Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(8)

Foxbrush hadn’t made a peep since.

Now he sat in that same corner of the baron’s study, still clad in Tortoiseshell’s jacket, and the light outside was waning so that maids were summoned to light the lamps and, alas, the fire, though it was far too hot and Foxbrush’s chair far too near the blaze. He contemplated the merits of either removing the jacket or relocating his seat. Both ran the risk of calling attention to his corner, however, so he remained where he was, sweating, his hands pressed over his rumbling stomach.

A series of people, both common and courtly, progressed under the baron’s scrutiny. First Daylily’s goodwoman, who could only repeat what she had told the baroness already: A certain letter had arrived for her lady and, upon receiving it, her lady had sent everyone from the room.

“And you did not find this strange?” the baron asked.

“Oh no, your grace,” the goodwoman replied. “My lady has often done as much. She likes her privacy.”

The baron chewed on that information, asked a few more curt questions, and dismissed the goodwoman. Foxbrush heard him muttering to himself, “Who could have sent the letter? What might it have contained?”

Foxbrush, no matter how deeply he searched, could not find the courage to provide that information. He sat and sweltered and starved, wishing with a general sort of vagueness that he had never been born.

Late in the day, the baron’s captain of the guard entered, ushering a group of ragged characters, both men and women, before him. Who could they be? Rebels? Outlaws? Brigands? And what could they possibly add to the sorry story unfolding?

“Groundskeepers, my lord,” the captain said, which was a bit of a letdown. Like captives, the six or seven individuals arranged themselves before the baron, heads down, hands clasped. They were of all ages, from just past childhood to quite elderly, but each shared a certain rough-cut freshness indicative of those who work soil and tend green growth for a living. They also looked surprisingly guilty.

“Why have you brought these to my attention?” the baron asked in the same tone a schoolmarm might ask a student about a wormy apple.

“These people, my lord, are the last to have seen your daughter today. At least, so they claim.”

“Groundskeepers?” The baron raised his eyebrows, which made his eyes look bigger still. Then, as though performing a task distastefully beneath his dignity, he addressed those gathered. “All right, speak up. Where did you see the Lady Daylily?”

A woman who appeared to be the leader of the group stepped forward, touching her forehead and scraping respectfully. “My lord,” she said, “we’re keepers of the South Stretch grounds down near Swan Bridge, and we were taking our ease on this day of happiness—”

“Get to the point.”

Stoneblossom, for it was she, cleared her throat and spoke as clearly as she could through her nerves. “We saw her ladyship, dressed in her wedding clothes, making her way rather quick-like on the path to Swan Bridge.”

“Alone?”

“As far as we could see, my lord. Which was pretty far, I might add.”

“And how did you know it was the Lady Daylily?”

“Oh, it’s hard to mistake her ladyship! There’s not another maid in Southlands boasts a head of ginger hair like hers! Not as would be dressed in pearls and silks.”

There was no denying this. Among the dark and dusky Southlander complexions, Daylily’s pale skin and fiery hair stood out like a lighthouse beacon.

“And you did not see where she went?” the baron asked.

“I did, sir!” a boy of thirteen or so spoke. “I followed her!”

“Cheek,” said Stoneblossom and would have cuffed him had not the baron interceded.

“Let him speak.”

“I followed her, and I saw her leave the path to Swan Bridge and cut across a field to the old Grandfather Fig what used to stand on the gorge edge, but which is now a stump, your grace-ship,” said the boy.

“Your lord, you dolt,” Stoneblossom growled, but again the baron ordered peace. “Go on, boy,” he said.

“Well, she stood there a moment; then she started to take off her skirt.”

If someone had breathed in the silence that followed, the room might have exploded. Foxbrush did not even move to wipe away the sweat that dripped into his eyes.

The baron at last said, “And what did you do?”

“Oh, I turned me back, your grace-lord,” said the boy. “Me mum may be a washer, but she brought me up right. And when I did look again, the lady was gone. Leaving her skirts behind her.”

“Gone, you say?”

“That’s right. It’s my thinkin’ that she went over the edge, down to the Wilderlands.”

“You’re daft, Tuftwhistle!” Stoneblossom snapped and snatched at his ear, though he eluded her hand. A look from the baron stilled them both. Then he turned to his captain.

“Have you any corroboration?”


“Indeed, my lord, we were able to follow a clear trail left by the lady all the way to the very place the boy indicated.” The captain snapped his fingers, and his men entered, each bearing some token: a pair of lace gloves, a coronet, a necklace in pieces, a jeweled belt, an outer corset, and the ruins of a heavy overskirt in shimmery silver and silk. The remains of Daylily’s wedding gown. Foxbrush paled at the sight, then blushed at the shocking mental image of Daylily in her underdress, however sumptuous it might be. That would be at least as bad as a gentleman appearing publicly in his shirt-sleeves!