Oh. Wow.
You know, I have to admit we seem to have been thinking along similar lines. I was toying with the idea of the toads being transformed humans but never really saw it through to completion of any sort. The cut and the guts getting into her wound? Beautifully done!
Although now I'm debating Jotz's most likely reaction... which is to do an Oggie Special with an emergency amputation. It being your character, however, I think it best to ask your opinion on that first!!
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Bah. And sure enough I did not sleep well. But I responded as quickly as I could, and I hope it does at least half the justice your last post deserves!
By the way, allow me to say how much I love this line:
By the way, allow me to say how much I love this line:
Instead, with the half lit glimpses, the nearness of him under his cloak, the burst of energy as she attempted to escape his grasp, the glitter and his words about wanting to prove himself and her own safety, all conspired to make him dream-like in day and as real as her own hand in the night.
He lurked within the shadows of the trees and bushes just outside of the clearing's edge. The allure of the scene, the very melodramatic essence of it that he had forged demanded nothing less of him than to wait out of eyesight to see if she arrived. He ground one booted heel into the ground to keep from pacing. God's Breath, how he wanted to see her again! The girl had grown on his mind, overcoming it and swallowing the whole of his perceptions before he even noticed! His flight from the grove the other night had seen him amused at the incident, and if truth were asked he might admit to it all being a passing fancy. He would meet with her... if he had the time. Or the inclination. Yet as the days and nights slipped by, the inclination blossomed more and more into fancy, and from there to interest, and after interest... He found himself distracted from daily duties, forgetting the old thing here and there as his rebellious mind refuse to focus on tasks at hand to instead dwell upon the maiden he had come across in the wood. The feel of her waist had crept into his dreams. So, too, had the gasps and sighs that escaped those lips until he was, only half-asleep, quite sure they were in his own ears. As the night fell and he readied himself for a night's venture, the only gold he thought on was the gold that might be about her neck. Far more to the forefront was the neck itself, and everything both above and below it! And so under the moon and beneath the trees he had come early.
Only would she come?!
Every crack of twig and wind blow rustle raised hope in his heart that she had arrived, only to have all dashed when he realized it was only fair Nature's fancy to trick him. He glanced back over his should now and again to ensure his mount remained steady down the way. The horse, too, was out of eyeshot. It's black coat blended it further in with the shadows, only just barely so due to its immense size. A powerful creature near eighteen hands and all of those hands were of strength and purpose to its master's will. Save that as he had so freely admitted the other night, his gelding was of a wandering nature despite its obedient temperament. In his nervousness, the Highwayman feared the horse might well take to his habit of gnawing through the traces and going for a random stroll through the woods to leave his master looking foolish. His worry was for nothing, at the moment. The black beast calmly stood at the water's edge, feasting upon nettles and drinking from the clear stream.
Movement from the grotto, clear and defined so as to be no trick of the mind, caught his attention. She had come! And lest his senses deceive him, she was as anxious as he! The way she looked about, hand at throat, turning this way and that - it told him much of the state of her mind. He would be doing the same himself had he not schooled his feet to discipline. He had thought to wait it out further after she first arrived, to leave her dancing among the trees to look for him and his promise; now it seemed positively villainous for him to do so. Not that his own ardor had any bearing on the matter, of course, he would tell himself. But as she had come, and come with hopes of her own, how could he not answer in kind?
"Well met, Greensleeves," he called softly from his place among the shadows. And then he ambled into the grotto, dressed all as he had been that first night of their meeting. His voice was dark velvet and thick cream, charming and polite while the rogue's chuckle remained just beneath it all. "I'm glad you've come."
He rose one fitted glove towards her in invitation. "This night is yours. There is food and wine for that which the French call a pique-nique, should you wish. My horse awaits below to carry us towards adventure. I fear, though, I have been somewhat negligent when it comes to music, but should you wish dancing then all the creatures of the wood may be our orchestra with the breeze as its conductor and the trees themselves for its batons."
