Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(6)

Any moment could be the crucial one. Any moment could be too late.

“Please, baroness,” Foxbrush gasped, scarcely able to speak under the heavy scrutiny surrounding him. “Please, I’ve got to see Daylily, just for a moment.”

“Certainly not, young man!” the maiden aunt interrupted sternly. But the baroness silenced her with a wave. Then, turning another smile upon Foxbrush, she said, “I do hope you’ll call me ‘Mum.’”

“Please . . . Mum?” Foxbrush whispered, and his ears burned.

“Why, of course you may!” the baroness said with the most brilliant of smiles. She took Foxbrush by the elbow and led him through the protesting gathering.

“Niece of mine, you cannot!” cried the maiden aunt, appalled.

“I don’t see why not,” the baroness replied, reveling in her power. “It’s their wedding after all. I don’t see why they shouldn’t see one another.”

“Think of tradition!” someone pleaded. But the baroness said only, “Bother tradition!” and flung open the door to Daylily’s dressing room.

It was as empty as an unused tomb, and equally as quiet, save for the gentle breeze murmuring in the curtains.

“That’s odd,” said the baroness, tapping her chin with a fingertip. “I could have sworn she was just here with her goodwoman, getting fastened up . . .”

“If you please, my lady.”

Foxbrush and the baroness turned to the bobbing women in white servants’ linen who appeared at the baroness’s elbow. “Lady Daylily sent me and all her waiting women from the room when the letter arrived for her. Told us not to come back till she called, if it please you.”

“Well, it doesn’t please me,” said the baroness with a sniff. “What letter? When did it arrive?”


“Nearly half an hour ago, my lady. I thought you knew. I couldn’t say whom ’twas from.”

Foxbrush, who had gone a deathly shade of gray, moved as one dream-wandering into the room and across to the window. The open window lead onto a veranda supported by tall pillars hung with stout starflower vines.

A girl would need a great deal of strength to climb down one of those pillars into the garden below. A great deal of strength or motivation.

“Flown the coop,” said the maiden aunt, tsk-ing like a cicada in summer. “And small wonder. That’s what comes of breaking tradition. A groom should never try to see his bride before the ceremony!”





2


IF IT COULD KNOW SORROW, it would weep.

If it could know frustration, it would gnash its teeth. Had it possessed teeth, that is.

If it could know anger, it would tear apart the trembling Wood through which it rushed, uprooting trees, laying waste to all that was green and growing.

But it was a being of instinct, not thought, not emotion. And its instinct said only:

Try again. Try again.



So Daylily ran away from her wedding.

This was her second attempt at a wedding, but her first wedding gown, for though she was the only daughter of the most powerful baron in all the land, not even he had the finances to waste on a second round of matrimonial finery. Not since the Dragon’s coming.

She had never liked the gown to begin with. It was her mother’s taste. Regarding weddings, it was usually best to let mothers have their way, and Daylily had made no protest when her ladies had piled on the silver (she’d have preferred gold) and trimmed her out in pearls (she’d have preferred topaz), and pinched her cheeks to make them glow (she was always too pale these days). The result was gaudy enough to impress even the most critical dignitary from the farthest nation of the Continent.

She didn’t mind in the least when she heard the hem rip, leaving pearls and lace trimming in the clutching arms of an old, thorn-rich rosebush as she passed.

The world existed in a state of balance, or so the wise said. Up, by necessity, needed down. Hot, without question, required cold. Spring thaw reached out to winter frost; midnight darkness longed for noonday sun. And, if one wanted to get a bit spiritual about it, the melodies of the sun must be countered by the harmonies of the moon.

Many would think the balance between Lady Daylily—beautiful, strong, fiery Lady Daylily—and the rather less impressive young man who was contracted to become her husband sometime within the next three hours should please even the wisest theorists. But tip the balance too far in any one direction, and all chaos ensues. Lady Daylily’s equilibrium had reached its tipping point. In fact, she was pretty certain it had flipped right on its head.

The elegant lawns of the Eldest’s grounds, a once fine setting for the gem that was the Eldest’s House, had given way to spurs and thistles, which tore at the bride’s feet as she made her escape. At any moment, she would hear hoofbeats behind. At any moment, she would hear the shouts of her father’s men.

She tore delicate white gloves from her hands and sent them flying like freed doves fluttering to the ground behind her. Still running, she put her hands to her throat and, unwilling to work the clasp, ripped away the necklace of silver filigree set with enough pearls to fill an oyster bed. It shattered, and pearls fell like rain in her wake. Let the ants gather them and take them to their queen. May she have much pleasure from them!

And still, no pursuit. Such luck was too good to hold. Daylily pulled at the laces of an outer corset, leaving it in a heap behind her, and suddenly she could breathe and run with redoubled speed. For the first time since her flight began, she believed she might reach her goal in time.