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Jess poofed hair from her eyes as she reached for the rolling pin. The air smelled of cinnamon and sizzling sausage, Grandmama had her hands full with baby Cailin, and Lars lurked nearby, watching everything as if he couldn't believe his eyes, or his ears.
Kia had spent the morning batting her eyes at Lars and arguing with Fyn. Fyn wanted to go home, Kia wanted to stay, and neither would let the other be. Verbal barbs had turned to jabs and pushes, but there were no injuries, at least not yet. Thankfully, they had left the kitchen and taken their fights and flirtations somewhere out of the way.
Her parents were talking outside, and that meant trouble. Jess rolled the scone dough and wished they'd come back in. She didn't care if they stayed to help sell hats or not, (Think of the taxes! Dammit, Dien, how are my folks going to pay their taxes, let alone eat for the next set of seasons? her mother argued right outside the window), but Jess had eggs to cook for nine and the thought of all those yolks worried her.
She flipped the sausages then sliced the dough, sprinkling each wedge with cinnamon and sugar, but she kept glancing at the basket of eggs. Fresh eggs. She had fetched them herself that morning.
A basket full of shells to crack perfectly. Yolks she had to keep whole, whites to flip without breaking.
Goddess, I hate cooking eggs.
She opened the stove and nudged the wood with the tip of her knife, leveling the pile of coals. She slipped the pan of scones in to cook and she wiped her hands. Grandpapa's little dog sat at her feet, his sparsely furred tail wagging in hopeful supplication.
She ignored the dog's pleas. Maybe I should just scramble them?
Aly giggled and squealed, closely followed by Lars growling. Paddle in hand, Jess dodged out of the way as Aly zipped past with Lars slavering on her heels. He caught her when she reached the rug and they rolled to the floor, laughing and tickling.
Jess sighed and removed the sausages from the pan. That done, she cracked an egg on the skillet. It landed perfectly in the grease and started sizzling. She reached for another and looked up, out the window, to see a cart coming up the lane.
"The carpenter's here," she called out.
Lars grinned at her and extricated himself from Aly's tickles. "I'll tell your dad."
"Thanks," Jess said, cracking the second egg. She watched Lars move toward the door, feigning injury and falling to the floor as Aly jumped on him. Laughing, he rolled to his feet and carried her over his shoulder like sack of grain. Out the door they went, into the golden morning, and Jess wished she could follow them.
But she had eggs to cook, damn it. She reached for another then paused when she saw the skillet. The egg she had cracked while Lars carried Aly away sizzled and spluttered like the one beside it, but the yolk was flecked and streaked with blood. Much more blood than a speck left by a rooster.
Grimacing, she slid the paddle beneath it and carried the nasty thing to the dog's dish. It lay there, staring like a bleeding golden eye, Queasy, she returned to her cooking, her back to the bloody mess.
Goddess, what a beautiful morning! Whistling, Lars walked to the barn and shooed a cluster of chickens from his path. He'd woken to conversation and a hot breakfast, surrounded with the mundane quarrels and warmth of a family. Parents, siblings, even grandparents all together under one roof, the very thing he had spent a lifetime wishing for. He had remained out of the way, observing but not interfering in their morning rituals, basking in the moment, the easy wonder of home and kinship. Aly had played with him, and let him tie her shoes.
The carpenter, a broad man with a wind tanned face, nodded in greeting. "Lad!" he called, walking to Lars. "May I have a moment of your time?"
"Okay."
The carpenter looked him over, top to bottom, and offered his hand. "I'm Jak the carpenter, lad, and I'm in need of a good back for simple labor. Steady work, not the occasional odd job the folks here could provide."
Lars shook his head and smiled. "Thanks, but I'm not interested. I already have a job." He walked past Jak and on to the barn. Four young men labored on the barn roof, pulling off rotted roofing. Lars squinted against the sun and waved at them, but they paid him no heed.
The barn door stood ajar, welcoming him in with the warm aroma of animals and hay. As he slipped inside, a flock of swallows startled and fluttered from the beams. Stalls and pens paraded into the dark for livestock and storage. Straw-dusted dirt floor lay between the rows, and a high window let patchy sunlight shine upon thick hewn beams and posts. Far ahead, his horse nickered.
