Peyton stared for a long moment at the lump of clay in front of her then put her hands to the surface, her foot spinning the wheel. The clay squished and slid and clung to her fingers. God she loved that feeling. If she closed her eyes and just focused on the clay, the way it felt, the way it smelled, the way the pottery wheel sounded, she could almost have been back in the studio at school.

The studio had been her refuge, her hideaway. The one place she could be herself, just herself and not catch any shit for it. It would have surprised no one who had known her that she had more or less staked this little shed as her territory from about the moment that Tiffany had hung the door on it, pronouncing it safe to use.

She wouldn’t have considered herself a loner, she didn’t have trouble with being around people, she just had, from earliest memory,  needed time and space to herself. She remembered stories of hiding in the toybox from her nanny, or when a little older in the big walk in closet, as a teenager, it had been in the attic. She’d lost that when she went away to school. Her parents and one of her mother’s “dear friends” had gone together and rented an apartment for Peyton and Laurell, her mother’s friend’s daughter. That could have been wonderful.

Except of course the reason her parents had done that. Apparently they had been expecting Peyton’s “out of the closet” speech since she was about fifteen. And that by setting Peyton up with Laurell, they’d be showing how with it and cool and liberal they were.

One teensy problem with that. Peyton wasn’t gay. She didn’t have the slightest interest in other women. So she liked sports and hanging out with the guys better than having her nails done and hanging out with the girls, it didn’t mean that she was gender confused, she just liked sports.

And it wasn’t that Laurell hadn’t gotten it, of course there had been a bit of embarrassment there when she realized that that was at least part of the reason behind the apartment and choice of roommates. (And the look on her mother’s face when she’d confronted her with the whole thing.) But Laurell had been a social person, she had friends over and lovers in and out and when she didn’t have someone over it wasn’t even a reprieve for Peyton, because Laurell was constantly dragging her out to spend time with people.

There was rarely time for herself. And–also–in the apartment she had always been reminded of the daughter that her parents were expecting her to be. The one who was working her way through pre-law, the one who was supposed to spend every spare minute thinking about the L-sats. That daughter.

The one that they more or less cut off until she came to her senses and put in her applications for law school, life wasn’t about being happy, life was about… fuck if she knew what life was about. How her parents could be so open about her possible sexuality and so blind to the idea that maybe, just maybe, she wanted to live the rest of her life the way she wanted to live it.

It didn’t matter who she wanted to fuck as long as she’d be going into her father’s law firm when she passed the bar. And the stupid thing was that her sisters were perfectly content going into the roles that her parents had imagined for them. Eleanor was in her final year of med school. And Alice was already climbing the corporate ladder soon to backstab and sleep her way into that vp position.

And Peyton, well, Peyton was the son who was a daughter, maybe that’s why they were so keen to have her make a monogamous relationship with Laurell. She could hyphenate their names after their commitment ceremony and they could adopt two kids or have them surrogated. Ugh.

She opened her eyes to look at the lump of clay in front of her. She supposed it was possible to sculpt a pot without seeing the thing–but she had always had better luck with being able to see it. But the first thing she saw when she opened them was–that thing. That thing that someone had hung, probably Jolene, who else would have made a pink quilt and put it on the wall next to Peyton’s pottery wheel?

Peyton was still brooding over the invasion when the door opened and closed behind her. Even if she hadn’t heard the door, the blast of arctic air would have cued her to the intruder. How long does winter have to last? Peyton stabbed a thought upward. It had been snowing for months straight it seemed like. Shouldn’t spring be peeking around the corners? Anything but unending gray skies and miles and miles of white mounds.

She expected to hear the sound of a chair scraping out by the loom or something, but no, just the soft rustle of a hem scraping against the floor, well that helped albeit minimally, it meant whoever was standing behind her was wearing a dress, or possibly a long cloak, come to think of it, that didn’t help much at all.

And it certainly didn’t tell Peyton who it was and what they wanted with her, so she expected that she should probably turn and find out.

Heidi. She supposed, if it was Heidi that she should turn around and find out what she wanted. “May I help you?” Peyton asked before setting her now finished pot into the cupboard to be fired later.

“Actually I came to tell you that you have a visitor.” There was something slightly calculating in her face. Well that actually told her more than Heidi probably thought it did. If it had been a social visit or even a semi-professional visit, like Fox coming to request some more fabric woven her face would be softer, she’d have been smiling. Nope that was a look that said something more was going on here.

“Oh. Who’d wanna see me?” Peyton asked, not expecting an answer but so she could watch the other woman’s face while she did answer.

“Just someone who’d like to talk to you, but you’d better wash your hands first.” Heidi said, reminding Peyton more of her father’s assistant, Maggie than of Heidi. Ah, it’s one of the nobles. But Peyton did as the redhaired woman bid and then followed her back to the barn.

She closed the door after her and turned to see–Lachlan. The King. Peyton’s stomach dropped. She couldn’t think of a single reason why the king would want to see her. Or–what if he thinks the same thing that my parents thought? What if he’s sending me back cause he thinks I’d rather munch bush? Would I care? She had been making the best of being in Shadowcrest, but she wouldn’t have made the immediate leap to happy. There didn’t seem to be much of a place for someone like here her.

Still, she didn’t want to be a failure in their eyes too.

“Why don’t you and Peyton talk upstairs, your majesty. The barn does sort of lack privacy.” Heidi suggested. Oh, God. Peyton’s stomach lurched, too much more of this and she was going to lose dinner all over the king’s boots. Heidi? I thought we were–friends. But she has to have something to do with this, she’s way too calm. Why… is she seriously turning me in for being a lesbian? She couldn’t have just asked.

The king nodded calmly and headed up the spiral staircase to the barn loft. With Raquel’s bed gone, the end of the loft had been turned into another sitting area. Come spring they’d probably be putting the bed back in, but for right now they needed more places to sit. Privacy as Heidi had said.

“This space is always changing, isn’t it?” Lachlan mused.

“Well, there are five of us here and I think we all have a want to personalize our space.” Peyton said, eying the bench for a moment. She didn’t want to have this talk. It wasn’t the staying in Shadowcrest or leaving, it was the failure. Her parents had said that she’d be a failure when she said that she didn’t want to go to law school, and here the first thing that really happened after that is her ending up as a failure. For something she wasn’t even.

“You don’t have to be nervous, Lady Peyton.” Lachlan said. His voice just sounded like a King’s voice, even if his words didn’t always. It was rich and steady and solid. Calming. Although she was sure it could sound intimidating, she’d never seen the king intimidate anyone. “Lady Heidi wished me to talk to you.” He said confirming her fears. Goddamnit.

“She said that you seem–despondent.” Peyton jerked and stared bewildered as he continued. “Lady Peyton?”

