. Drunk or sober Emanuel was still a very good apothecary and the only one they had. and besides…

… besides he was Fox’s friend. So many of Fox’s friends had died in the plague. So many people he’d known. He’d be damned if he’d just abandon Emanuel to the bottle.

The stew didn’t take long to heat up, it wasn’t a big pot of stew. He dished a bowl and set it in front of the apothecary, then dished one for himself and sat down. The only sound was the clanking of spoon against crockery. Fox racked his brain for something to talk about, something, anything but the swirling thoughts in his head.

“Thank you.” The sound of Emanuel’s voice startled him.

“Eh?”

“C’mon, Fox, you don’t have to play dumb. I’m a drunken mess and you don’t have to be here with me, except if you walk out the door without seeing me eat you’ll never know if I did or not.”

“Ah, but there you’re wrong.” Fox said. Emanuel’s fiery brow spoke eloquently for him. “You’re my friend. That is what we are supposed to do for others. Is that not what the Gods have said?”

“I think you have a far longer backlog of holding my head while I empty my guts into a pot than I shall ever be able to repay you for.” Emanuel said quietly.

“I don’t do it for repayment, Emanuel.”

“Still, no one would blame you if you gave up on me.” The apothecary looked down into his bowl and poked at a floating piece carrot.

“I would.” Fox said just as quietly. Then the sounds of eating once more overtook them until Emanuel pushed his chair back and headed for the door leading to the outhouse. Fox finished up his last bite or two of stew and put the pot back in the larder, washed the bowls out. Emanuel came back up the stairs and into the house. After the bowls were dried and put away, Fox turned to see Emanuel sitting on the settee, head in his hands.

“I wouldn’t.” Emanuel said. It took Fox a minute to realize that he was picking up their previous thread of conversation.

“Emanuel, it is no hardship to do something for someone who you know will be able to repay you. It requires nothing of you, not really. But to do something for someone who cannot?” Fox shook his head. “That requires much more of you. Besides, even if you can’t repay me, perhaps there’ll be someone else along down the line.” Or perhaps there already had been.

Fox knew that Emanuel had done far more during the plague than he ever let on that he had. Knew it because of the things that Lord Gray and King Lachlan had told him, but knew it all the more because of what Emanuel was doing to himself.

You didn’t get the kind of crushing grief that left you clinging to a bottle if you didn’t care, you didn’t drink yourself to sleep at night if those you hadn’t been able to save didn’t matter to you. If Fox had to guess, knowing Emanuel, he’d done everything he could and run into the wall of his own capacity.

“Oh, aye.” Emanuel shook his head. “Like who?”

“Your children, perhaps.” Emanuel shrugged, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

“Oh, aye.” Emanuel’s sarcasm practically cut the air like a knife.”Like I will ever have children. That requires a wife, you know.”

“Well, you…”

“And what woman would take me? She won’t. I have nothing to offer her.” Fox didn’t bother asking who. He knew who. He thought about reminding Emanuel that he had as much of a chance with Lady Kennedy as anyone did. Perhaps more! “She doesn’t need me, Fox. What could a man like me offer a woman like her?”

“Perhaps it isn’t about need, Emanuel? Have you thought of that?” Emanuel shook his head sharply, unhappiness splayed across his face. “Lady Kennedy may not need you, not like we’re used to a wife needing a husband, but perhaps that’s for the better. Because it means that she may take into account what she wants.” And if he had to lay money one way or another, he would guess that Lady Kennedy wanted Emanuel.

Emanuel sat in silence, staring into the darkness over Fox’s head.

“I should get to bed.” Emanuel said suddenly. “If I sit here too much more, I won’t make it to bed on my own and you’ve half carried me to bed too many times already.”

“Alright. Perhaps you can come over for dinner tomorrow, then?” Fox asked, standing up.

“Trying to make certain I eat?”

“No, just that I made more soup than I need for myself and don’t fancy eating it for the next week.” Fox said blandly as he got his feet. Emanuel laughed and turned with his usual grace to his room. Fox smiled faintly and blew out the candles before taking himself off into the night.

Blake paused at the foot of the stairs, looking around the public room of the cottage. It was still hard to believe this was his. Being the third son of a merchant who was not known for a hardheaded practicality where the cashbox was concerned, Blake was pretty sure that there were more “to be paid later” notes in his father’s old ledger than there was actual notations of payment.

While he had always loved his father’s soft-hearted approach, he couldn’t bear to turn someone who needed something away just because they didn’t have the money right then, it had meant that Blake was set to have a lot of years of traveling to do before he would have a cozy little cottage like this one. And yet here he had one, it was all his, well it was all his for now. Soon-meaning depending on what progress could be made restoring the old chapel-he’d be sharing it.

