Mary Kirby, writer for BioWare's Dragon Age franchise, is responsible for writing some of its most popular and memorable characters, including Loghain Mac Tir, Varric Tethras, and the much-anticipated Orlesian mage, Vivienne (Madame Le Fer).
When asked what food might be best representative of Vivienne, Ms. Kirby answered "ortolan bunting". This inspired me to take the last few days to write the following as-yet-untitled fanfiction short story...which didn't turn out quite the way I had hoped. I comfort myself with the thought that this is by no means a final draft. If anyone is willing to provide constructive criticism, please feel free. I need all the help I can get.
***
WARNING
This short story contains mature themes.
Reader discretion is advised.
***
“Do you not like it? Ungrateful child!” Eala glanced up. The painted lips of the viscountess were pulled tightly into not-quite-a-smile and her glittering eyes had narrowed. Then she let out a laugh and Eala allowed herself to breathe.
Perched on a brocade footstool, Eala stood before her aunt’s three-panelled looking-glass. Folds of dual-toned russet silk brushed against the trailing cloud-like sleeves, whispering as she turned. She had been thinking of the somber inhabitants of her mother’s wardrobe, trying to recall if any had organza sleeves or cut-crystal beads along their hems.
“Thank you,” Eala said belatedly, hastily adding, “It is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen!”
“If you lavish all your praise on this one, what shall remain for the second?” Viscountess Saphana laughed again. Eala blushed.
“It is, of course,” the lips were pursed now, “still a touch too big…” and suddenly the dark-haired woman was behind her, deft hands gently tightening the fabric at the waist, raising the hem. “I have been assured you have been growing like a rashweed. It won’t be long until both dresses fall perfectly, but we can make some adjustments in the meantime. Now that we have met, I shall know your size better the next time I go into Orlais.”
“Planning to return to Orlais so soon? You must allow some time for the merchants of Val Royaux to restock, Saphana. Adon tells me not an eyelet was left by the time you were through.” From between the gaps of the enamelled mirrors, Eala could see her mother. Dressed simply in the dark grey of mourning, she seemed out of place amidst the opulence of her childhood home.
“Riona.” The viscountess glided out from behind the looking-glass to greet her. The women might have been the same age had Eala not known her mother was but five years old when her Uncle Adon had married. “Your brother is ever the artful storyteller.”
“Is he?” Riona sniffed, one wing-like eyebrow raised. The viscountess, instead of looking chastised, actually looked bemused.
“You play the dutiful younger sister beautifully. No doubt he has taken this rare opportunity to enumerate the multitude of economic transgressions I have perpetrated without elucidating any of his own.” Eala, while committing the unfamiliar words to memory, saw her mother stiffen. “You had been away so long, I believed you had forgotten the way back. I am glad to be mistaken. Eala, dear one, shall we show your mother what we have gotten up to in her absence?”
Eala obligingly stepped out and curtsied, the pointed toe of a jewel-feathered slipper peeping beneath the hem.
“Maker’s breath,” her mother whispered. Eala straightened awkwardly, her hands still grasping her sparkling skirts. “It is,” she heard her say at last, “far too…generous, Saphana. Eala is yet a child. She has no occasion to wear such finery.”
“Nonsense,” the viscountess replied smoothly, “for all that climbing around she does with the gardener’s son, she turns twelve in less than a fortnight. Now that Adon has returned, it is time to restore the Penhallam you so fondly remember. We shall have guests and Eala will need something to wear when dining with us. Besides, I can hardly take them back. Or would you have me wear them? Flattered as I am, I haven’t been that size in years.” Eala would have laughed at the absurdity of her elegant aunt wearing a child’s dress, had she not noticed the muscle at the corner of her mother’s jaw tighten.
“Then we thank you. Eala, take your leave.” Eala squeaked, as she nearly fell, tripping over the crystal-studded hem that had gotten caught on the edge of the thick carpet.
“Good-night, Aunt,” Eala said shyly, giving her a kiss on each cheek. She looked over her shoulder as they exited into the adjoining room. It was funny how small her aunt looked next to the massive stone fireplace, like a little porcelain doll.
* * *
At breakfast, Eala met her uncle. She had seen a portrait of him in his youth: tall with golden-brown hair and dimpled chin, longbow in hand and fierce drahthaar at his side. His wavy hair had since thinned and was now shot through with grey, however, neither its increased length nor his carefully trimmed beard could conceal he had gone to fat.
“So young Eala, how do you find Penhallam?” He had a surprisingly young-sounding baritone voice.
“I find I like it very much.” Eala smiled. Her uncle smiled back and she could see the third tooth on the left was rimmed in gold.