“Oh.” Just… oh.

“My lady?”

“I–didn’t think you were going to talk to me about that.” She admitted to her hands.

“What did you think we were going to speak of?” Lachlan asked, looking puzzled.

“Oh, I dunno. My lack of–girl-ness.”

“Girlness?” She gestured sort of vaguely at herself and watched as Lachlan’s face bloomed past red to purple. “I’m sure–er, I’m sure that you’re quite feminine, Lady Peyton.”

He–does he think I’m talking about my tits? Peyton wondered and then realized that she was about to ask that of the king. Maybe Lachlan didn’t stand on ceremony, but still, big difference between talking plainly and then talking about boobs. “I meant femininity  in a personality sense, not a physical one, your majesty.”

“Oh.” Lachlan didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Well, it’s just, I know that while this place is very unfamiliar to you, I do want you to be content, if not happy here. Lady Heidi came to me saying that perhaps all was not right with you. She requested that I talk with you, perhaps allay some of your fears.”

It was Peyton’s turn to say, “Oh.”

“Is something the matter, Lady Peyton? I know that Lady Heidi is certain of it, but I believe I should at least inquire.”

“I just,” There was something about the King’s face that seemed to invite confidences and so Peyton plunged ahead. “It seems to me, your majesty, that you need girls here. Women who are going to be ladies. And I’m not one of those women. I’m the girl you call when you want a third for a pick up game. I’m the girl you call when your goalie’s out sick. I’m not the girl who goes ‘Yay, babies! I want one–or seven.’ and can’t wait to be a wife and mother.” Lachlan nodded.

“I suppose it could seem that way. But, Lady Peyton, my spells to find you–all of you–were very complex. But foremost in my mind was to find those ladies who could help rebuild Shadowcrest, not just repopulate it. Your talents and abilities are going to be far more valuable than–to be crude–someone with round heels.” Lachlan colored again as if he’d said something he normally wouldn’t have said to a woman.

Except Peyton didn’t understand the reference and had to ask. “Round heels?”

“The sort of lady who is always on her back.” He said delicately. Peyton nodded in understanding. “Shadowcrest needs to be healed, reforged. Not just filled with squalling brats. Do you understand now?”

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Is that perhaps a portion of what has been the issue?” The king asked.

“Well, yeah. I just–I can’t see where you’d need someone like me.” Peyton said with a shrug.

“If nothing else you can be a role model to those other girls who will come later and not want to say ‘yay, babies’ themselves. But Master Fox says that you weave very well and also that you are quite a potter, both of which are things that we have some need of. So I would not write your abilities off.” The King said with a reassuring smile.

“Thank you, your majesty. I’m sorry you had to come all this way just cause I’m mopey.”

“Not at all. The fresh air did me a world of good. Sir Wesley has commented that I’m beginning to resemble a vampire for all the sun I see.”

“Fresh air? Breathing outside is like trying to snort liquid nitrogen.” Lachlan laughed and stood. It seemed just wrong to hug the king, but seemed like something more was required here.

But Lachlan seemed to have that in order too, his strong hand gripped her wrist and he pulled her into his shoulder before heading downstairs. She could hear him murmur softly to–it sounded like Heidi before seeing him take to his broom and disappear in the direction of his home.

Her mind was a twisted, confused mess so it wasn’t Heidi ratting her out, but that the other woman was concerned. Mentally she apologized, as she hadn’t said anything and the way this had gotten handled had, after all, almost made Peyton lose her lunch on the king’s boots so she wasn’t apologizing outloud. Instead she collected her coat and boots and headed outside.

If nothing else, the wintery air did clear her head. And maybe it even felt a little less arctic and god forsaken. Movement caught her eye and she had to stop herself from gaping. What was Ren doing here? Probably come to see Kennedy. It wasn’t exactly a nice night for a walk.

He caught sight of her and started himself. His path altered slightly as he entered the gate.

“Lady Peyton.” He nodded with a half bow.

“Master Ren.”

“How–how are you this evening?” He asked, his eyes flicking over her face before flicking off to one side.

“A bit–bewildered, I guess. Just had an interesting talk with the King.” The smith wordlessly mouthed Ah.

“About?”

“Mostly my girlfail.”

“Your–what?”

“Girlfail, my failure to be much of a girl. You know, not adoring pink and puppies and cabbage roses the size of my skull.” Peyton kicked at the snow.

“There are girls and then there are girls, I suppose.” The smith said, something in his eyes that was gone before she could identify it, but she was fairly certain, whatever it was, that she hadn’t seen that look before. She just wished she could identify what it meant.

“I suppose there are.” Peyton agreed before turning once more to look out at the frozen pond. She expected to hear the snow crunch and crackle under Ren’s feet as he walked off, resumed whatever task had brought him here. But instead he stepped up beside her and looked across the ice himself. She could feel the warm, comfort of him, radiating out seeming impossibly more intense than a human should feel–or maybe it was her.

Now who knew when Lock would have need of him. It lead to a very unsettling sort of feeling. A sort of transience, impermanence. He was determined to be there for Lock whenever Lock needed him, but the young king didn’t seem to have any sort of schedule. Probably because Lock didn’t seem to have time to create one.

Not seeing Lock much was a second. Wesley hadn’t talked to Lock in almost a week, if he hadn’t seen his friend to and from the privy he’d doubted he’d have seen him in that time. Most of Lock’s time was spent in his study–and Wesley, like most everyone, stayed out of Lock’s study, it was less a study and more a workroom, but they called it a study for everyone’s comfort. The thick mahogany double doors were a barrier to almost everyone, except Lady Kennedy, but Wesley doubted that the city walls would have been a barrier to Lady Kennedy if she thought she needed to talk to the King.

Worrying about his friend had become a third. Lock’s plate would remain untouched at the table, and even put in the cold larder overnight would still be untouched come morning. The sounds of spellcasting from all hours, the sounds of heavy books being taken down off the shelves, all of these things were becoming increasingly more common than the sound of the king’s voice.

One of the promises that Wesley had given to Marquis Harwin was that he would always look after Lock. It hadn’t been a hard promise to give, not given that he’d been looking after Lock for most of his life. Ever since his father had died and he’d been fostered at Harwin’s estate. Wesley and Lock had been like brothers growing up, even closer than Lock was to his own brothers, of course Wesley would look after Lock. He always had.

Wesley had never counted on Lock making it this hard though. His eyes caught on Tate, who had come in to stir up the fire in the parlor. The young man seemed as lost in thought as Wesley was, but still turned attentively when Wesley stood up. Even though Lock was anything but formal, Tate seemed intent upon rebuilding the wall of noble vs peasant between them.