That hand still extended, he bowed low to her much as he had that first night, a parody of high court that somehow gave all courtesy to Bess and all mockery to himself. "Speak your will, and I shall unfold it to you. And should you wish a name of me? Then call me Reynard, like the fox of old."
Only would she come?!
Every crack of twig and wind blow rustle raised hope in his heart that she had arrived, only to have all dashed when he realized it was only fair Nature's fancy to trick him. He glanced back over his should now and again to ensure his mount remained steady down the way. The horse, too, was out of eyeshot. It's black coat blended it further in with the shadows, only just barely so due to its immense size. A powerful creature near eighteen hands and all of those hands were of strength and purpose to its master's will. Save that as he had so freely admitted the other night, his gelding was of a wandering nature despite its obedient temperament. In his nervousness, the Highwayman feared the horse might well take to his habit of gnawing through the traces and going for a random stroll through the woods to leave his master looking foolish. His worry was for nothing, at the moment. The black beast calmly stood at the water's edge, feasting upon nettles and drinking from the clear stream.
Movement from the grotto, clear and defined so as to be no trick of the mind, caught his attention. She had come! And lest his senses deceive him, she was as anxious as he! The way she looked about, hand at throat, turning this way and that - it told him much of the state of her mind. He would be doing the same himself had he not schooled his feet to discipline. He had thought to wait it out further after she first arrived, to leave her dancing among the trees to look for him and his promise; now it seemed positively villainous for him to do so. Not that his own ardor had any bearing on the matter, of course, he would tell himself. But as she had come, and come with hopes of her own, how could he not answer in kind?
"Well met, Greensleeves," he called softly from his place among the shadows. And then he ambled into the grotto, dressed all as he had been that first night of their meeting. His voice was dark velvet and thick cream, charming and polite while the rogue's chuckle remained just beneath it all. "I'm glad you've come."
He rose one fitted glove towards her in invitation. "This night is yours. There is food and wine for that which the French call a pique-nique, should you wish. My horse awaits below to carry us towards adventure. I fear, though, I have been somewhat negligent when it comes to music, but should you wish dancing then all the creatures of the wood may be our orchestra with the breeze as its conductor and the trees themselves for its batons."
That hand still extended, he bowed low to her much as he had that first night, a parody of high court that somehow gave all courtesy to Bess and all mockery to himself. "Speak your will, and I shall unfold it to you. And should you wish a name of me? Then call me Reynard, like the fox of old."
Oh. Oh, my. Change nothing! Not one word, phrase, or comma! That was a beautiful transition! I love how you set her imagination on fire to the point of distraction! It adds a realism to Bess. It makes her solid and human!
Her paramour is planning to take her on a bit of a lark. With luck, I should have a reply up for you later tonight. Half the ideas are already spilling out of my head, and if I don't respond I doubt I'll sleep too well tonight!
Her paramour is planning to take her on a bit of a lark. With luck, I should have a reply up for you later tonight. Half the ideas are already spilling out of my head, and if I don't respond I doubt I'll sleep too well tonight!
(Laughing) My, that doesn't sound too worrisome!
Clever.
<< CLOSED DUE TO INACTIVITY>>
The Baron did not look at his daughter as she whispered dire portents into his ear, his eyes instead following the path of the curious newcomers as they meandered through the crowd. Their trail was easy enough to follow; the other dancers seemed to give them quite the berth. It was almost as though the dark figure was the Devil Himself! Lord De'Vance pursed his lips in thought as he watched them. Animal costumes at such affairs were often tributes to the people's shared mythology. The Swan Queen, goddess of night and beauty and song. The Great Eagle, god of law and leaders. The Devil Himself, the Cuckoo, maker of mischief and punisher of the wicked. Even the young stag that had danced with Seraphina earlier had a tale of his own. But where did the Sparrow Maiden come into play? The Baron could not recall any tale or legend featuring such a woman. He made a note to address it later with Broadmere.