Seeking a pitchfork, he rummaged near the door, searching through the tool-filled stalls and along the rack of hoes and scythes. A few pens away, in a roomy slat walled pen, a very pregnant black ewe bleated, begging to be petted or fed. Ignorant of sheep, he wasn't certain which she desired most so he scratched her ears while feeding her a handful of oats. Afterward he closed the pen door, making certain to latch it, and rubbed his grimy hands on his shirt.
"Who's there?!" Devyn called from the dim depths of the barn.
Lars jumped. Guess I'm not alone after all. "Just me. Lars." He climbed onto a stack of bales to look behind it. No pitchfork. "I've come to clean the stalls and feed the horses. Where would I find a pitchfork?"
Devyn shuffled into the light and squinted at Lars. He held a partially woven straw hat in his gnarled hands, the straw poking out in all directions like a bundle of thin, pale knives.
"Don't you know where they are, boy? Rabbits and wasps! They're always in the same blasted place. How many times do I have to tell you?" He turned down a crosswise aisle. Lars jumped off the bales and followed. Up ahead, two ancient pitchforks leaned against the main support post like a pair of old soldiers waiting to be called to action.
Devyn frowned and pointed at the pitchforks. "Right here, Stuart, same as always. Don't you ever listen?" He wandered off, muttering, "Damn, boy, some days I think you've got sand b'tween you ears."
"Sir, I'm not--"
Devyn lurched around and took a step back, the hat falling to the ground. "Who are you? What are you doing in my barn?"
"I'm Lars," he said, kneeling to retrieve the fallen hat. "A page, from Castle Faldorrah. I came with Dien last night, during the storm. Remember?"
"Pah!" Devyn snatched the hat away, and the rough straw sliced Lars's fingers. "Dien ain't been here and Sarea's about to drive me batty pining over him. Take my word for it, boy, her heart's already taken. You're wasting your time."
"Yessir." Lars took a step away from the old man and winced at the stinging cuts on his right hand. "I will keep that in mind, sir. Thank you."
Devyn shuffled past, muttering about randy young idiots. Lars waited until Dev was out of sight before he grasped a pitchfork.
Grimy black thread was tangled around two of the tines and a broken twig and scrap of ancient fabric were caught in the snarl. Lars pulled the tangle loose and let it drop at his feet. He kicked the snarl away, unsure why the sight of the strange black lump made him uneasy.
Dubric smelled bacon. He rolled onto his back, grunting at the stiffness in his legs, and dragged an arm over his eyes to block out the light.
Still groggy, his mind wandered of its own accord. When had he last smelled bacon as he woke? A long time ago, during the best time of his life. Before Oriana had died. Before everything had changed.
He felt the presence of ghosts throbbing behind his eyes and he sighed, throwing back the covers. Gasping, he yanked them back again.
By the King, he had never in all of his days slept naked!
He grimaced and sat on the edge of the bed, taking care to keep his privates covered, and rubbed his eyes. He opened them and recoiled in horror, seeing Lars's ghostly green face grinning nearly nose to nose with him. His heart settled as he realized that it was the crippled ghost, not his page. It climbed on the bed and sat beside him, bouncing as any child would. Dubric wondered how long ago the child had died. Many summers, surely, to be so corporeal.
He and the ghost sat upon the edge of a worn, four posted bed carved from sturdy, unstained pine. The coverlet he clutched around his waist was frothy lavender and cream. A chair in the corner faced them, a gray tabby curled upon its pillow. Lacy, woven curtains had been drawn back to reveal a morning sky, and cracks and patches marred the cream painted walls.
The woman bustled in with a plate of griddle cakes and bacon. "About time you woke. I'd have sent for the surgeon to check you, if I had anyone to send."
Dubric drew the blankets closer, covering his exposed skin from mid chest to his shins. He had no idea if the crooked frown on her face illustrated humor or concern. "Where are my trousers?"
"Drying." She handed him the plate and sat on the pillowed chair, pushing aside the cat. "I told Eachann's father that he delivered the message and is safe at the castle. He is, isn't he?"
"Yes. He hurt his arm in a fall from his horse but he will be fine." Breakfast smelled and looked delightful, but instead of eating Dubric asked, "How is Otlee?"
"Resting."