Maybe it even made sense, if he was a peasant and they were nobles then he knew his “place”. He was a servant, only nominally a member of the king’s household, even if that distinction was strongest in Tate’s head.

“My lord?” Tate asked.

“Is–King Lachlan still in his study?”

“He is, my lord.”

“And dinner, it’s about ready?”

“Aye, my lord, I was gonna serve it right after I finished tending the fire.” Tate bobbed his head.

“Thank you.” Tate bowed and headed out the door to the kitchen leaving Wesley to contemplate the parlor door, a twin of the ones that lead into the Lock’s study. Wesley paused in the hall outside the study door, it took a little bit of steeling to walk into Lock’s workroom. The room itself was simple, just plaster and beam like much of the cottage, but there was something very unnatural about it. Books that one could tug on for an hour without so much as rocking, would tip at the touch of Lock’s fingers. Strange diagrams were stuck to the wall.

Even though there were no tapestries and no fireplace the room was always warm, but even in the heat of summer never too warm. And there was a sharpness, a lightness to the very air in there. But this wasn’t getting the king out of there, so Wesley put a hand to the door and pushed lightly.

The door opened with hardly more than a click of the latch in the tumbler. Lock was sitting in his throne. Not, Wesley suspected, a throne that would ever grace a throne room, even if they had had a throne room to put it in. It was wood and silk, but it certainly didn’t seem as earthly and homey as all that. Light always seemed to fall through it, not on it. In his hands was a ledger.

His hair was unbound. That was never a good sign. He wondered briefly, before the king’s attention caught on him, if he had taken it down himself and forgotten to put it back or if it had been tied back and had just worked itself loose. “Wesley?” Lock’s baritone seemed startled and his brow arched skyward. “Is something wrong?” Aye, Wesley thought, plenty.

“Dinner.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Lock turned his attention back to the book.

“When was the last time you ate, Lock?” Wesley asked. The king blinked as he looked up at his friend, as if his still standing there were the last thing that Lock were expecting. Well he wasn’t going to just go away. Maybe that chair could replenish Lock’s needs, but it wasn’t the same.

“Uh. I…”

“If you can’t answer the question then it’s been too long, Lock! Damn it, you’re not a tree. You need to eat and sleep.”

“Wes, I–I have so much to do. There’s spring planting to account for, and I’m behind on my casting.” The young king protested.

“There are nineteen people in your kingdom, Lock. It is not going to fall apart if you eat a meal and sleep in your bed.” Wesley said, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling like the Armsmaster who had taught them both their weapons. The visual reference must have worked because although the king could have told Wesley to go away, the ledger floated back over to the worktable and Lock got to his feet. He stared briefly at the floor between his boots as if he weren’t certain he remembered how his knees worked.

He’s been spending too much time in that chair, Wesley thought as he followed his friend to the kitchen where Tate had laid out bowls of thick soup. He didn’t pick up his spoon until after Lock had picked his up and brought it to his mouth. But thankfully once the king had taken a bite it took no prompting to get him to take a second or third.

Over dinner they discussed fluff, absolutely nothing of substance, most of it was gossip that Tate got from Sawyer, who of course had gossip about everything. They talked a little about Blake and Mistress Raquel, and how there was no sign of a babe yet, even though the wedding had been over six weeks ago. Along with speculation about just what Lady Kennedy had said to the carpenter to cool his ardor so thoroughly–and leaving Wesley with the question of whether Kennedy would give them all that lecture when they married.

And Lock’s soup continued to disappear from his bowl.

After the spoons were set aside, after Tate got up to take care of the dishes, Wesley looked at his friend.

“Thank you.” Lock said, pushing back his chair and standing.”Those books’ll probably look a lot better now.”

“They’ll look better still in the morning.” Wesley said, standing himself. Lock raised an eyebrow again. “I mean it, Lock. If anyone needs a good night’s sleep, it’s you. Didn’t your old nurse tell you that?”

“Aye.” Lock said as Wesley hid a smile. He was fairly certain she would have. Nurse Gaytha had been a tough old battle axe who was certain, like Lady Kennedy, that she knew far better than any of her charges could possibly have. He propelled the king toward his room, fully intending to barricade the door if he had to to get Lock to stay there. Although he rather hoped that like with dinner he wouldn’t have to.

The way that Lock had tucked into dinner told Wesley that if he could just get Lock laid down in his bed that he’d probably be asleep in minutes. Wesley hovered outside the door, hearing Tate’s soft footfalls climbing the stairs into the upper floor, hearing Lock move around in his room and then nothing.

He summoned his courage to open the door and smiled as he peered inside.

“And you two complain about me being a slug-a-bed.” Alistair commented with a look over his shoulder at the curtained alcove where Jarrett was asleep.

“Because you sleep in every morning.” Sawyer retorted. “Jarrett’s up before the sun most mornings, if he chooses to go to bed early, he can.” Although, Sawyer couldn’t help but look over his shoulder also, though not with disdain, with worry. The closer they got to midwinter, the worse Jarrett was doing.

—

Jarrett burrowed a little deeper into the covers on the bed, he could sort of hear the murmurs of conversation from the other room, but it faded to soft shushing like the waves against the rocks at the edge of Lake Haven. The smell of apple wood slowly morphed into the heady smell of lavender, and night became day. Jarrett was dreaming, in some vague way he knew that he was dreaming, it only remained to see what the dream would do.

The cottage had stood on a hill covered in lavender, even though the plants were no more than hillocks of snow at the moment, he knew the way they’d poke up come spring, their scent carrying on the breeze for what seemed like forever when the blooms came. He remembered the whimsical little railing, the rough stone base. The way the thatching lay on the roof. The way the wooden rails broke up the whitewashed plaster. The lace curtains as they hung in the front windows.

The smell of Ivy’s soup as he opened the front door. The familiar warmly papered hall. He could hear Rosie’s feet clattering on the wooden stairs, running down the stairs to greet him with the smell of dried petals surrounding her.

“Papa! Papa!” A whirlwind of rose pink and long, shimmering hair descended upon him.

“My Rosie-girl!” He bent to hug her.

“Papa, I taught Frankie how to build a town! Just like you taught me!” The six-year-old looked up at him with his eyes. “Do you want to see our town?”

“Surely. I’ll even bet your town is even better than my town was.” Jarrett told his daughter.

“I don’t know, your town was an awful good town.” Rosie said skeptically.

“Well, let me decide. I’ll be fair.”

“You can decide after supper,” Ivy’s voice, which sounded like honey tasted and cinnamon smelled, cut through Rosie’s excited chatter.

“Mama has spoken.” Jarrett said gesturing his daughter past with with a bow.