"Private information," he mused out loud. He was secure in the notion that above the noise of the ball, only Seraphina would hear him. "Private information such as ancient mistakes brought to light? Private information such as records and reports, census and surveys? Something like this must have been planned well in advance, and with such craft as only those most experienced to intrigue might work. It could not have been without aid, however. Which of our enemies is lining his pockets? And to what ends?" The Lord De'Vance scowled even more fiercely. "And why give himself away with copying your designs?"
He looked up to where she stood besides his chair, his heavy hand gently laid atop hers. "Broadmere told me how he came to your balcony to serenade you. I think this man has a fancy towards you, my duckling. Go to him. Ply him with your wiles and see what you might learn if anything. Where he has been in his travels, what plans he has for the land, that sort of thing. Give nothing away. Young men, and sometimes not so young men, will often fall over themselves to show their own cleverness to a pretty face. And yours is far from being merely pretty." His dark eyes narrowed. "Should he think to take any liberties with you, come you straight away to me. I was glad enough to think we were rid of this upstart after little enough unpleasantness, only now your words ring far too true for me to allow for such hope."
The Baron was about to say something more to his daughter, but he was brought up short and startled by another commotion upon the dance floor. "What upon the Earth-"
"My Lords! My Ladies!" The man in the dark Cuckoo's mask stood upon the second to last step of the grand staircase so that he might be seen, his golden wood fiddle held high as he called out to the assemblage of peers. The whole of the attendees and the servants at their beck and call focused upon him as his voice rang out impossibly through the hall. There was something of his presentation that made it impossible to ignore his call. "Cads. Ruffians. Thieves," he continued. Even beneath the mask, there was no missing the glint in his eye. "Whores." A collective gasp went up, and the fiddler allowed them a moment for shock. But only a moment. "It is now just past the midnight hour. Cuckoo's Eve has officially started. No man nor woman may be held accountable for that which they may do until midnight the next night, the start of Lark's Day. Only Murder Most Foul, Theft of Property or Coin, and Treason Most High shall be punishable. This! This is the oldest law of our lands. As the Cuckoo... As the Devil Himself... I grant you leave to your hearts' desires. Now is the time to be... who you truly would be."
The bow was set gently to the first string of the fiddle, playing a simple, single note drawn out as though to draw out every possible vibration from the effort. As he did so, the Sparrow Maiden in her copper finery twirled and gave a single, graceful step as though readying for some country dance. The Cuckoo's song began to slowly but surely rose into a merry tune that sounded like no other the nobles would have ever heard. Some of the older servants frowned as though half remembering something, however, even as the Sparrow Maiden began to dance gently to the melody. There was a simplicity in her dance that spoke of great joy, that some burden had been lifted or forgotten. This way and that, to and fro, she stretched her legs in a fashion the courtiers might well think scandalous. Yet there was nothing sexual about it, not really. At least no more than any pretty young woman dancing might inspire. It was a dance of freedom, a dance of the here and now that spoke little of duty and all of enjoyment. Feathers and fabrics whirled and fluttered in time with the eerily quaint music as the Sparrow Maiden swirled about in an ever widening circle, surrounded by startled nobles and merchants.
It was an elderly aleman, his ancient face line deeply with life and brow heavy with years, that set his tray of drinks aside and first began to clap in time to the music. Tears were streaming down his eyes. The tune recalled something from his youth, something from before the priests and their churches were as widespread as they were now, something that his weathered soul told him was important. A few others, almost all well near the end of their days, took up the beat as well. It was hesitant at first then grew in strength and confidence. The Cuckoo grinned and worked the bow across the fiddle strings until rosin gently billowed upwards in faint clouds. It was not overly fast, but it was vigorous.
The Sparrow Maiden, for her part, began to dance right up to various young men boldly. She favored them with a smile and held out her hands to them. None accepted, instead blushing and stammering beneath their masks. The reward for their cowardice was a chiming laugh, shaming them even as she spun away towards the other side of the circle to try and entice another. It was a game to her, a light hearted jape in which she realized that these young men... these bucks and lions and wolves and mythical heroes of old... were afraid of her. Afraid of her! It was astounding! Unthought of! Empowering! She had to wonder if this was how the Swan Queen felt all the time, to know that all men swooned before her while being too scared to do ought but bend their knees before her. The look upon the faces of the women only heaped wood upon that fire of spirit - they were envious! The look of it was in their masks' eyeholes, in the rigidity of the shoulders, in the firmness of the jaws as they watched the lively young woman in her freedom. They knew as well as she did that, in that moment, she could have any of the men that she wished... and did not have to choose at all if she did not want to! The Sparrow Maiden was not chattel, not a thing to be bought and sold for alliances and family duty. She was free. And that made their envy all the more green.