“Your mother tells me you are to have a birthday soon. We must do something to mark the occasion.” He attacked a slice of ham, spearing a piece into his mouth. Eala watched as the small mountain of food on his plate disappeared, only to be replaced by another.
“Do you like birds, my dear?” Eala thought she saw her aunt’s eyes flicker at the other end of the table, her face otherwise a study of alabaster composure.
“What type of birds, Uncle?”
“Songbirds. Surely you’ve heard them singing. I brought them back from Orlais as an engagement gift for your aunt. They make their nests now in the grove. I’ll have the seneschal speak to Sol. He’ll show you where they are.”
She hoped he hadn’t noticed her staring while he ate. She told herself she was being silly. Her own father had rarely acknowledged her existence; surely an uncle who was also viscount would pay less heed. After a quick word with her mother, she headed to the garden.
***
“Rann said they usually nest here. That’s how I knew where to look,” Varo explained, net in hand. “All we got to do is wait.” Eala sat in the opposite tree, clutching her own net. They were the same age, but she stood nearly two hands taller.
“Who’s Rann?” Eala whispered, not too successfully.
“One of the gardeners who used to work with my Da. There used to be a lot more ‘round here, families, too. But now it’s just Da,” he paused thoughtfully, “and me.” Varo lifted his head. “Sh, hear them, Miss?”
Eala listened. A six-note trill, then two others, slightly different. Another. She concentrated on remaining still. Out of the corner of her eye she caught some movement and then there they were: three small birds, nearly invisible against the foliage. She could have fit two of them in her hand. Remembering Varo’s advice, she waited until they approached the nest. Then, she threw the net.
“I got two! Varo, look!” Excited, she lost her footing. She frantically attempted to grab something, anything. Her hand caught on the net, pulling down the trapped birds with her. She saw Varo vainly reach out and suddenly become very small while the air rushed by. Then it was pain followed by nothingness.
She became conscious of the smell of smoke and damp earth. She could hear birdsong. When she opened her eyes, she saw the worried faces of Varo and his father, Sol.
“You’re lucky to have landed where you did, Miss. Very lucky indeed. We’d only just dug it up yesterday,” Sol affirmed. “Though Maker only knows how you managed not to break your neck.” Eala looked around her. Peat. She was lying on a mound of peat. Where? Oh! The light hurt her eyes. It hurt to think.
She felt nauseated. Closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing helped. “Can you sit up, Miss?” Varo asked. Eala managed to prop herself up on one elbow.
Crumbling the soft peat between her fingers, she frowned. “I don’t remember this being here.”
“It’s right where Da and I left it.” Sol nodded in agreement.
Eala looked up at the nearest tree. It seemed the wrong shape somehow, its branches too low. But what other tree could she have fallen from?
“Look.” Varo was holding up a delicate silverite wire cage. Initially, she could only see flashes of frantic brown wings. Varo trilled six notes: four low, two high. The flapping stopped and three pairs of curious onyx-bright eyes stared back above orange beaks. Eala could see now their delicate heads were emerald green and although they were mostly brown, their bellies were autumn red.
Eala peered closer, “What happened to that one’s wing?”
“Hm. Must have happened when you pulled them down,” Varo reflected. Sol cleared his throat.
“We need to get you back to your mother, Miss.”
“She’s in town with Aunt Saphana. She—she doesn’t need to know, does she? I do feel much better now.”
“Be that as it may, Miss, I think you’ve had enough adventuring for today. Varo, take the young miss back when she’s ready—and no distractions, mind?” Varo grinned sheepishly.
“Yes, sir. I promise.” Sol headed back towards the south lawn. Varo turned to Eala.
“Can you walk? Take my arm,” Varo urged. Eala rose to take his arm. Dizziness overwhelmed her and Varo jerked forward, cage still in hand, to brace her.
“What is it, Miss?”
“Sorry about that,” Eala mumbled. She looked at the birds, who had resumed flitting agitatedly around the cage. “Sorry to you, too.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you back to the main house and then I’ll see what I can do. I’m good with animals.”
“Can’t you do something now?” Eala put on what she hoped was her most piteous expression. Varo sighed.
“I promise I’ll take care of it as soon as I’ve seen you right, Miss.”
It felt like an eternity until they reached the servants’ entrance. They found a small bench at the base of the stairs and she gratefully collapsed onto it. It was unusually quiet with most of the servants occupied readying the guest wing.
“Bird’s turn,” she smiled wanly.