The kitchen, the stone walls, the hearth with it’s big iron pot. These things were so clear he thought that maybe perhaps he could reach out and touch the walls and feel the familiar smooth roughness. Maybe…

Did Ivy look more tired? He wondered when he had missed it, from the vague disconnected portion of his mind that knew that this was a dream, a memory. If he had just seen that she was sick, before–before…

It had been a very good town. That wasn’t even just a papa talking, although, perhaps there was a little bit of “papa pride” involved. He remembered standing, watching. Watching his children, watching Frankie slip the foot of one of the wooden dolls into his mouth and gnaw just a little, knowing that there’d be hell if Rosie caught him at it. But in the solidarity of little brothers who had older sisters, Jarrett wouldn’t rat Frankie out.

They’d played for a long time and Jarrett had just watched them with indulgence and fatherly pride, his lips twitching with a smile when Frankie had finally slipped up and Rosie had caught him with the toy in his mouth. But of course when Rosie looked up at him, he’d schooled his features into a solemn expression befitting the lecture.

But all to soon, both for Jarrett’s children and for the dream Jarrett, it was time for bed. First Frankie into his crib with it’s bright striped fabric and then Rosie into her bed.

Ivy had been waiting in the parlor like always, her needlework slipping into the basket beside her when he appeared in the door. Those eyes, like the leaves of her namesake, sparkled just a little as he came into the parlor.

“Do I want to know what’s out in the village today?”

“No.” Jarrett said.

“It’s bad isn’t it.”

“All we can do, love, is hope. Hope the gods haven’t forgotten us.” He pulled her into his shoulder and smiled as she smiled.

The dream-memory melted into another, laying on the bed, Ivy’s head against his shoulder, the smell of her hair thick in his lungs. His lips brushed across her temple and he held her closer. He knew that he needed to get out of bed, knew that he had work, chores, the shop to tend. But the dream Jarrett, the one who knew that he would not have too many more mornings like that urged him to stay in bed that morning, to hold her as long as he could.

Then it melted again, to his Rosie-girl, just she and he in the kitchen, Rosie’s chatter more subdued than usual, neither of them looking at the empty chair, but so hyper-aware of it that it might as well have loomed ten foot tall.

“Papa, after breakfast, can I visit mama? I wanna give her my new drawing.” Rosie asked.

“Aye. She’ll like that.” Jarrett remembered agreeing, anything that would bring Ivy some sunlight. She seemed so much weaker these days, the heart half out of her as it had been since little Frankie had gone off to the priests. He worried for his son, but he worried for his Ivy too.

“Mama?”

“Aye, Rosie-girl?” The smile Ivy gave her was almost her old one. It was the almost that broke Jarrett’s heart. As if he knew then that her smile would never again be quite as it had once been.

“Are–are you?” Suddenly the little girl pulled her hand out of her mother’s grasp and ran for the door. Jarrett followed her into the upstairs hall, a tiny little pocket of a room with room for absolutely nothing in it besides the stairwell and a few pictures. Rosie was sobbing into her hands and Jarrett knelt beside her.

“Rosie, my Rosie girl.” He murmured to her.

“Mama’s sick. Mama’s sick, like Frankie’s sick! Like everybody’s sick! Is Mama gonna go to the priests too? Cause the people in the village, they say once you go to the priests you never come home.”

“Oh, your mama is stronger than that. And Frankie–well, I wish, baby I could tell you that Frankie’ll be okay too, but if the Gods want Frankie with the angels…”How could you explain this to a child. He couldn’t explain this to himself.

“I hate the Gods, Papa! What kind of Gods take everybody away?” She interrupted with a wail as he smoothed her hair, her mouth spewing out what Jarrett hadn’t even been allowing himself to think.

His heart was breaking for her and he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t say that some days he hated the Gods too. Well, not hate, he didn’t understand them. What did this plague even prove? What had it done? What had caused it–why?

He waited for words to come, the desperate need for Papa to fix. But they didn’t come, they never came.

She had eventually pulled away, leaving Jarrett to stare after her as she disappeared down the stairs. He started to go back to talk to Ivy who called for him.

No, he struggled and fought, don’t let me remember that. The dreaming Jarrett thought tossing on the narrow bed. No! He wouldn’t remember Rosie’s crumpled form, his sister’s voice telling her that they’d had to send Rosie, his beautiful Rosie girl to the priests. No!

He wouldn’t remember breaking down when they told him that Frankie was gone. He wouldn’t remember Ivy, nearly to weak to feed herself climbing out of bed, using every ounce of strength to make it to the hall where he stood sobbing, to comfort him.

He wouldn’t remember her asking him to fight this, to stay, to live.

Jarrett could fight off those memories. He could and he would, even in the dreams. He woke then, woke to the sound of Alistair’s snoring, to the sound of the cattle lowing softly in the barn below.

He pulled himself out of bed and dressed, then stumbled down to the water bowl to splash some water on his face. And there, with the water in the bowl acting like a mirror, he saw one last memory.

The house had been eerily silent. Only the soft crackle of fire and hiss of snow to off-set his heavy footsteps. He opened the door to the nursery, pausing for a moment to look at the town that they had built the day Frankie had passed. Then he closed it once more and headed for the kitchen. There was a single bowl on the table. His, from that morning.

It was almost like a geas that he’d clean it up, wash the counter. Take one last deep breath and wrap himself in the warm memories of the house. Not the sad ones. He’d take the good ones.

Just the good ones.

“Go to Raquel’s wedding?” Heidi asked, sounding horrified.

“No, dress me all up.” Peyton said as Heidi reached for a brush.

“Don’t you want to look pretty?”

“Beauty, goes the old cliché, is in the eye of the beholder.” Peyton shrugged philosophically. “Besides, this is more or less a lie.”

“A lie?” Jolene couldn’t see Heidi’s face, as she was standing behind her, but she would have laid money that the redhead was looking puzzled.

“I don’t really look like this, Heidi. Whatever you’re doing to my face. I don’t have those eyelashes, my lips aren’t that color, my eyelids don’t shimmer. I mean I know that part of why we’re here in Shadowcrest is basically as Magic Order Brides,” Jolene choked back a chuckle with a smirk. That, she guessed, was one way to put it. But Peyton was still talking. “I mean, we are here as the female half of the baby-making machine to restore the country. But the thing is even if this will help me attract one of those guys, it’s an illusion. He’s gonna wake up the morning after the wedding and my bust is going to be back to the size it was before I hoisted it with underwire and padded it to make it more impressive. My eyes and lips and all will be back to normal. That’s the woman he’s going to wake up next to for the rest of his natural life. Not this one.” She gestured at her face, then sighed and looked down at her bare fingernails.

“What?” Heidi asked. “Do you want me to paint your nails before we go?”