The Devil Himself raised his head to stare straight at the Swan Queen over the heads in the crowd. An impish smile played at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were challenging. Twinkling like steel under the moonlight, their message was clear: "Dare you dance as well?"
"Private information," he mused out loud. He was secure in the notion that above the noise of the ball, only Seraphina would hear him. "Private information such as ancient mistakes brought to light? Private information such as records and reports, census and surveys? Something like this must have been planned well in advance, and with such craft as only those most experienced to intrigue might work. It could not have been without aid, however. Which of our enemies is lining his pockets? And to what ends?" The Lord De'Vance scowled even more fiercely. "And why give himself away with copying your designs?"
He looked up to where she stood besides his chair, his heavy hand gently laid atop hers. "Broadmere told me how he came to your balcony to serenade you. I think this man has a fancy towards you, my duckling. Go to him. Ply him with your wiles and see what you might learn if anything. Where he has been in his travels, what plans he has for the land, that sort of thing. Give nothing away. Young men, and sometimes not so young men, will often fall over themselves to show their own cleverness to a pretty face. And yours is far from being merely pretty." His dark eyes narrowed. "Should he think to take any liberties with you, come you straight away to me. I was glad enough to think we were rid of this upstart after little enough unpleasantness, only now your words ring far too true for me to allow for such hope."
The Baron was about to say something more to his daughter, but he was brought up short and startled by another commotion upon the dance floor. "What upon the Earth-"
"My Lords! My Ladies!" The man in the dark Cuckoo's mask stood upon the second to last step of the grand staircase so that he might be seen, his golden wood fiddle held high as he called out to the assemblage of peers. The whole of the attendees and the servants at their beck and call focused upon him as his voice rang out impossibly through the hall. There was something of his presentation that made it impossible to ignore his call. "Cads. Ruffians. Thieves," he continued. Even beneath the mask, there was no missing the glint in his eye. "Whores." A collective gasp went up, and the fiddler allowed them a moment for shock. But only a moment. "It is now just past the midnight hour. Cuckoo's Eve has officially started. No man nor woman may be held accountable for that which they may do until midnight the next night, the start of Lark's Day. Only Murder Most Foul, Theft of Property or Coin, and Treason Most High shall be punishable. This! This is the oldest law of our lands. As the Cuckoo... As the Devil Himself... I grant you leave to your hearts' desires. Now is the time to be... who you truly would be."
The bow was set gently to the first string of the fiddle, playing a simple, single note drawn out as though to draw out every possible vibration from the effort. As he did so, the Sparrow Maiden in her copper finery twirled and gave a single, graceful step as though readying for some country dance. The Cuckoo's song began to slowly but surely rose into a merry tune that sounded like no other the nobles would have ever heard. Some of the older servants frowned as though half remembering something, however, even as the Sparrow Maiden began to dance gently to the melody. There was a simplicity in her dance that spoke of great joy, that some burden had been lifted or forgotten. This way and that, to and fro, she stretched her legs in a fashion the courtiers might well think scandalous. Yet there was nothing sexual about it, not really. At least no more than any pretty young woman dancing might inspire. It was a dance of freedom, a dance of the here and now that spoke little of duty and all of enjoyment. Feathers and fabrics whirled and fluttered in time with the eerily quaint music as the Sparrow Maiden swirled about in an ever widening circle, surrounded by startled nobles and merchants.