Varo swung the door closed behind him, but the bolt, free from its catch, prevented the door from shutting completely. From her bench, Eala could still hear the birds trilling. So Varo had not gone very far. What was he waiting for? Curiosity got the best of her. The door was only a few steps away. She pushed it open just wide enough to see him, crouching down behind a hedge, his back partially turned. Suddenly, there was a series of small bursts of green light. Flashes of magenta continued to dance before her eyes, as she watched him hesitantly place the bird back in the cage.
“It was you. You saved me,” she blurted out. Varo jerked his head to look at her, face flushed, his hazel-green eyes now dark with fear. White electricity crackled over his skin, concentrating in accelerating whorls around his hands. Eala stood very still. Varo stared at his hands, gave a cry like a wounded animal and ran. Eala didn’t know what to do. She stared dumbly at the cage. She noted none of the birds had broken wings. She mechanically picked up the cage and walked toward her room.
As she passed the study, she heard her uncle call out, “Is that my pretty young niece I hear with her quarry?” She paused in the doorway and saw shelves reaching all the way up to the high frescoed ceiling. While the upper shelves held books, the lower shelves along the back wall housed several beautiful, delicate white carvings.
“Ah, I see you’ve noticed my collection. Come in, come in, my dear. Get a closer look.” She reluctantly stepped inside. Surely, her aunt would not consider this disturbing the viscount if he, himself, extended the invitation.
The workmanship was exquisite. Some were multi-layered forest scenes, others, individual figures. She saw a sweet young shepherdess holding a lamb. The wool looked so soft that when she reached out to touch it, she half-expected it to give way beneath her fingers. She laughed at her own silliness.
“Is it magic?”
“Perhaps. They’re very old. I started collecting them as a young man. Dalish, I was told, halla horn,” he added thoughtfully. “Most young girls love the shepherdess, but this one is my favourite,” he walked up and directed her attention to one of the carved dioramas. While he turned a hidden crank behind a tree that formed part of the frame, Eala watched as an elven hunter shot an arrow upwards, followed by a giant eagle falling out of the sky. She looked up to see her uncle searching her face intently for her reaction.
“It is lovely,” she said, truthfully.
“Ah, but I can see you still prefer the shepherdess.” He laughed. “So did your aunt, but for another reason. Look,” He twisted the pedestal base a number of times and music began to play. Eala did not recognize the tune, but she found herself humming along to the simple melody and even the birds paused to listen. Strangely, any pain she had felt from her fall disappeared. “Which reminds me, your aunt used to love chocolate, as well. Ever since it became the fashion in Orlais to be thin, she never touches the stuff. Surely you are far more sensible?” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. From his desk, he produced a gold-leafed box.
As he lifted the lid, she recognized the aroma of fine Antivan chocolate and her eyes widened at the sight of several dark, satiny domes, their tops sparkling with gold leaf. Allowed but one piece on birthdays and Feast Days, this was an unimaginable luxury. Eagerly, she bit into one. She almost gagged. The filling began to burn her tongue. She quickly swallowed. Only seconds later, once the burning had ceased, could she taste the sweetness of pears intermingled with dark chocolate. Her uncle laughed at her reaction. She blushed.
“Got one of the brandy ones, did you? They’re an acquired taste, I’ll grant you.” He popped the uneaten half of her chocolate in his mouth. “Dare you try another?” Eala eyed the chocolates. They all looked identical.
“No thank you, Uncle,” she said, finally. Seeing his disappointment, she added, “I am unaccustomed—(Eala wrapped her mouth around the adult-sounding phrase proudly) to such extravagance. Truly.”
The viscount’s heavy brows knitted together as he grimaced. “You sounded quite old just then, young lady. Must I remind you that you are allowed but one birthday a year? Be not in such a hurry to have them all over at once. I shall let the servants know you have my permission to come into these rooms whenever you wish. My personal library is at your disposal, although I’m afraid I cannot boast as fine a dictionary as your mother describes. You will have to let me borrow it from time to time.”
“Yes, Uncle. Thank you, Uncle.” She curtsied her farewell and headed to her room.
***
It was only once she had placed the birds on the desk that she realized she didn’t know what they ate. She was loathe to disturb her uncle again so soon. Varo would have known.
She had heard Templars took mage children away from their families to be locked up and never seen again. Varo loved the woods and the air. No wonder he had kept his magic hidden. She thought of all the books in the study, some of which looked like they hadn’t been disturbed in decades. Perhaps there was something there that could help Varo.
Excited by this new thought, she went in search of him. It was almost time for the servants’ midday meal. Although Sol and Varo lived in a small one-room cottage near the edge of the estate, they took their meals in the servants’ hall. Outside the entranceway, she overheard Sol’s voice say, “Lad was looking a little peaked. Sent him to bed.” She heard the tut-tut-tut of the cook Jacynthe, who announced she would make some consommé for Sol to take to the “pauvre petit.”