“No, I always chew fingernail polish off. I don’t chew my nails, except when there’s polish on them. No, I just had the sad realization that I’m gonna end up marrying Alistair. He’s not going to think any of our pedigrees are good enough for his, so he’ll wait until the rest of you are married off and then Lachlan’ll order him to marry me cause I’ll be the cheese, standing alone.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.” Jolene just had to interject. “The king would no more order you to marry Alistair than he would order Sir Wesley to marry Kennedy, for the same reason, you’d kill him. He’d make one backhanded comment at you and he’ll spend the rest of his life eating soup cause he won’t have any teeth left.”

Heidi turned and tried to glare at Jolene. “Okay, maybe.” Peyton said. “But it still feels somewhat fake to do this just to attract a man.”

“We’re not doing it to attract a man,” Heidi said. “We’re doing it so you look and feel pretty.”

“I can live without pretty. How bout comfortable?” Peyton murmured.

“Hold still so I can get your eyeliner on and comfortable is not a style.” Heidi said. “My mother used to say that to me and now I’ll say it to you.” At that point Jolene shook her head and went upstairs to see how Raquel was doing.

Apparently, Jolene thought, seeing the girl’s shoes on the bed as she crested the stairs, not much better than she’d been doing all morning. Or for that matter, most of the week. She strangled down the feeling once again that she should be saying no. She’d been strangling down that feeling ever since Raquel had come home and had told them that Blake had proposed. Because even then Jolene had a feeling “Marry me” wasn’t “someday in the future when we’re both grown and ready for it.” It was “someday soon.”

Marriage seemed like an awfully big step, one, Jolene was sure, only slightly proceeded babies and Raquel was far too young for motherhood. Jolene hadn’t been sixteen in almost a decade and she barely thought she was ready for marriage and possible motherhood. Although she was fairly certain that, as Peyton had pointed out downstairs, it was what she was here for.

Kennedy, who–though she would never admit it–looked sorta like Belle from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast in that dress with her hair like that, a very tan Belle, but Belle none-the-less and Tiffany–whose silver and ice blue dress had been chosen because it was “shiny” and Tiffany was a self-described magpie, sorta reminded Jolene of Cinderella’s dress, were pointedly not looking at the bride in her grape juice toned wedding dress.

“So how’s it going?” Jolene asked quietly, after Kennedy stopped laughing–a shade too loud and a shade too hearty to be one hundred percent from genuine mirth–at whatever Tiffany had said.

“Well,” Tiffany murmured. “She’s not crying anymore at least.”

“She isn’t ready for this.” Jolene said, looking over her shoulder at the slight girl on the bed.

“Probably not, but we’ve already tried to talk her out of it, and you know Lock’s stance on the whole thing.” Kennedy muttered.

“What do we do then?” Jolene asked.

“Hope that my lecture to Blake worked like it was supposed to.” Kennedy chuckled.

“What lecture?” Raquel asked, heaving herself onto her back.

“Oh, nothing.”

—

Agreeing with the logic behind the ceremony or not, it had been a very pretty one, Jolene thought, as she sat at one of the tables in the reception area of the church. And she cried, which was about par of the course. There had been this girl that Jolene had known back home, someone who worked at a Stop and Rob, that lived up to it’s name, getting held up often. The gas station was on Jolene’s patrol, who had gotten married to her sweetheart–Jolene used that term loosely–a couple years back. It had, Jolene had to admit, been about the most ghetto wedding ever–the priest having to pause every five or so minutes to let the groom shake out his leg and swear cause his home arrest bracelet kept shocking him, among other things. And she’d still cried at that wedding.

She was just that kind of girl.

At least Blake was the sort of man that it didn’t make you throw up a little to term him someone’s sweetheart. He would, Jolene knew, from the way he watched Raquel do his best for her, and that almost made her forget her misconceptions about the wedding. Almost.

Unfortunately, one of her tablemates, made her develop a whole new set of things to dread. For some genius had managed to sit her next to Sawyer–and if she found out that whomever had done it had done it on purpose…

He was a really sweet kid and when he grew up, he’d probably make some girl a good husband. Some girl more like Raquel, someone he could grow up with, mature with, go through all those little steps of becoming an adult and a man with. Some girl who was not her. As his hazel eyes sparkled with candle light and excitement she felt like the world’s biggest bitch, but he was too–too–Sawyer.

Like Romeo, he’d taken “love at first sight” to distressing extremes. And Jolene was determined to be his Rosaline, not his Juliet. He was too young for her. She had the better part of a decade on him, just like she had on Raquel. And he was so charming and oddly vulnerable that if she didn’t shoot him down and keep shooting him down, she’d ruin him. Because even in Shadowcrest she was all wrong for him and he would just have to trust that she knew better than he did.

And in this case, Jolene did.

Unfortunately there was another side effect that Jolene hadn’t expected of Sawyer’s infatuation… One that she could only hope the coming spring and rest of the women would cure. Everybody liked Sawyer, he was just sorta like a puppy. And while he so obviously only had eyes only for her–no one else was going to even think about it.

When there was some adorable girl, more his age, came along. Hopefully he would, like Romeo had upon seeing Juliet, forget all about her…

It was, with almost relief, at least on her part, that Gray suggested that Sawyer, who was on musician duty for the evening, start a song. Jolene wondered, as she went to grab herself another glass of wine, if it was tradition in Shadowcrest for the couple to share the first dance, as Blake and Raquel were the only ones to have moved to the open floor behind the buffet tables, or if it was something that Raquel had suggested.

She twirled the stem of the glasses in between her fingers and watched as Master and Mistress Carpenter took their turn about the floor. They were cute together. And here, quietly, in the privacy of her own head where Peyton couldn’t mock her for being a hypocrite, she thought they’d make very pretty babies together.

When that happened, hopefully in, like, five years or more.

Sawyer was, she thought, actually a very good musician. His fiddle swelled and soared and danced along with Raquel and Blake. Jolene found that she sort of lost herself in the music because somehow it was the middle of two songs later and she was still standing by the wine bottle, glass of wine in hand, and she was no longer alone as a spectator, nor were Blake and Raquel even on the floor anymore.

In one of the little alcoves set off to the side of the dance floor, sat Blake’s best friend, the blacksmith, Ren, was chatting with… Peyton? They even sorta matched. Ren’s doublet and half his hose were purple.

She was too far away to hear what Peyton was talking about, but Ren was watching her with an expression that either meant it was really interesting or something about her was. Jolene’d have to remember to tease her about that. Especially as just that morning she’d been sure that she was going to be marrying Alistair.

Granted, as Peyton was likely to point out, talking at one wedding was far from being the next one to get married, but it’d still be fun to tease her about. But it was seeing the other couple to occupy an alcove that twisted something inside of Jolene and killed all thoughts of teasing.

