Ghosts in the Snow Page 6

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  The night spread out before him, cold and blue purple, no different than daylight with the cloak. The horse beneath his backside glowed golden and red and its breath plumed green. The cottage lay ahead, a delicious blackness peeking between blue trees.

  The horse shied, tossing its head, but he didn't care. "Get a move on!" he said, slamming his heels into the beast's flanks. The horse jumped, took a few awkward steps, then whinnied in fear. "Damn wretched beast!" He cursed and kicked it again, gaining three more steps toward his goal.

  Near to panic, the horse refused to go farther despite the beating, so he slid off with the reins clutched in his hands. Cursing under his breath, he tied the useless beast to a tree and set off on foot. Only a couple of hundred lengths to go, all of it sloppy with mud and half-melted sleet. Explaining the mess might prove bothersome, but no matter. He could not stay away, not tonight.

  The blackness of the cottage blossomed gloriously and he smiled. He opened the door and peered inside, the stench like perfume. He paused long enough to light a lamp, delaying his visit by moments, then strode to her.

  He had met her on the road, a thief, a strumpet, a gypsy, sweet and dark and comely. She had showcased her wares, then refused to deliver on their promise. A mistake she would never make again.

  She lay among the desiccated corpses of a few dogs, a rabbit, a suckling pig—creatures he barely remembered—her once beckoning body graying and cold. Since she resembled the castle's prettiest girl, he had granted her request for a ride to town. But he did not offer rides for free, not even to a shining smile, and he had demanded a trade. A ride for a ride. Laughing, she had refused him. Her, a worthless road whore! He licked his lips as he remembered the spasm in her throat. She had fought while he took her payment, until he showed her the knife. Then she had screamed.

  "I had to choke you," he muttered, kneeling beside her. "You left me no choice."

  She made no reply, just continued to stare at the ceiling with her one remaining eye. The other was long gone. It had tasted delightful, like a candied pecan.

  He stood again and stretched. All those summers of watching girls like her, disgusting, cheap whores, and then the excitement he'd felt when he finally dared to make her pay. But she had ruined the moment. She had fought, and died, far too quickly.

  And he, lost in his passion, had missed it.

  Her death had not made him whole, but instead had left him wanting, starving. The filthy whore.

  He pulled his blade from his pocket and peered at it for a moment, the blood-crusted steel brightening in the lamplight. His gaze moved to the sagging, ashen skin of her face, to her bruised and crushed throat. "I am improving, despite your failings."

  The death of the road whore and the shame of his failure flavoring his mind, he had spent a few days in a fugue before deciding to try again. Nervous and excited, he had waited for the next, having chosen the hiding place in the ale room long ago. She had died quietly, her throat's blood bursting over the kegs. She had not seen him coming, had not suspected a thing, and he had looked into her eyes before taking a bit of her sin from her. A tasty and delightful bit to be sure. He had barely cut her, three simple slashes, yet he held her piss-filled filth in his hands. Not a perfect atonement, but a definite improvement over the road whore.

  He had sat on the stone floor of the ale room for a bell or longer admiring his work, then, not sure what to do with the kidneys, he had wandered to the courtyard and fed them to the hogs.

  A trembling quiver ran through him when they ate her filthy flesh, a sweet release like love's first kiss. The hogs had fought over the fresh, pissy meat, snorting and shoving, but her sin disappeared quickly, devoured and purified by the beasts.

  He had walked the castle and courtyard alone for a time, hidden in the cloak and at one with the dark, while he thought about the hogs and the sin they consumed. The power of their hunger and their glee at sating it.

  While he walked, the tower door had opened unexpectedly, startling him. A milkmaid, yawning and half asleep, trudged to the barns. He had smelled her lusts on the air like bitter spice and it filled his mouth with yearning and an unexpected hunger. He went up behind her. One slash across her back and she had gone down, yelping in surprise.

  "I did not want another screamer," he said to the gypsy's corpse, "so I held her face in the snow and cut her open. The tower door opened and I had to hurry. It's all your fault, bitch! Why did you have to scream? Did you use your magics to curse me?"