Eala quickly ran to the cottage. She knocked. No answer. She tried the door and found it unlocked. “Varo?” The cottage was empty. The woods. He would have headed into the woods.
She broke into a run. Once she reached the woods, she began shouting, “Varo! Varo! Please! I’m sorry! Come back! Varo!” She wanted to shout, “I won’t tell anyone! I promise!” but this risked exposing his secret to anyone within earshot. Let it be a game then. She quickly made up a little rhyme to sing to the ancient Dalish tune she had heard in the study.
“I knew a fine lad with auburn hair
Who loved the sky and open air
That is how I found him, there
Amongst the trees and sunlight-o
Said he, I’d rather die alone
Than ‘neath a roof and walls of stone
I’d leave my kin and all I own
To dwell with trees in sunlight-o
I swore upon all I held dear
That is not for you to fear
I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you near
To dwell with trees in sunlight-o”
She wandered, marking her path along the way as he had shown her, singing until her throat felt raw. She remembered him telling her that, once, the entire forest had belonged to the viscount. Now, most of it belonged to a neighbouring noble, who had a white stone marker placed at the boundary. She traveled as far as the marker, then sang her way back until she reached the clearing once more. The sharp metallic taste of blood rose in her throat. All she could do was wait.
The maid informed the young miss that since Lady Saphana and Lady Riona were out, her dinner would be served in her room. As Eala headed down the corridor, she noticed that the study door was open and a tray of food had been set on the table by the fireplace. Her uncle was nowhere to be seen. Eala climbed the ladder cautiously, the memory of her fall still clear. Though none of the books referred to magic, she did manage to find a number of volumes on birds. Carrying the heaviest one, she continued her way down, when she felt a pair of hands about her waist. She cried out, losing her balance. The hands tightened around her and she found herself being lowered to the ground.
“You looked like you were about to fall, my dear,” she heard her uncle say. She bit back the urge to contradict him.
“Thank you, Uncle. I promise to be more careful in future.” Her brow furrowed. How had he entered the room?
“No need for such serious looks, my dear. No harm has been done. Perhaps you yet frown because you have not had your dinner. It follows, then, that you should dine with me.”
Besides not wishing to be deterred from her mission, she felt piqued he had so little faith in her climbing abilities. “I must feed my birds, Uncle.”
“Ah, and I see you have found a book of ornithology. I’m afraid you won’t find our songbirds in there. The book you want has a red spine. Now, if you dine with me, I shall tell you myself what these birds like best to eat, saving you a trip back up the ladder and myself the fear of you falling.” She gave him a dubious look. “Will you not take pity on an old man?”
This last request was made in such a ridiculously high, wheedling voice, so different from his usual baritone, Eala could not help but smile.
“At last! I find young girls so much more agreeable when they smile.”
She gratefully accepted a buttered slice of bread, hoping she didn’t drop too many crumbs onto the carpet. He talked at length of the exotic origins of the fruit on the tray, the optimal conditions for making cheese, and bemoaned the gout that kept him from hunting as often as he had in his youth. She did her best to feign interest, nodding at appropriate intervals.
“Which reminds me. You will need to feed your birds millet and figs.” For emphasis he retrieved a plump ripe fig from the tray and proceeded to slice it crosswise before inserting a soft, white wedge of goat cheese.
“Figs?” asked Eala, in surprise. There were no figs in the forest. Then again, there was no millet, either.
“I shall have some sent to your room. See here, I have just procured the finest Rivaini figs.” He split the one he had prepared and placed half upon her plate. “Can you not taste the freshness? The wonderful interplay between salt and sweet? The smooth, creamy finish left on tongue and palate?” To be sure, it was not unpleasant, but clearly her uncle, who had closed his eyes, was enjoying the experience far more.
“I do not wish to cause you inconvenience, sir,” Eala said, reflexively using the formal phrase. She wished her mother had been there to hear her.
“You have been well-drilled in comportment,” he said, sighing. “It is no inconvenience, my dear.” He emphatically dismissed any objections with a wave of his hand, which now clutched a pheasant leg.
“I must say how nice it is to have a young person in the house again,” he remarked after finishing the last of the pheasant. “I agree with your aunt on principle that experience in a servant is invaluable, but she seems to insist upon staffing Penhallam with those approaching dotage. Less charitable observers might suspect her of safeguarding her vanity. Not I, of course.
“Now if you will pardon me, my dear, I’m afraid my own affairs require my attention, loathe as I am to part with your company.” As she curtsied her farewell and walked back to her room, Eala wondered what joy could be found in the company of a girl who knew little of the world and scarcely spoke.