And the green eyed monster hadn’t even fully come into play when she wanted to kick  herself cause it was Heidi almost too sweet to be believed Heidi, who was nice to everyone. She turned away and downed her glass of wine, practically without tasting it. Which was a bad idea, she knew that as her knees seemed to quiver for a second.

She leaned against the edge of the table, not too far, even though it felt less like table set up on barrels (like they’d used at the Harvest Fair) and more like a real table they’d just stolen from some other purpose.

A few murmurs came from behind her and suddenly the last voice she wanted to be hearing right now when the wine was going to her head and she was wondering why her, was speaking her name.

“Is something wrong, my lady?” Sawyer asked.

“Uh, no. No.” She said in hasty reassurance.

“Oh.” He said, biting his bottom lip. She watched his mouth for a second and then shook her head abruptly, turning and walking away from him–except she found herself going in the wrong direction–toward the dance floor rather than toward the tables where she could sit down and get her head back.

Almost walking into Kennedy and Emanuel, who were for the moment not sniping. In fact seemed to be lost in each others’ eyes and arms. She stared for a moment at them, then for a moment at Jarrett who was playing something haunting on Sawyer’s fiddle.

“Lady Jolene?”

“It’s nothing, just the–nothing.” She shook her head. before glancing away. Then she found herself looking back in time to see him walking away, her hands, almost of their own accord, reaching out. I can’t.

And there wasn’t even anyone she felt like she could talk with about stuff like that. How could you go up to Peyton and talk about not feeling confident? No, Peyton didn’t follow the feminine trappings but she was like-like Katherine Hepburn. That short platinum hair and make-up less look was her signature. And to hell with everyone else if they didn’t like it.

Of course Sawyer would be head over heels for Jolene! Jolene was stunning. She was a lady, strong and capable but still a lady. Why couldn’t she be more like that? Instead of tripping over her feet, still too skinny.

Well, yeah, Kennedy was brash and no-nonsense, abrasive even, but she didn’t let anyone tell her what to do or who to be. She could keep her head up no matter how many times she might take one on the chin. And nobody scared her, nobody! Some days Raquel felt scared of her own shadow. She would never be able to stand up to Lachlan the way that Kennedy did.

Or to have done what Kennedy did to Jarrett!

To add insult to injury, she had that deep tan skin and those deep stormy blue eyes that reflected her mood. Raquel couldn’t tan with a bottle of self-tanner! And her eyes were just a blah green, not even a pretty green.

Tiffany was so competent and funny, and pretty. And Raquel coveted Tiffany’s hair, which always laid so pretty, where hers liked to get frizzy and it was a blah brown. Tiffany could design buildings. Buildings! Raquel couldn’t do anything like that. Day late and a dollar short, that was what she was.

Even Heidi, who was such a sweetheart that you just couldn’t hardly be jealous of her. Except Raquel was. She was beautiful, that perfect, even, just a little bit freckly skin. But even more than her looks, she was nice to everyone, even Alistair. And nobody was nice to Alistair. He was the asshole of the year!

When everyone else was wrapped up in their after dinner activities, Raquel snuck upstairs and changed into her pjs. If anyone came up, she could pretend that she was just tired and had wanted to go to bed early. With the make-up washed off her face, Raquel’s features took on their regular bland countenance.

Hopeless, that’s what it was. Completely hopeless! Why would Blake want to marry me? She thought as her reflection wrinkled it’s nose. I’m nothing special, nothing at all. He’s gonna find that out and then it’ll be too late! He’ll be stuck with me.

She could hear footsteps on the stairs and hurried over to her bed, sitting down on the edge, trying to school her features to looks sleepy.

“Hey, you hurried off so quick, I was worried.” Heidi said stopping in the empty space between their beds. “Tired?”

“Yeah.” Raquel looked down at her hands, the lie was easier to tell if she wasn’t looking at the person she was trying to lie to. Hopefully that’d be good enough and Heidi wouldn’t stay and talk. But luck didn’t seem to be with Raquel in that either, cause Heidi sat down on her own bed, fluffing the pillow.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Being sleepy?”

“No, what was keeping you quiet during dinner, what made you hurry upstairs away from us right after.” Raquel shot a look at Heidi, whose dark brown eyes looked sable in the candlelight, soft black and full of concern. “You worried about getting married? Blake’d wait if you asked him to, you know.”

“I shouldn’t be marrying Blake anyway.” Raquel’s hands clapped over her mouth as if she could shove the words back in.

“Do you not feel ready?” Heidi asked.

“No, it’s just Blake is so wonderful, he’s kind and he’s sweet and he’s a good friend and a good man, and he deserves somebody just as wonderful. And he’s gonna get me!” Her traitorous mouth poured out to her horror. “He deserves so much better.” She whispered.

Heidi was quiet for a long moment and Raquel’s stomach fell. I’m even worse than I thought, even Heidi can’t jump to my defense.

“So, if I buy that, do I get a beach house on Mount Shadow too?” Heidi asked.

“There aren’t any beaches on Mount Shadow.” Raquel said, puzzled for a moment.

“Exactly.” Heidi said. “I find it a little hard to buy that you’re not worthy of Blake, too. He adores you. Maybe he doesn’t go hiking across the city to serenade you in a blizzard, but only cause he’s not as-silly as Sawyer is sometimes.” Heidi shook her head. “He would if he thought it would impress you.”

“I’m just…” She couldn’t say afraid, she wanted to say afraid but she couldn’t admit that. “I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my hair and my makeup, for-for the wedding and everything I did looked like ass! I look like a freak.”

“You don’t. You’re a very pretty girl, Raquel.”

“It looks like I have some sort of disease on my face.” Raquel said, sitting up and staring down at her lap.

“Who said that?” Heidi asked.

“Alistair.” A glance at Heidi showed the redhaired woman’s lips tightening as if she’d bit into something sour.

“Well, that figures.” Heidi shook her head. “Why don’t you show me what you were trying, if you’re not happy with it, maybe I can help you make it better.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Raquel protested.

“Have to, no, want to, yes.” Heidi said with that shy, wonderful smile. Raquel stood up and gathered her make-up from the box under her bed. She marched over to the mirror and applied it just as she had earlier. And just as it had earlier, she looked like she should have been sporting a rainbow wig and a big red nose.

“See!” Raquel shook her head. “Would you want to wake up next to something that looked like that.” She gestured up at her face.

“Sweetie,” Heidi said putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’d flip me out to wake up sleeping next to any woman.”

“That’s not the point!” Raquel shook her head, her features twisting. “You didn’t even tell me it’s not bad.”