  He jabbed his blade into the gypsy's throat, but she didn't flinch, didn't bleed. She lay there like a discarded doll, both a disappointing failure and a taste of the perfection he might yet attain.

  "I'll find another, you'll see! And if she's not enough, I'll find another and another. Until I'm perfect. Until I'm clean."

  Grinning, he stood and glared at the thing at his feet. "And then, when I'm worthy, when I'm perfect, I'll claim the one I want most of all." He walked away and blew out the lamp, leaving the cottage and the perfect stench of death behind.

  CHAPTER 4

  The traffic in the narrow servants' hall ebbed and flowed, but Nella ignored the distraction while she finished her mending. She sat on the floor directly beneath the only working lamp in her section of hall, the best light she could find without taking her chores to another part of the castle. Most of the other servant girls had grown accustomed to her place beneath the light phases ago and no one seemed to mind.

  "Last one," she sighed, reaching into her basket and pulling out a torn pair of boys' trousers. She examined the tear for a moment, then rummaged in her scrap bag for a patch.

  She hummed as she turned the edges of the patch under and meticulously sewed it on while girls scampered through the normal chaos of their lives. Maybe, she thought, in another phase or two, she too could fret over her hair or giggle with her friends over a handsome mill worker. Perhaps even spend an evening in the unimaginable luxury of a nap.

  From far down the hall she thought she heard her name and she glanced up. She saw no one looking at her and none of her friends had wandered near, so she returned to the patch.

  "Where would I find Nella?" she clearly heard a voice say a short time later and she looked up again. Whomever it was, she could not see them from her accustomed place on the floor. She set her mending in the basket and stood.

  "Down the hall, by the light," a different voice said.

  The first voice said, "Thank you," but she still could not see who it was.

  An opening in the crowd granted her a glimpse of a page as he slipped between the girls and ambled toward her. He looked harried and frustrated. "Are you Nella?"

  "Yes. Is there a problem?"

  His face brightened in relief. "Not that I know of. I'm supposed to give you a message."

  She had absolutely no idea why a page would deliver a message to her, and she tried not to clench her hands in worry. "All right. What's the message?"

  He cleared his throat and squinted at the ceiling as if struggling to remember the exact message. He said, "There is mending to be done and you are supposed to be the best mender. It's incredibly urgent, and you must come with me right away."

  Urgent mending? Was there such a thing? "Who has this urgent mending?"

  He frowned and whispered, "I am not allowed to say. They swore me to secrecy."

  Her hands did clench for a moment as she thought of the two dead girls, but she forced them open again. Whoever wanted her mending services had ensured a witness and an escort; Elli and Fytte had died alone. Surely, with a page delivering the message, this summons was nothing to worry over, and she certainly would not turn down an opportunity to work. Even if her benefactor wanted to remain mysterious. "They have?"

  "Yes, ma'am. And I'm supposed to hurry. Tis most urgent, ma'am."

  At last she nodded. Even a few small pence helped ease her debt. "Let me drop off my things."

  The boy shrugged and followed her to her room.

  "
Did they say if it was a simple repair or a patching?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am. Just that it was urgent."

  Nella collected her basic sewing supplies and wondered who would summon her like this. The only noble she had mended for was Dubric, and he had already told her he had no work for her this phase. Besides, it was almost nine bell and nearly time for the castle to settle down for the night. Who would possibly need mending at this late hour?

  The page led her from the servants' wing to the main stairs and up to the second floor. At first Nella thought perhaps one of the ladies had torn a slip or chemise—Goddess knew nearly everything was urgent to a lady—but instead of turning right toward the ladies' wing, they turned left toward the noble families' wing.

  Her mind churning, she followed the page to a large alcove near the west tower. Cushioned benches stood in groups and clusters around low tables, giving people a place to sit and talk. The shadows in the alcove loomed thick to encourage privacy, but she saw the shape of a man sitting on a bench. He stood as she approached.