A servant soon arrived with a small bowl of millet and figs. In this, at least, he had been sincere. She fed the birds absently, wondering if Varo was all right. Her mother and aunt had yet to return. Good. She slipped outside and made her way to the cottage. She knocked, hesitantly. To her surprise, the door opened. It was Varo.
“Miss Eala.” He eyed her warily. “Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Will you swear?”
“Yes, I swear.”
“In blood?” The prospect strangely excited Eala.
“Yes.”
Varo let her inside. He lit a candle, Eala noticed, without the aid of a match. He held a small knife in the flame, its heat creating flaring blue-tinged patterns along the blade’s surface. He then pricked the tips of each finger on one hand before heating the blade again.
“Your turn,” he said, defiantly. She held out her hand, never taking her eyes from his, somehow feeling the solemnity of the occasion demanded it. She didn’t even feel him cut her. “Press your hand against mine. Now promise.”
“I promise to never reveal your secret. I swear with my blood.” She had thought something would have happened at that moment, some spark or transfer of energy as they stood, palm to palm. Save for the fact she was now aware of the cuts on her fingers, she felt the same. All in all, the experience had proved less thrilling than she thought it would be.
She pressed her handkerchief between their fingertips. Remembering the flame that had ignited in his palm, she asked, “Does it hurt, making magic, I mean.”
“No. It’s just hard to control. If I'm careful, I can do simple things… if I concentrate.”
“Like heal bird wings?” Varo blushed.
“But when I get upset or frightened, I scare myself. I got lost in the woods once. There was a thunderstorm. I thought I heard something behind me and lightning shot from both my hands. I hit a tree but I got blasted backwards. They saw the tree burning-- that’s how they found me, but no one knew what I did.”
Eala sucked in a breath. “I wish I could make magic.”
“No you don’t,” said Varo sadly.
***
“The marquess and his family shall be dining with us next week,” Aunt Saphana announced. Eala’s mother looked worriedly at her child. “While they have a daughter of eighteen who is betrothed to a duke, they also have a son only a year older than Eala. I thought Eala should have a chance to meet someone nearer her own age.”
“Brother,” Lady Riona said, quietly, “my intent in coming here was never to put you to such great expense.”
“Do not trouble yourself, sister, with such thoughts.” Eala felt her mother remained unconvinced.
“What girl would not wish to spend her twelfth birthday in a pretty frock, making new friends, and gorging herself on raspberry torte and almond custard? The provisions have been bought, the additional servants have been hired, the invitations accepted. Even should she wish it, we cannot cancel now.” It was Eala’s turn to look unconvinced, but she quickly schooled her expressions upon seeing her mother fractionally raise both eyebrows.
“Thank you Aunt and Uncle. I look forward to my first dinner party.”
***
The marquess’ son, the Baron Fintan, was well-trained in the art of speaking without saying anything interesting. He was thin and pale with straw-blond hair that covered an over-large head out of which stared watery blue eyes. He spoke as if his nose were plugged and Eala was sorely tempted to offer him her handkerchief several times. Upon being introduced, he had presented her with a small nosegay and “a token in celebration of her birthday.” It was a writing set, complete with a cunning silver ink well, sheets of creamy vellum in a silver tray, and long white quills with a little silver knife for sharpening the ends. They exchanged the obligatory words of thanks and welcome. The viscountess suggested they take a turn around the garden before supper.
Keeping to the garden paths was a new experience for Eala. When she was with Varo, they fashioned swords from branches and played guard and bandit. Sometimes they made music from blowing through blades of grass or reeds. Other times they teased the fish in the ornamental pond while Varo pointed out the different species. Fintan did not play guard and bandit with branches. He attended a proper school where the noble boys were drilled in swordplay and had real swords and shields. He played no instrument. He knew nothing of plants or fish or animals (other than horses). When she mentioned that eating the hedge leaves could render one catatonic but conscious, a fact she learned from Varo that sent a delicious thrill up her spine, Fintan asked politely what occasion would one have to eat hedge leaves. “I- I suppose, one wouldn’t,” she stammered, “Not knowingly.” Fintan looked horrified.
Both were relieved when it was announced that dinner was being served.
They had seated her in a place of honour, to her uncle’s left, opposite the marquess and marchioness. She wished she could have sat next to her mother, instead of being separated by Fintan’s big head.
Her own head ached from the innumerable hairpins digging into her scalp. Her neck itched beneath her aunt's garnet choker. Even her dress felt more constricting by the minute. Yet, all this might have proved tolerable had it not been for the whuffling sounds Fintan made when eating his soup. She contemplated whether bursting into tears or bolting from the room would be more embarrassing.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the marchioness' delighted exclamation of “Ortolans!”