“It’s not what I would do. But I’m not you.” Heidi told her. “But that doesn’t mean that it looks terrible.”

“But even I don’t like it.”

“Well, I know that pairing a strong lipstick with a strong eyeshadow on pale skin can be overwhelming. I know rules are made to be broken, but there was a reason why it was a ‘rule’ for so long.” Heidi said, then cocked her head to the side. “I think that the eyeshadow might look less overwhelming if you wanted to use a lighter lipstick.”

“But aren’t ladies supposed to have red lips, like Snow White?” Raquel asked.

“You mean like ‘medieval ladies’ or do you mean like ‘faerie tale ladies’?” Heidi asked. “Is that how you want to do your hair?”

“My hair’s wrong too?” Raquel asked in despair.

“Not wrong. There isn’t a wrong here, Raquel.” Heidi said. She looked at Raquel for a long moment, something passing over her face.

“C’mon, let’s go downstairs where the light’s better, we’ll try something.” The other women were sitting around the fire, Jolene a book in her hand, Kennedy telling Peyton to get her sneakers off the sofa, Tiffany just looking into the fire. They looked up and over their shoulders at the girl in her pajamas and overly made up face, but no one said anything and Raquel felt her stomach twist.

While dinner was attempting to climb back up Raquel’s throat, Heidi had moved two of the dining room chairs to face each other and waved Raquel into one and took the other. She first made quick work of removing the make-up from Raquel’s face and then applied other stuff, muttering to herself. After what felt like it must have been hours, but couldn’t have been that long cause no one even had to go poke at the fire in that time, Heidi stood and took down Raquel’s hair.

For a long time, other than the soft murmur of conversation and the softer crackle-hiss of the fireplace, there was only Heidi’s competent hands, working on Raquel’s hair, twisting and twining the strands.

“Okay, now, go to that mirror over there, and tell me you look like a freak.” Raquel, did as Heidi told her to. Her stomach still roiling and twisting. Jolene looked up from her book, an unreadable expression on her face and Raquel wondered if she was actually going to make it to the mirror-and the bowl under it before she threw up.

“Oh…” Raquel said when she did see her reflection. Maybe she still wasn’t as pretty as some of the others, but-no. She definitely didn’t look like a freak.

“Is that a good oh or a bad one?” Heidi teased.

“Thank you.” Raquel said, hurrying back over to where Heidi stood and giving the other woman a hug. “Can you do it again?”

“Anytime.” Heidi patted her back.

—

Heidi might have meant that, but Raquel didn’t want to press her luck. Still, the next day, while she was waiting for lunch, cause Blake was supposed to be coming for lunch, she tried something a little different with her make-up and hair. But somehow, once she caught sight of Blake coming in the gate, all of her confidence fled her, and she rushed out to see him, burying her face in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. She shook her head. She couldn’t tell him. what if he didn’t understand-or worse yet, what if he agreed. He tipped her face up to look at him. But that was the chicken way out…

“Don’t.” She found herself murmuring. Puzzlement crossed the young carpenter’s face. “I wanted to look-pretty-you know-for the wedding, but I can’t. I can’t be the kind of lady you should be with.”

“Raquel, I love you. I don’t care if you want to show up to the wedding in a sack or-or like that singer you always tell me about, the one who dresses so oddly. Whatever you want to wear, however you want to wear your hair or your cosmetics. Love, I don’t care how you look when you show up to the wedding, as long as you show up.” He said, pulling her into a hug.

“You deserve someone better.” She said, starting to try and pull away.

“Impossible.” He murmured in her hair, tightening his hold on her.

“How’s that impossible.”

“‘Cause there isn’t anyone better, not here, not anywhere.”

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.

The idea was there, the perfect one, the one that would put to music everything he was feeling, it was like there was a miniature sun inside his breast, the light flowing through him in his very blood and bones. And somehow he had to bring all of that out and give voice to it.

But so far he had all of squat, which was why he was sitting on his bed in the little curtained off alcove thinking instead of out there proclaiming his love for all the world to see. Nothing seemed to be working, none of it. He’d used every trick both fair and foul that he knew of to tell her how he felt and she just looked at him with those blue eyes turning his knees the consistency of gruel, and laughed, or snorted, or raised one of those elegant brown eyebrows into that adorable arch.

Sawyer would never again mock the concept of unrequited love. Apparently, it wasn’t just that the would-be lover wasn’t smooth enough or suave enough or didn’t know the right tricks, sometimes the center of your universe was just stubbornly obnoxious and called you a kid. A kid. If Sawyer hadn’t loved Jolene so much that would have… Oh! He flopped back onto the bed, barely feeling the straw poke him in the back through the thick blanket.

This called for action, this called for decisiveness, this called for… putting a shirt on. The new barn was mostly free of drafts, and putting the old tapestry up over the window as Lady Tiffany had suggested, killed those that were still left, however, that didn’t make it snug and warm. The building was, after all, still a barn. It was large, allowing for space for the animals and there was only a single fireplace inside.

There was a second, outside, that they cooked on, and which added warmth by heating the stone wall it was built into, but the building was too big to be sufficiently heated by only those two fires.

The barn had been the last project before winter, Jarrett wanted some place that he could bring the livestock during the depressingly frequent snowstorms. Both Lady Kennedy and Lady Tiffany had protested. They pointed out that Jarrett was putting the welfare of his stock in front of himself. (To which Lady Peyton had murmured ‘no fucking duh.’, which apparently made sense… to someone else at least.) So they had compromised. The barn was built with a loft big enough to house Jarrett, Sawyer and Alistair for the winter.

That got them out of the pavilions that Lady Kennedy had so protested them wintering in. Sawyer didn’t see why, they were actually snugger and more cozy than some of the buildings he’d wintered in. But one just did not argue with Lady Kennedy. You might talk Lady Tiffany around. Lady Peyton was stubborn, sometimes, but mostly just over wearing skirts and the length of her hair. Lady Heidi didn’t seem to voice much of an opinion on anything. (Other than she said he was adorable in the tone of a child with a puppy.) Lady Raquel really actually wasn’t all that difficult, at least she didn’t have the same stubborn willfulness as many of the other ladies.

Lady Jolene – he found himself sighing as he thought of her curls and her smile – Lady Jolene was only particularly stubborn when it concerned him. But, really, you could talk to the city walls, asking them to move, and be guaranteed of more luck than Lady Kennedy when she’d settled into a belief. And as she had appointed herself guardian of health in Shadowcrest, they were not going to get her to move a smidge.

All the more reason not to sit around without a shirt on, really. When he left his little curtained alcove, he saw Jarrett was sitting staring into the flames at the fireplace, his dark, dark eyes lost in some other time or place.