It was an elderly aleman, his ancient face line deeply with life and brow heavy with years, that set his tray of drinks aside and first began to clap in time to the music. Tears were streaming down his eyes. The tune recalled something from his youth, something from before the priests and their churches were as widespread as they were now, something that his weathered soul told him was important. A few others, almost all well near the end of their days, took up the beat as well. It was hesitant at first then grew in strength and confidence. The Cuckoo grinned and worked the bow across the fiddle strings until rosin gently billowed upwards in faint clouds. It was not overly fast, but it was vigorous.
The Sparrow Maiden, for her part, began to dance right up to various young men boldly. She favored them with a smile and held out her hands to them. None accepted, instead blushing and stammering beneath their masks. The reward for their cowardice was a chiming laugh, shaming them even as she spun away towards the other side of the circle to try and entice another. It was a game to her, a light hearted jape in which she realized that these young men... these bucks and lions and wolves and mythical heroes of old... were afraid of her. Afraid of her! It was astounding! Unthought of! Empowering! She had to wonder if this was how the Swan Queen felt all the time, to know that all men swooned before her while being too scared to do ought but bend their knees before her. The look upon the faces of the women only heaped wood upon that fire of spirit - they were envious! The look of it was in their masks' eyeholes, in the rigidity of the shoulders, in the firmness of the jaws as they watched the lively young woman in her freedom. They knew as well as she did that, in that moment, she could have any of the men that she wished... and did not have to choose at all if she did not want to! The Sparrow Maiden was not chattel, not a thing to be bought and sold for alliances and family duty. She was free. And that made their envy all the more green.
The Devil Himself raised his head to stare straight at the Swan Queen over the heads in the crowd. An impish smile played at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were challenging. Twinkling like steel under the moonlight, their message was clear: "Dare you dance as well?"
The Highwayman laughed out loud at the maiden's jeers and scoldings. Her spirit, no doubt heightened by his recent imposition upon her person, was admirable, and there was no denying that she had a certain amount of pluck. There she was, in the middle of the wood, confronting a man who had already proven himself the stronger between the two and giving him quite the piece of her mind! He could do anything to her, anything he wished! There was little she would be able to do but scream and rail against him. Yet she had the courage to stand there and reveal her mind to him in no kind terms. How could he do anything but laugh?
"Well, Greensleeves," he quipped as he gestured at her stained kirtle and blouse, "if carte blanche is all you desire, then my lips shall guard this little secret well enough. As for the shirt on my back? Well! Happier I am to keep my head on my neck! Although... although..."
He let his chuckle die off as he took her measure speculatively. His chewed the corner of his lip in thought for a moment, those bright green eyes narrowed to slits as he gave some serious consideration as to her accusations. "Although, I am not overly sure if I should allow my honor... and my word!... to be called into doubt. After all, if you doubt my word that any reward I might provide would be worthwhile, how can you believe me at my word to keep this little deception a secret, innocent enough as it was? No. No, I must show you that I am as good as my word and that my word is as good as I am."
A gloved hand dipped beneath his cloak towards his belt and tugged forth a woman's necklace, a delicate rope of gold that twisted in the morning breeze as easily as a strand of hair. It's links were minuscule, finely crafted in every sense of the word. No pendant or charm hung from it, but this did not take away any of its luster and gleam. Draping it across the palm of his other hand, he held it up until stray beam of sunlight caught it. Glittering, it worth was clear. Only the Highwayman was not done. He reached back to his belt and drew forth two guinea , their gold surfaces far more worn than the necklace but no less of worth. It was a princely reward he was offering her. The Highwayman placed the two coins in the same palm that held the necklace to show that there was no trick or slight of hand involved, then held the hand towards her.
"I suspect that, unlike the brothers that you decry, my sort of trouble more than pays for itself, fair maid. I thought my luck had deserted me, as this is the first time among many that I had to take to my heels. Yet perhaps my luck has held its course after all." He jingled the golden metal in his hands. They were then placed on a stump near at hand for her convenience. "Take you these, as proof of my word, my discretion, and my thanks."