  "Thank you, Deorsa," the man said, and Nella smiled.

  The page nodded and ran off, leaving her standing in the otherwise quiet hallway.

  "You have urgent mending?" she asked.

  "Very urgent," he said as he approached her. "A life-or-death matter, I'm certain of it."

  She laughed softly and shook her head. "I thought we had an agreement to avoid situations like these. You know I shouldn't be here with you."

  He strode out of the shadows, but she would have recognized his well-proportioned form anywhere. He wore his fine brocaded garments with unselfconscious ease, heedless of their expense. Risley spoke to her as an equal, not as a servant. "Why not? I have mending. I do. Really."

  She laughed again and wondered why the hall seemed so deserted. Maybe nobles went to bed early because they had no work to do, but Risley was definitely awake and watching her expectantly. "What mending do you have?"

  He smiled and offered his arm. "Let me show you."

  She shook her head with a smile, but did not take his arm. "You never give up, do you?"

  He reached for her hand and placed it carefully on his forearm. "Not with you," he said. "And I do have mending."

  "Really?" Despite herself, she ran a finger along the exquisite fabric of his shirt, finding it soft and sleek to her touch. The firm muscle of his forearm warmed her hand.

  "Of course. Do you really think I'd lure you here on false pretenses?" When she raised an eyebrow he cleared his throat and rolled his eyes innocently toward the ceiling. "Um, how much do you charge to sew on buttons?"

  "Half pence apiece, but for you they'd be free. How many do you have?"

  He smiled wistfully then shook his head as if loosening cobwebs. "Uh, let me check." He looked down, then grabbed a shiny button on the pocket of his Haenparan-blue jerkin and popped it off. He held it between his fingers like a coin. "One. I have one. Can I pay you say, twenty or thirty crown to sew it back on?"

  She could not help smiling. Only Risley would remove a gilded button so carelessly, as if it were a piece of lint. Even homemade buttons fashioned of baked clay or rough pine were valued by the poor. "It doesn't work that way."

  He grasped the button in his fist and put it in his pocket. "I know, but I'm getting desperate. I want to see you."

  "Risley…"

  "Please, can we just… talk?" He touched her hand on his arm. "And I have something for you."

  "Oh, Risley. No gifts. Please."

  He smiled and stroked her fingers. "It's not a gift. Honest." He lowered his head and looked at her as if he was slightly embarrassed. "Actually, I went for a walk after I saw you earlier. I found myself in the village, and I stopped by the bakery." He shrugged and chuckled as if berating himself. "I bought a pie and I can't eat it alone. I have a pot of tea, and I thought we could just…" his voice trailed off and he watched her hopefully.

  "A pie? You bought a pie?" The castle cooks made some sort of meat pie almost every day. She could not imagine Risley become so determined over something so dull.

  He grinned. "Pecan. You do like nuts, don't you?"

  A pie made from nuts? She had never heard of such a thing. "I've never tasted pecans. They're imported and were always too expensive."

  His face fell. "Maybe I should've bought apple instead."

  She touched his hand. "Oh, Risley, I'm sure pecan is fine."

  "The pie doesn't really matter. Talk with me for a while. Please. I miss you."

  "I miss you, too," she whispered. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

  "Almost three moons."

  As much as she worried over the trouble spending time with him would bring, she hated to disappoint him. "I suppose we could talk while I sew that button back on. And I suppose I could try pecan pie."

  His smile lit up his whole face. "Thank you." He led her into the alcove and said, "You know, I can yank all the buttons off if it would encourage you to stay longer."

  She laughed. "I need to be back before ten bell. I can stay until then."

  He did not say a word, merely looked into her eyes and smiled. He led her to a padded bench that curved into a secluded corner. A polished wood table awaited them with a wooden box, two plates, an assortment of utensils, and tea for two.

  "What if I couldn't stay?" she asked as he helped her sit.

  "I refused to accept that possibility," he replied. "I could not imagine you'd let a perfectly good pie go to waste." Before she pulled her hand away, he kissed her fingers and turned to open the box. "I hope you like it."