Lady Tiffany had promised that no matter what state the old chapel was in, she could have it done by week’s end. No one had even thought about it. It had been abandoned after the priests had all died. Not that they didn’t pray, well, he didn’t know what King Lachlan or the nobles did. Nor, actually, what the ladies did. But Fox gathered them once a week and they prayed. It just wasn’t a formal thing. No sermons or speeches or preaching, just a man and the gods and whatever thoughts went between them.

It had remained abandoned all this time, mostly because no one really seemed to think about it, or why they might be needed it. But Blake couldn’t ask Raquel to marry him in the cottage. She deserved a real wedding, in the church. With all the pomp and circumstance that Shadowcrest could provide. Admittedly minimal as it might be.

He hadn’t intended to ask Raquel to marry him, not this winter, not so soon. He would have waited. Maybe he should have. But they’d been sitting on one of the hills outside of town, Shadowhaven’s walls at their backs, the light warm, even if the breeze hadn’t been. She’d shivered and he’d put an arm around her still-too-thin shoulders. She’d turned her face into his neck, and sighed. “What?” Blake had asked.

“I wish this could be like this forever.” She had admitted. And then, in a tumble of fumbled words that had made him wish that he had a silver tongue like Fox, he’d asked. And she’d smiled, one of those all-too-rare smiles that lit not just her face, but her eyes.

A knock came a moment later, startling him out of his reverie. “So, what are you up to?” Ren asked.

“Oh, just kinda rattling around the house. It’s still-what’s Raquel’s word-surreal? that it’s mine and even-odder that by this time next week, it’ll be-ours.” Blake pushed a hand through his hair, looking at the falling snow.

“Oh? What about the chapel?” Ren asked. Blake shrugged, which became an almost shiver. It was too cold for shirtsleeves out and of course he hadn’t grabbed his cloak from the coatrack.

“Would you like to come in?” Blake asked. “It might do a bit better to talk where it’s warm.”

“Aye. This is-different.” Ren hesitated in the door, looking around at the newly decorated cottage. Before, it had just been furniture really. Now it really wasn’t.

“Aye, Raquel and some of the other ladies came over the past couple of days. It is different.” Not that it looked bad, he didn’t think it looked bad at all, just it looked nothing like the cottage that he had grown up in, with it’s tapestries that had hung there for generations and the jumbled, slightly mismatched furniture. Nor like any of the other cottages he knew. It didn’t even really look like Lady Kennedy’s barn.

“Where did they get all this stuff?” Ren asked, sitting down on the sofa that Blake gestured to. Blake settled into the chair both of which were now padded with purple cushions and pillows.

“I didn’t ask, some of it was probably made, but I would assume some of it was procured with the King’s help.” Blake echoed the smith’s swallow. It was one thing to know that your king could do things that most men couldn’t, it was different to sit down on cushions that could have been created with magic. But, as he’d told himself probably fifty times today alone, the dye might have been magicked, but the fabric was most likely woven by Fox or maybe Lady Peyton or Raquel who had both gotten pretty good at weaving.

“Doesn’t it seem a bit-disrespectful-to ask the king to-to-to do something like that?” Ren asked.

“Well, to you and me, maybe, but perhaps not so much to Raquel-and definitely not to Lady Kennedy.” Ren chuckled. Raquel called Lady Kennedy a steamroller. Whatever that meant. She did, though, have a way of getting more or less exactly what she wanted. A second knock came at the door, startling Blake although Ren didn’t seem so surprised by it. The young carpenter’s eyes narrowed slightly but before he could stand, Fox had stuck his head in the door.

“May I?” The tailor asked, kicking the snow off his boots.

“Sure.” Blake said standing up. Fox looked around the cottage and said everything that Ren had said with one quirked eyebrow. Blake tried not to blush. Fox had a way of making Blake feel awkward and clumsy, like a lad rather than a man. Still his handshake was warm and hearty, and his smile genuine.

“It was Raquel’s idea.” Blake said with a blush. Rather than the sardonic grin Blake expected, Fox just nodded and sat down.

“I figured, she likes purple.” Blake nodded. He had no idea how he was going to keep her in purple fabric and dye, it was a bit beyond his or anyone he’d ever personally known’s pocketbooks, but he knew he wanted to, because Raquel liked purple.

Fox hadn’t even gotten settled on the sofa when another knock came at the door. Blake shot a suspicious look at his friends but answered the door anyway. Emanuel was standing on the small stoop, looking-well mostly cold. A lot colder than he should have been given his cottage was right next door. Then movement caught the corner of his eye and his jaw dropped a little.

At the foot of his stairs stood Jarrett. “What’s this all about?” Blake asked.

“Well, lad, we haven’t really got a tavern to take you out to, but you are gettin’ married this week an’ all. You didn’t really think we’d forget did you?” Jarrett said with a smile that while slightly shadowed was still warm.

“Come in, won’t you?” Blake asked, gesturing toward the house. As he shut up the door, he shook his head wryly. “You should have told me, I haven’t got anything for you except tea and soup.”

