Dragon Rose(26)
Melynne came then with my breakfast tray. I was glad enough of the distraction, and gladder still that it was the maid who had come, and not Sar. Melynne, though a sweet enough girl, was not blessed with much in the way of discernment, while I worried that the much sharper Sar might have seen my distraction, and wondered at it.
I knew I could never begin to explain myself. How could I possibly tell that no-nonsense person I seemed to be obsessed with a man I had seen only in my dreams, a man who was most definitely not my husband? That, I feared, would not go over very well. By the time I descended the stairs to take my morning walk in the gardens, I should have had a respectable space in which to compose myself. Sar need never know something was amiss.
As for the rest, well, I could only hope the madness was temporary.
The days seemed to fly by. I awoke one morning some six weeks after my arrival in Black’s Keep and realized it was my birthday. I was twenty now, and if all had gone according to plan, I would have been safe from the Dragon, free to pursue my destiny. That is, free to pursue the destiny of being married to whatever man, young or not-so-young, whom my parents deemed suitable.
If I had been home, I would have been greeted in bed with my favorite seedcakes. There would have been presents—a finely carved hair comb from my mother, perhaps a new set of paintbrushes from my father, a clumsily stitched handkerchief from Maeganne, a little brass bauble for my neck chain from Therella.
I had been more or less successful at keeping the homesickness at bay, but the thought of my family, of those homely comforts that were now gone forever, brought stinging tears to my eyes. I told myself not to be foolish, that my life here was better than I could ever have hoped for, but such sensible advice did not seem to do me much good. For the first time in several weeks, I had no motivation to go to my hidden canvas, to continue my halting progress on the strange man’s portrait.
The painting of Lirinsholme, now almost complete, seemed to mock me from its position on the easel. What had I been thinking, to paint the one thing I could never have again? Oh, once upon a time I had scorned my provincial upbringing, wished I could go make my fortune in Lystare, or even brave the great journey to see the capital of Sirlende, the great city of Iselfex, reputed to be one of the wonders of the world. Now, though, I thought I would give a great deal to see Lirinsholme’s narrow streets again, and to hear my mother’s voice or the laughter of my sisters.
But as there was little I could do to change my current situation, and because my mother had drummed into me the notion that sitting around and moping did no one any good and could actually do a great deal of harm, I made myself get out of bed. I dried my eyes on a handkerchief I retrieved from the top shelf of the wardrobe, and opened the windows and drew in deep breaths of the bracing morning air.
On an impulse, I pulled out the canvas of my unknown man and stared for a long moment into his eyes. They had been one of the first things I colored, and their elusive aquamarine depths seemed to look past me rather than at me. As much as I might have wanted to find answers there, I saw nothing but more questions. So I sighed and replaced the painting in its not-so-secret hiding place amongst my blank canvases…but not before I pressed two fingers to my lips and then laid them against the painted mouth of the stranger. Nothing in return, of course…no response save me shaking my head at my folly.
I had not bothered to tell Sar or Lord Blackmoor that it was my birthday. It appeared to me a foolish indulgence in a place where every dinner seemed to be a birthday feast, and where my every wish was granted.
Save, of course, my wish for freedom.
So it was a quiet day, and one in which I did not expect anything out of the ordinary to occur. I settled myself in my alcove and vowed that I would finish that damned painting of Lirinsholme. Autumn was fast approaching, the oaks and elms on the higher hillsides already beginning to be touched with bright color. I realized with a pang that somewhere down in the valley below, Lilianth would be wed to her betrothed very soon.
May she have more joy in her marriage than I have, I thought then, and then chided myself for being so self-pitying. Perhaps Theran Blackmoor was not the sort of husband a young woman might dream of, but he had treated me very well, with kindness and respect, which was probably more than I would have had at the hands of Liat Marenson. That realization made me thank the Dragon Lord for his patience and his regard. Things could have been so much worse. And since I had been careful to guard my tongue and to be as amiable as possible when in his presence, we had had no repeats of that terrifying night when he circled the ramparts of Black’s Keep in his dragon form.
A sudden commotion from the courtyard below made me stop and set down my paintbrush. The castle and the grounds surrounding it were not a place of hustle and bustle; it was clear Lord Blackmoor maintained only enough staff to keep the household running and not more than that. We had no strangers here. Whatever shipments of goods were necessary to the maintenance of the kitchens and the castle itself were brought here by its servants. Wandering traders and the like knew better than to approach the Dragon Lord’s doorstep, preferring the much more hospitable audience they might find in Lirinsholme.
Curiosity awakened, I lifted the easel out of the way so I could better peer down into the courtyard to see who—or what—disturbed the peace of Black’s Keep. The window was open to the cool afternoon air, and so I had only to place my hands on the lintel and lean over to identify the cause of the commotion.