“Jarret, you, you all right?” Sawyer found himself asking. Cursing himself for being a sluggabed, if he’d known that Alistair was nowhere to be found, he’d have gotten up earlier. But of course you couldn’t depend on a nobleman to be around when you needed one, that would like expecting a guard to be around when someone was being robbed.

“Aye, jist cold. Been out a feeding an’ forgot to take me heavy cloak. Got cold out there.” The old butcher shrugged his broad shoulders, the leather of his tunic creaking.

“Aye, does that, tis winter.” Sawyer offered with a smile that faded as soon as Jarrett turned back to the fire. He was not alright, he wasn’t in spittin’ distance of alright. Sawyer just didn’t know how to fix it, maybe you couldn’t.

“Ah, well.” Jarret said, holding his big hands out to the heat. Sawyer nodded, before grabbing his shirt and tunic out of the cupboard. It took most of the afternoon, broken up by helping bring in the animals and the dozen other chores that winter falling hadn’t obliterated before Sawyer had his plan for what to do. At least about Lady Jolene. He still hadn’t a clue how to bring life back to Jarrett’s eyes. Maybe you couldn’t.

“Where are you off to?” Jarrett asked as Sawyer tromped down the stairs, it was still amazing that they didn’t creak, even though the boards were not new, they didn’t creak when you walked down them. Lady Tiffany was nearly as much a wizard as King Lachlan was. All the things he’d taken for granted about buildings, she’d managed to negate or so nearly as their existence to be negligible.

“Gonna go visit Lady Jolene.”

“Lad.” Jarrett began then obviously reined in his tongue. “You do know it’s snowing out there?”

“Tis always snowing, tis winter. Besides as Lady Tiffany says, faint hearts never won fair ladies.” Sawyer brought his chin up stubbornly.

“Aye, so she said. Sarcastically, I might add.” The old butcher shook his head.

“No, it’s true. What does it say about me that I would let a little thing like some snow stop me from courting my lady?”

“That you’re sensible?” Jarrett suggested.

“Are you gonna need me to help with the sheep?” Sawyer ignored the sensible. Love wasn’t sensible that was the whole point. But he wouldn’t go if he was needed here. Jarrett considered it for a moment then shook his head.

“Nah, go be young, lad, just don’t freeze out there, I’ve buried enough this year.” Jarrett said. Sawyer nodded and headed out the door.

“That lad is gonna get himself killed. If the weather don’t, then the being stupid will.” He shook his grizzled head.

Sawyer started the second verse, losing himself in the music, his fingers were a bit chilled and he worried about what this was doing to his fiddle, when the door cracked open. He heard a familiar exasperated sigh. The first sign of life from inside the barn other than the smoke from the chimney he’d seen since he got here.

“What, in the name of all that is right and good are you doing?” Lady Kennedy asked, exasperation coloring her voice.

“P-playing…” His teeth started chattering and a shiver started up his spine. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, but, didn’t women like it when you showed manly contempt for your own sake in favor of theirs?

“Well, go home.” Kennedy said, shaking her head. “Before you freeze. It’s snowing!”

“My-my lady.”

“Too late. Get in here, get warm and dry and then go home. You idiot.” Kennedy said, although he thought he heard the faintest touch of affection in her voice when she said the last word, but all he saw when he glanced at her was her pretty, tanned face with a stern expression carved into it.

She shoved him toward the fireplace. It drew him, he was shamed to say, slightly more than lady Jolene who was sitting in the chair by the door.

You hardly would have guessed that this had once been a barn. The furniture and wall-hangings had turned the bleak room into a warm cozy cottage, brightly splashed with the warm tones that Lady Kennedy favored.

“Your clothes are soaked through, Sawyer, how did you survive this long?” Kennedy said from where she was filling a tea kettle with water. “Obviously luck.” She answered her own question.

“Raquel, take Sawyer up, between you and Peyton you should have something he could wear.”

“My lady, surely.” Sawyer fell silent when he saw the expression on the face of the doctor and could only follow meekly after the girl. He hadn’t been upstairs since, really, the last of the furniture had been carted up. Lady Raquel gestured at the screened off portion of the loft.

“You really are an idiot, Sawyer.” Lady Raquel said. “There’s a blizzard out there!”

“It’s just a little snow, my lady.” Sawyer shook his head.

“You know, it’s stuff like this that just proves to Jolene that you really are just a kid.” Raquel tossed some clothing over the screen at him.

“Huh?”

“It’s not very mature or sensible, romantic, maybe, sorta, but I have to say I would be so mad at Blake if he took it in his head to walk here in a blizzard just to play me love songs. I certainly would not be impressed. It shows you still have some growing up to do. I think if Jolene wants something in a man, it’s going to be proof that he’s not going to do something utterly stupid that’s likely to get himself killed, leaving her widowed and possibly with kids somewhere down the line. Did you ever think of that?” Raquel said as he tried to figure out how to put on the clothing that she’d tossed him.

“I suppose I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, try in the future, you’re not gonna win her over by doing stupid shit.” Raquel giggled as he came out.

“What?”

“Your barn door is open.” She said. Sawyer looked at him puzzled. “On the jeans, grab the little metal tab thing and pull it up. You’re about two seconds away from flashing me. Which I am sure that my fiancé would not approve of.” Sawyer fumbled for a moment, covering his blush by looking around the loft. All of the beds and the wall behind them had been individualized. That one, he thought, looking at the pink floral spread, has to be Lady Jolene’s.

Lady Raquel left him standing there for a moment looking at the bed, and he had to scramble to catch up. Lady Kennedy pushed a chair at the dining table out with her foot and patted the table beside a cup of steaming liquid. Sawyer took the seat and she looked up at him.

“Sawyer,” She paused and sighed. “I know it’s been drilled into your head since the crib that women are impressed by men being manly men. But really, it’s not that impressive.”

“So Raquel told me.” Sawyer admitted into the cup of tea.

“Promise me, no matter how loud your heart – or hormones – are screaming at you, my boy, that you will not do this again.” Lady Kennedy said. Sawyer looked at her. “If you won’t promise me, I’ll have Jarrett lock you in the barn every time the snow starts to fall.”

“I promise, Lady Kennedy.” He said to his hands. This was so confusing.

“Thank you, now, I’m sending this home with you. Drink it, at every meal, for the next three days. And if you start to cough or feel achy, take this.” She handed him a pouch of herbs and a bottle. “I do not need you to die of pneumonia.” Lady Kennedy said. Sawyer nodded.

“Now get home, before you scared Jarrett. He doesn’t deserve it.” She shooed him like someone might shoo geese. “Men.” She said, causing the other women to laugh. The warm sound of their laughter, even at his expense, carried him home better than the lingering heat of the fire.