He then stepped back, further into what gloom still remained with the deeper part of the wood. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must recover my horse. He's a great black brute of a thing but somewhat absent minded when it comes to staying where he should; he tends to chew through his tethers if I'm not careful." A sudden thought made him pause before he took his leave. "If such trinkets catch your eye as do those there, come you here again in a week's time. Come to me by the light of the full moon, and I'll reward you further. Your maidenhead and liberty shall be safe, I do so swear. You shall have nothing to lose in this... and everything to gain."
With a courtly bow exaggerated to the point of melodrama, he whirled his cloak about himself and quietly hurried off into the underbrush until he was quite out of sight.
"Well, Greensleeves," he quipped as he gestured at her stained kirtle and blouse, "if carte blanche is all you desire, then my lips shall guard this little secret well enough. As for the shirt on my back? Well! Happier I am to keep my head on my neck! Although... although..."
He let his chuckle die off as he took her measure speculatively. His chewed the corner of his lip in thought for a moment, those bright green eyes narrowed to slits as he gave some serious consideration as to her accusations. "Although, I am not overly sure if I should allow my honor... and my word!... to be called into doubt. After all, if you doubt my word that any reward I might provide would be worthwhile, how can you believe me at my word to keep this little deception a secret, innocent enough as it was? No. No, I must show you that I am as good as my word and that my word is as good as I am."
A gloved hand dipped beneath his cloak towards his belt and tugged forth a woman's necklace, a delicate rope of gold that twisted in the morning breeze as easily as a strand of hair. It's links were minuscule, finely crafted in every sense of the word. No pendant or charm hung from it, but this did not take away any of its luster and gleam. Draping it across the palm of his other hand, he held it up until stray beam of sunlight caught it. Glittering, it worth was clear. Only the Highwayman was not done. He reached back to his belt and drew forth two guinea , their gold surfaces far more worn than the necklace but no less of worth. It was a princely reward he was offering her. The Highwayman placed the two coins in the same palm that held the necklace to show that there was no trick or slight of hand involved, then held the hand towards her.
"I suspect that, unlike the brothers that you decry, my sort of trouble more than pays for itself, fair maid. I thought my luck had deserted me, as this is the first time among many that I had to take to my heels. Yet perhaps my luck has held its course after all." He jingled the golden metal in his hands. They were then placed on a stump near at hand for her convenience. "Take you these, as proof of my word, my discretion, and my thanks."
He then stepped back, further into what gloom still remained with the deeper part of the wood. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must recover my horse. He's a great black brute of a thing but somewhat absent minded when it comes to staying where he should; he tends to chew through his tethers if I'm not careful." A sudden thought made him pause before he took his leave. "If such trinkets catch your eye as do those there, come you here again in a week's time. Come to me by the light of the full moon, and I'll reward you further. Your maidenhead and liberty shall be safe, I do so swear. You shall have nothing to lose in this... and everything to gain."
With a courtly bow exaggerated to the point of melodrama, he whirled his cloak about himself and quietly hurried off into the underbrush until he was quite out of sight.
He couldn't help but look at her sidelong as she sank her teeth into the apple's flesh. It made him almost feel a tad uncomfortable, as though he were intruding upon a private moment as she savored every sensation that the fruit had to offer: taste, texture, scent, solidity... Victor's eyes followed the bead of juice as it graced her mouth to trail to her chin. There was the uncanny desire to lean over towards that drop and towards her chin, and then-
Victor nearly had to shake himself physically from that train of thought. That way led heartache and trouble, no doubt. Yet he was certain that in that moment, he had seen Kijani in way that almost no one else had, if ever. The grin that followed proved it to him. Here she was, stripped of the city's veneer and the trappings of wealth and class and revealed to be... a beautiful young woman with a wellspring of passion. No one could eat an apple like that, he reasoned, and have a cold heart. Worse, the grin was contagious. Even as she complimented his produce, a small smile crept along the corners of his lips in response. Pride? No, more than that. It was... pleasing... that she enjoyed something he had a hand in growing, and it despite the dangers he knew lay along those lines he wondered how else to make her smile at him like that again.
"Try eating it from the top down," he advised sagely, "Eat it sidewise like that, it's hard to get 'round the core. Pull the stem and go top down? You can finish off almost the entire apple."