Eala looked down. On her dish was a small bird, its body unnaturally swollen, its orange beak clipped. Feathers and eyes had been plucked out, but the shape of the head was unmistakable. She looked up, dazed. The marchioness had placed the ortolan whole in her mouth, before covering her lower face with her napkin. Eala saw Fintan do the same, then watched him bite down on the neck, sever the head, and discreetly place it on his plate. She could not see what her mother was doing. The remaining guests had already raised their napkins. Her uncle, seeing her confusion, said, “Allow me.” Taking his knife, he made two swift passes, removing the head and splitting the body in two. He lifted one half to her mouth. She opened it dumbly and felt a rivulet of warm juice flow down her chin, felt her uncle’s thumb briefly brush against her bottom lip before she could lift her napkin. The tiny bones crunched between her teeth, cutting and bruising the inside of her mouth. The smell of figs and brandy filled her nostrils. Tears pricked behind her eyes.
The rest of the meal was a blur. Sugared fruit, cake, and Antivan spirits were brought out. She hoped she had smiled convincingly when they toasted her health. Her uncle motioned to one of the servants.
“And here, my dear, is my gift to you.” Wrapped in silk and ribbon was the little carved shepherdess. She saw her aunt drain her drink. Meanwhile, the marquess and marchioness praised its artistry and declared what a lucky young lady she was. Mechanically, she kissed her uncle on both cheeks, his beard scratching her face. She walked towards her aunt, feeling her searching eyes, even as she kissed her. She was too tired to try to understand what it all meant. She made her excuses and begged to retire for the night.
On her way, she passed the study. A thought occurred to her. Her uncle would still be with the marquess in the dining hall. Now was her chance to look for a book that could help Varo. She ran her fingers along the lower shelves. When she reached the northeast corner, her fingertips caught on a shelf edge. Curious, she pushed. There was a door. It led to the viscount’s rooms. So that’s how he had entered without her seeing. She returned to the study. The upper shelves remained in shadow. She couldn’t climb the ladder and hold a light, too. She would have to come during daylight hours.
She reached her room and placed the little shepherdess on the desk. Her birds were sleeping, their heads invisible, tucked under their wings. She began to weep and crumbled to the floor.
***
The viscount and viscountess had taken the entire party out riding after breakfast. The maid, who had found the young miss still laced up in her evening clothes on the floor, simply reported that she had looked pale and unwell that morning. The maid did not mention that the young lady had not been in her room when she had first come to undress her after supper the night before.
This suited Eala just fine. She idly wondered what horse would support her uncle’s weight. She nibbled at her breakfast tray giving the crumbs to her birds.
Her beloved dictionary had been moved to make room for her writing set, which was carefully laid out. She noticed the quills had not been sharpened. Eala had never sharpened her own quills before. She would have to find someone to show her how. She picked up the little knife. It had come with a filigreed sheath, which gave it the appearance of a miniature dagger. She loved the feel of the swirling pattern under her finger tips and the gentle ease with which it slid from its sheath. She looked over at the halla horn shepherdess and frowned. Pocketing the knife, she picked up the figurine with both hands and wound the bottom. Eala wondered as the music played: if it had been her aunt’s favourite, why had her uncle given it away?
She slipped out to the garden towards the wood, cage in hand. There, she released the birds. It might have been her imagination, but their songs sounded sweeter than any she had heard in her room. Varo came up beside her. They looked at each other wordlessly. Eala’s face took on a look of determination.
“My uncle told me I could use his library. I don’t know if there are any books about magic, but I can look, if you wish.” Varo’s eyes lit up. “I don’t know how long it will take. There are so many books. It might be faster if we search together. Can you read?” Varo nodded, “Good. Let’s go!”
The two of them ran towards the house and crept into the study. Unfortunately, Varo was much slower than she was at reading. They managed to get through a few of the upper shelves before Eala looked out the window and saw the horses heading back to the stables.
“I’ll go back!”
“Too, late! Someone is coming! In here!” She pushed open the hidden door. They ran through the viscount’s bedchamber. Across the four-poster bed she glimpsed the portrait of a beautiful dark-haired little girl with large, jet-black eyes, a familiar silverite wire birdcage at her feet. No other portrait graced his rooms. The bedchamber led to another sitting room and then they were in the rooms of the viscountess. Next would be her mother’s room, which adjoined her own.
“You can hide under my bed! I’ll let you know when it’s safe to leave.” Eala returned to her mother’s room. She could hear her mother speaking with her aunt next door.