“We couldn’t tell you. That takes the fun out of it. Maybe it can’t be like it was, when there’d have been somewhere to go, something to do. But it’s always been a surprise, that part at least we could keep.” Ren said. Blake nodded, he had been just old enough to go to the tavern with Gregory when he’d been taken out before his wedding.

Everyone, straight down to Blake’s mother, had known what night they were going, but Gregory hadn’t.

“Lord Gray sent his-and the king’s-regrets, but between the weather and all, they figured it was probably better not to come all this way. Although he did send some ale.” Ren said with a grin.

“You invited the king?” Blake blinked.

“‘Tisn’t like it was with King Phillip.” Jarrett reminded him softly.

“Aye.” They all agreed. Emanuel passed around the bottles of ale, though Jarrett shook his head.

“I’m fine. An’ if I do need somethin’, I’ll be better off with that tea Blake’s got. Can’t be getting a head, I’ve still gotta be up to milk in the mornin’.”

Milking. Looking at Jarrett, Blake felt a wave of guilt wash over him. If anyone should have a warm snug cottage and all to be in, it should be Jarrett. He shouldn’t be living in a barn loft with the animals.

“Jarrett, do you need any help?” Blake asked, noticing that his weren’t the only eyes showing guilt.

“Lads.” The butcher laughed. “Sawyer an’ I manage jist fine, an’ if it’s too bad, we can usually nag M’lord to put in some help. We manage.” He repeated. “An’ the loft is jist fine too, I know you an’ Emanuel have space, Fox. But damned if the barn isn’t near as snug as these cottages, dunno how she did it. Sawyer says Lady Tiffany’s a wizard in her own right.”

“Still.” Fox said looking at his ale bottle.

“Aye, I’ve heard it all before. This wasn’t to be about how can we help poor ol’ Jarrett, you know. So you excited, lad? Nervous?”

“Kinda all of the above.” Blake admitted. Jarrett nodded in understanding.

“I-I remember feeling that way. It’ll pass, I think.” Shadows flickered over Jarrett’s face, settling in the other man’s dark eyes.

“So, do you know when the ceremony will be?”

“Lady Tiffany says she’ll have the chapel done by this weekend. An’ she’s never been wrong before.”

“How’s she getting that done anyway, have you been helping?” Ren asked.

“Not me.” Blake looked around at his friends all of whom shook their head. “Either Lady Kennedy bullied all the nobles into helping-0r…” Blake cut off and left it hanging.

“You never know, Lady Kennedy probably could bully all the nobles into helping.” Ren said with a nervous laugh.

“Aye, we had a talk about children the other day, Lady Kennedy and I.” Blake nodded. The other men looked at him mostly with puzzlement, except for Ren, who’d heard the story. “She told me that she didn’t care that here sixteen wasn’t too young to be having babies, nor that we were supposed to repopulating the country. I’d better respect Raquel’s wishes and-learn to keep it in my hose-I believe is what she said.”

“Keep what in your hose?” Fox asked. Blake blushed scarlet.

“You know, it.” As painfully embarrassing as it was to be talking about this with his friends it had been worse when he realized just what it was Lady Kennedy had been referring to. Women weren’t supposed to so casually refer to your manly bits. Understanding slowly crossed Fox’s face, along with horror. “And if I didn’t, she was going to break my legs, and if that didn’t work, she’d-er-do something worse.”

Jarrett chuckled as the other men cringed.

“And you like her.” Fox said, almost accusingly to Emanuel.

“Aye, so?” The apothecary shrugged. The conversation turned after that, perhaps because castration isn’t anything that most men really wish to linger on for very long. But all too soon Jarrett looked at the snow through the curtains.

“Well, lads, I’d probably be heading on home.” Jarrett said.

“I’ll walk with you.” Emanuel offered.

“Thank you, but ’tis a little out of your way. Considering it’s not even the right direction. Don’t worry, Emanuel, I can find my way home. Just follow the wall, really.” Jarrett dismissed. Blake warmly embraced the older man, thanking him again for coming, as he really hadn’t had to.

Fox was the next to leave, Emanuel right after him. As Blake saw them both off, with slightly less worry, as they only lived across the street and next door respectively, Ren put the dining chairs back and took his seat once more on the sofa.

“Thanks.” Blake said as he sat down himself.

“That’s what friends are for.” Ren told him.

“Aye. So when do you think I’ll be returning the favor.” Blake asked with a faith smile. Ren shrugged.

“I dunno.”

“Haven’t any of the ladies caught your fancy?”

“Not really, no.” Ren admitted. “But there’s only half here, you know.” Blake nodded in understanding. “Besides, I’d rather not be in Sawyer’s position. He is completely moonstruck.”

“Aye.” Blake agreed. He hoped that he wasn’t nearly that bad with Raquel, but even if he were Raquel didn’t seem to mind.

“Well, I ought to be off myself,” Ren said after a stretch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Aye, more than likely.” Blake said. After all if there was one thing the survivors of Shadowcrest knew, it was that life kept marching on.