Hope was something of a stranger to Victor. Most of his life there had been just the one forlorn hope, the one his unit had been named after: the hope that you managed to stay alive. There was little room left for anything else. Now, despite however much he wished to stomp it down, another hope began to his in heart, a hope he didn't have a name for. That hope kept him talking long after he normally would have lapsed into silence with anyone else.
"If you're going to stay a month... or longer... you'll be here for the harvest." They neared the house and barn, his hands guiding the reins expertly to let her off near the porch. Victor hazarded to keep the conversation going. "Usually a dance after the harvest, you know. Everyone celebrates for a good three days. And nights. Can't dance myself but... it's usually a good time. For the apples and cider, if nothing else."
Before he could say anything else, Feather came out upon the porch. The young girl was wiping her hands on her apron, smiling sweetly at the sight of the two as they returned from the backlots. "Master Vinegar!" she called, "Me Da stopped by. There's to be a hiring fair in Brindlebank next Third Day, if you're interested in hiring help. And that Master Bandleman will be arriving in Arbordale tomorrow, if Mistress Kijani is still interested in some shopping."
At the sound of Brandleman's name, Victor scowled fiercely. "Oh, he will be, will he?"
"Yes, Master Vinegar," she replied dutifully. It was clear she completely missed the dark tones in which the ex-soldier replied. "He is arriving tomorrow, which is Seventh Day. He'll be in the village for all of Eighth Day. Then he'll be leaving the morning of First Day, that being the day after Eighth Day. Me Da is wondering if you can drive Miss Kijani in, Master Vinegar."
Victor nearly had to shake himself physically from that train of thought. That way led heartache and trouble, no doubt. Yet he was certain that in that moment, he had seen Kijani in way that almost no one else had, if ever. The grin that followed proved it to him. Here she was, stripped of the city's veneer and the trappings of wealth and class and revealed to be... a beautiful young woman with a wellspring of passion. No one could eat an apple like that, he reasoned, and have a cold heart. Worse, the grin was contagious. Even as she complimented his produce, a small smile crept along the corners of his lips in response. Pride? No, more than that. It was... pleasing... that she enjoyed something he had a hand in growing, and it despite the dangers he knew lay along those lines he wondered how else to make her smile at him like that again.
"Try eating it from the top down," he advised sagely, "Eat it sidewise like that, it's hard to get 'round the core. Pull the stem and go top down? You can finish off almost the entire apple."
Hope was something of a stranger to Victor. Most of his life there had been just the one forlorn hope, the one his unit had been named after: the hope that you managed to stay alive. There was little room left for anything else. Now, despite however much he wished to stomp it down, another hope began to his in heart, a hope he didn't have a name for. That hope kept him talking long after he normally would have lapsed into silence with anyone else.
"If you're going to stay a month... or longer... you'll be here for the harvest." They neared the house and barn, his hands guiding the reins expertly to let her off near the porch. Victor hazarded to keep the conversation going. "Usually a dance after the harvest, you know. Everyone celebrates for a good three days. And nights. Can't dance myself but... it's usually a good time. For the apples and cider, if nothing else."
Before he could say anything else, Feather came out upon the porch. The young girl was wiping her hands on her apron, smiling sweetly at the sight of the two as they returned from the backlots. "Master Vinegar!" she called, "Me Da stopped by. There's to be a hiring fair in Brindlebank next Third Day, if you're interested in hiring help. And that Master Bandleman will be arriving in Arbordale tomorrow, if Mistress Kijani is still interested in some shopping."
At the sound of Brandleman's name, Victor scowled fiercely. "Oh, he will be, will he?"
"Yes, Master Vinegar," she replied dutifully. It was clear she completely missed the dark tones in which the ex-soldier replied. "He is arriving tomorrow, which is Seventh Day. He'll be in the village for all of Eighth Day. Then he'll be leaving the morning of First Day, that being the day after Eighth Day. Me Da is wondering if you can drive Miss Kijani in, Master Vinegar."
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