“Well, it is arranged. The contracts shall be ready by tomorrow. You may return to Tantervale assured she will be taken care of.”
“My brother would have taken care of us!”
“Your brother,” the viscountess gave a brittle laugh, “cares for nobody, save himself. Go back to Tantervale and be glad of it. I have done all I can for you.”
“Have a care how you speak. I am his sister.”
“Had we not married, you might have learned soon enough how much that would have meant to him. You will take your leave day after tomorrow.”
“And if I do not?”
“Maker help you both.”
Eala crept back to her room. She heard her mother close the door behind her angrily. The women would be changing out of their riding clothes.
“Varo, let’s go!”
They raced down the corridor, down the main stairs and through to the servants’ entrance.
She gave Varo a quick embrace. “We’ll try again, tomorrow!”
***
Her mother informed her that they would be joined that evening by the duke and his mother. The duke was betrothed to the marquess’ daughter, Lina.
“You will like Lina. Do try to speak with her a little more this time.”
“Mother, how much longer shall we be staying here?”
“The marquess and his family shall leave with the duke tomorrow and then we shall leave the following day.”
So it was to be only two days. Eala wasn’t sure how to feel. She bore the maid’s pulling and plaiting indifferently. Today’s dress was made of green silk so pale, it was almost white. Clusters of delicately-carved moonstone starflowers were scattered across her overskirt and threaded through her hair. Her uncle, upon seeing her, began calling her “my little shepherdess” and the marquess and marchioness followed suit. Did the little shepherdess enjoy playing bowles? Was she fond of music? Where did she tend her flock? She felt relieved when they finally released her from answering questions to join the others. It was far more fun playing Blind-man’s buff with Fintan, Lina, and the duke, who she discovered was actually three years younger than his betrothed.
At supper, the marchioness remarked on the “fineness” of Eala’s eyes and how glad she was that the healthy pinkness of her cheeks had returned. The marchioness did not notice those same fine eyes wincing when she went on to speak enthusiastically about the “sinfully divine” ortolans from the other evening and how sinking to oblivion in a warm golden pool of fine Antivan brandy was an enviable end for any creature. The dowager duchess remarked that perhaps she might feel differently if her head were being held down in a bucket, even if it should contain the finest of Antivan brandies. The marchioness sputtered a hasty, “To be sure.” Only the viscountess’ glinting eyes betrayed her amusement. Lina and the duke proved less guarded, choking back their laughter behind hastily raised napkins.
Sitting next to Lina, Eala felt, somehow, lighter. She didn’t even mind Fintan whuffling into his soup beside her.
Eala’s maid, though quick to attend to her every need, drew the line at leaving the shutters open for fear the young miss would catch her death of cold in the night. Eala waited for her to leave, then slipped out of bed and flung them open. She listened until she could make out the sweet, faint sound of birdsong before falling asleep.
***
The following day, after exchanging promises with Lina to write, Eala bid farewell to their guests. The party had only just exited the gate when Lady Riona announced her intentions to leave for Tantervale the next morning. Eala saw some of the tautness in her aunt’s face relax. Her uncle, who appeared genuinely surprised, protested, but her mother was not to be dissuaded. They would leave tomorrow.
Immediately, Eala ran to find Varo. She found him collecting brushwood behind the cottage.
“We leave in the morning,” she said, breathlessly. They heard the gallop of hooves. Eala grabbed Varo’s hand and dove into the underbrush. She heard her uncle greet Varo’s father.
“You haven’t happened to see my niece, have you Sol?”
“They were just here, your lordship. Hard to say where they might be now, but they can’t be far. They often play hide and seek in the grove.” Her uncle seemed unduly annoyed, his great horse side-stepped agitatedly.
“I thank you,” he replied curtly. She and Varo watched as he rode towards the forest.
“Let’s go!” she whispered. They raced towards the house, taking care not to be seen.
“You don’t like him, do you?” Varo asked carefully.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re frightened. Why?”
“I’m not frightened.”
“You are. I feel it. Look.” The tiny cuts on his fingertips, which should have healed, were glowing red. Eala’s own fingers remained decidedly normal. She let out a deep breath.
“I don’t know why. He has always been…kind to me.”
Her mother and her aunt were playing cards silently in the garden. They skirted around them.
Finally, they made it to the study.
They began where they left off searching. None of the books discussed magic. It had all been for nothing.
“I’m so sorry, Varo.” Eala said. They heard the heavy tread of boots coming down the corridor. “Hide!” Varo immediately slipped behind the hidden door.
Uncle Adon’s face was splotched red with exertion, a few strands of his long hair remained plastered to his forehead and he had undone the shirt fastenings at his throat. “So this is where you have been. I have seen so little of you in the past two days, one might think you were hiding from me.” He poured water and brandy into a cup, downing it.