  "Here, let me do that." She tried to control the tremor in her just-kissed hand as she leaned forward and reached for the knife. "You don't need to serve me."

  He gently took the knife from her hand. "Yes, I do. You relax and let me do this." As he cut the pie, he asked, "Are you still liking your job?"

  Her hands gripped the edge of the cushion and she marveled at its softness. She could not remember sitting on a cushion before, and she found the whole experience nice. Inviting. And the dim light made the alcove seem almost romantic. "I like it fine," she said. "And it pays well."

  He presented her with a brownish wedge of pie on a fine china plate edged in shimmering gold. "I'm glad," he said.

  Goddess, don't let me break this plate, she thought as Risley handed her a shining golden fork, as well. The pie smelled wonderful and her mouth watered in anticipation. Sweets of any kind were a rare indulgence and an unaccustomed treat. But to have Risley serve her pie on a fine plate in private circumstances was almost too much for her to bear. In her nervousness she dropped the fork and it clattered to the floor. "Oh, Risley," she gasped, "I'm so sorry!"

  He retrieved the fork and handed her another one. "Don't be," he said. "There is nothing to be sorry about. Relax. We're just having pie."

  She nodded and grasped the fork, determined not to drop it again. "Is this something nobles do? Have pie?"

  He poured their tea and sat beside her, their knees not quite touching. "I don't think so. I thought it was something two people could do to spend time together. Have pie and talk."

  He glanced out toward the hallway. A nobleman walked by without noticing them. Risley sighed and turned his attention back to her. "Are you going to try the pie?"

  She nodded and portioned off a bite, the fork rattling on the plate.

  "If this is too much for you, we don't have to do this."

  "It's not too much, not really. I don't know why I'm so nervous." She flashed him what she hoped was a self-assured smile and popped the bit of pie into her mouth.

  A small happy sound escaped her throat and she sighed with utter bliss.

  He smiled. "I guess you like pecan pie, and there's no reason to be nervous."

  She nodded and some of her jitters fell away. "I know there isn't." She glanced out to the hall as a lackey trudged by with bathwater. "Maybe it's because anyone could walk by and stare at us."

  He ate a bite of his pie. "Woul
d you rather go somewhere more private?"

  She took another bite as she contemplated her answer. "No," she said at last. "People talk enough as it is. If we were to meet somewhere private…" She shrugged and closed her eyes as the taste of the pie rolled over her tongue.

  Risley said, "What people say doesn't matter to me, but I don't want to sneak around. Not with you." When she looked at him again he added, "But private, ah… meetings would probably be more acceptable to the gossipers than public ones."

  "Because I'm a commoner?"

  "No, because you're a woman. If I repeatedly met a wrinkled old countess, the rumors would fly. What people don't know, they can't speculate about."

  She paused and took a quick sip of tea. "But everyone knows you brought me here. And besides, I'm almost done with the debt. After that you won't want to see me anymore."

  He set aside his plate and gave her his full attention. "What ever gave you that idea?"

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Really."

  "Yes, it does. Why do you think I won't want to see you?"

  She stared at her half-eaten pie and said, "Lots of reasons." She drew in a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. "Mostly because it will be done then. Whatever it was that brought you to Pyrinn will be finished and you'll be sent out to do something else. Not only am I a commoner, I worry I'm the last loose thread or something." She raised her gaze to him and said, "You've rescued the helpless maiden, and soon you'll be done with the debt you were ordered to accept. After that, you'll be free of me and you'll…" She chewed her lip and shook her head.

  He looked out to the hall again and a muscle in his cheek twitched. Three ladies walked by, talking. One noticed the pair in the shadows, paused, then hurried to join her companions as they moved off. Once the ladies were gone, he said, "You're not the 'last loose' anything and I'm sorry if I haven't been clear in my intentions. There's always an element of secrecy in my life, I suppose, whether I like it or not, and it tends to become a habit. I don't want to keep secrets from you, and I'm sorry that I have."