“I was looking for a book to read, Uncle.”
“Were you not with the gardener’s boy, earlier? I had not realized how much time your mother had allowed you to spend with him. You are at a delicate age, my dear. Had I been here, I would not have encouraged it.” He downed a second drink.
“Yes, Uncle.” She hoped Varo had made his escape. Thankfully, there would be fewer servants wandering the halls now that their guests had left.
“What’s this?” Her uncle frowned. He closed the distance between them. Her day frock was stained green and her encounter with brambles in the underbrush had torn the fabric. He brushed the hair from her neck. An errant thorn had scratched her and a few drops of blood had fallen onto the creamy yellow bodice.
“My little shepherdess has cut herself,” he said softly. “This will not do. Come and I shall tend to your wound.”
“It is nothing, Uncle.” She curtsied to take her leave, but he had grasped her wrist firmly and his body now blocked her exit. He pulled her closer. His breath was oppressive, sickening with the smell of over-ripe pears.
“What have you been doing, rolling around in the grass, I wonder?” He pulled roughly at her dress, seized her grass-stained hem, and thrust it in her face. “What ‘gifts’ does the gardener’s brat give you? What do you give him in return?” Disgusted, he hurled the fabric away. He leaned over her, filling her entire field of vision. “This morning I promised the young baron a bride intact. I now find myself uncertain and in cases like these, we must be certain.”
“Please, Uncle. Please, let me go.” Her eyes darted back to the secret door. His eyes followed her gaze.
“Clever girl! You found the door. We will not be disturbed there.” Still gripping her wrist, he forced her arm against her chest, pushing her backwards through the hidden entrance. Desperate, Eala fumbled inside her skirt pocket with her free hand and found her quill knife. She slashed at him with the exposed blade, cutting his forearm. Surprised, he released his hold.
“Leave her alone!”
Eala was blinded by a flash of white light. Now several feet away, her uncle lay on the floor jerking violently, eyes wide open, the front of his breeches darkening with urine.
“His door was locked,” Varo said dully.
***
“The poor, sweet girl! First her father and now this! She found him, you know, and had the presence of mind to send for help right away. I have it on good authority from the surgeon that when he arrived, the viscount had been convulsing so violently, he had bitten his tongue in two! It sounds rather macabre, does it not? Shall I continue, Lina, my dear, or shall I spare your girlish sensibilities? Well, even with the blood streaming from his mouth, without a thought to her Orlesian silk dress (the emerald green one, such a shame!), the viscountess herself cradled his head while the surgeon attempted to dislodge the blockage. He described it as quite the struggle, with the blood making it difficult to see, and the poor viscountess straining to keep the poor man’s head from moving. You must recall what a short, thick neck the viscount had. Well, I am certain that could not have helped matters. In the end, by the time the surgeon had managed to retrieve the missing half of his tongue, the viscount had died.
“Trust Saphana to still look stunning at a funeral. The poor woman has borne it all so well. Apparently, she has found herself a little protégé. The gardener’s son, I believe. One must have a hobby, I suppose. She has always loved children, I’m surprised she never had any herself. They travel to her holdings in Rivain. Hm? I’m not sure my dear, you’ve seen how pale she is, but then there are those eyes.
“Ah, the dowager duchess has arrived. No, ortolans are not on the menu, impudent miss. I do not fancy having my head publicly bitten off again; though, why your scamp of a duke never mentioned his mother’s ‘precious little Petronella’ before, Maker only knows.” Checking their reflections in the looking-glass one last time, the marchioness and her daughter went down for dinner.
Author's notes:
- The story takes place the summer of 9:25 Dragon. Eala's father died three months prior. The viscount, who had missed the funeral due to "unavoidable obligations in Antiva", was supposed to be present when his sister accepted his invitation to Penhallam, the family home in the country. Riona and Eala arrived four weeks before the story begins. At this time, the viscount has just returned from Rivain.
- I intentionally made Riona and Saphana sound similar. Riona fails to see how much she has in common with her sister-in-law, whereas Saphana sees it quite clearly.
- Saphana, based on the Persian variant "Safana", is my variation on the Greek "Sophia"
- Adon is my variation on the Latin "Adoneus"
- Riona, Eala, and Fintan are Irish names meaning "queenly", "swan", and "fair-haired", respectively
- Fun fact: Lina's birth-name is Luscinia, but as a young child, Fintan could only call her Lina. It is her preferred address among friends and family. She and Fintan get along well. Also, to her surprise, she and the duke are in love.
- Another fun fact: Petronella is a canary