They stared at each other and the moment stretched before them in a pork and pancake scented haze. Dubric took a breath. Two ghosts lingered near her, one screaming in the doorway, the other pacing in the hall. The ghost boy slid down and crawled on the floor after the cat. Dubric wished all three would wander off so he could think.
While the cat hissed and ran under the bed, the woman stared at Dubric's hands. "Your ring... That symbol... Do you often strike children in your care?"
Dubric set the plate upon the bed without taking his eyes from her. The idea of bacon suddenly turned his stomach.
She swallowed and raised her eyes to his. "I asked you a question, milord, and I intend to have you answer it."
"No, I do not," he said, smoothing the blanket and drawing it to the pits of his arms. He felt cold fingers tweak the hair on the top of his foot and he jumped. By the King, she has me trapped, and he's tormenting me.
"And yet you struck this one. His cheek bears the mark from your ring. Its leaf is carved into his skin, for Goddess's sake."
At the mention of the Goddess, Dubric's hands clenched. His ring suddenly felt heavy and hot with the duty and burden it wrought, much like it had the day his father had given it to him. "I did not intend to harm him. It was an accident, I assure you."
She stood. "How am I supposed to believe that?"
"Because it is true. You have my word." He eased his feet back, out of reach of the ghost's cold, pinching fingers.
She took a step closer, then another, her eyes needling through him. "What proof can you give?"
"None. I swear I love that boy as if he were my own. When I saw what I had done it ate at my soul. I would give anything to have never harmed him, even my own life, but the past cannot be undone."
Dubric paused, closing his eyes as Oriana's face danced through his memory. By the King, he missed her so, even after all this time. Forty six summers of loneliness had withered him, yet he loved her as if he had last seen her moments ago. When he opened his eyes again, he said, "No matter how we may wish, no matter to the price we pay or the extent we atone, the past can never be undone."
The woman's hands opened and her head tilted. "If you love the boy, why did you strike him? Why with such force and anger?"
The pacing ghost continued its endless journey, but the other no longer stood naked and screaming. He now wore the fitted garments of a scribe and stared at Dubric from just behind the woman. Dubric wondered how long ago he had died. How long before he was able to choose his own form. A few days? A phase? A moon?
Dubric swallowed, pulling his eyes from the ghosts. "My past plagues me, milady. At that moment I did not know my own mind and I am repentant for the harm I caused the lad."
The cat gave him a baleful glare and the woman's hands clenched again. "Your past? Your past haunted you on a dismal rainy night, removed you of your senses, and forced you to hit a child? What a load of sheep dung! Perhaps I should summon the authorities so you may explain it to them."
"I am the authorities," he said. "As a duly appointed emissary of Lord Brushgar, I demand that you fetch my trousers this instant so I may see to my page."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "No."
"Madam, do you have any idea who I am?"
"In his sleep, the boy talked about Lord Dubric Byerly, Lord Brushgar's sheriff. I assumed it was you."
"Castellan," he corrected, grinding his teeth as the ghost boy tugged on the blanket. "As such, I insist, nay, demand, you heed my instructions and fetch--"
"Lord Dubric would not strike a child. If you are indeed him, what excuse could you have?"
He lurched to his feet, holding the blanket at his waist. "The Goddess damned ghosts swarmed me and I thought Otlee was one of them! Now fetch my trousers!"
She took a step back, nearly tripping over the cat, then fell into the chair. "Ghosts? What ghosts?"
Dubric sighed, rubbing his aching eyes with his free hand. Curse my temper to the seven hells. What have I done? He strode to the open door, keeping the blanket between him and his hostess, and closed it in the face of the unmoving, staring ghost. "You are not to speak of this, do you understand? I am fatigued, concerned, and had a weak moment. Nothing more. But I swear to you, upon my very life, I did not intend to harm Otlee."
She looked up at him, fear creeping into her hazel eyes. "But how? Why?"
Where are my trousers? "I see the restless souls of those wrongfully killed within the scope of my care. Last night a score or more set upon me without warning. In the madness I struck out, trying to escape them, but Otlee met my hand, not the spectres. I did not realize he was amongst them until it was too late. Please, milady, you must believe me. I never, ever, meant to harm the lad, only to escape the damned ghosts."
She pressed herself against the back of the chair, and her mouth worked noiselessly before she stammered, "Yo... you're telling the truth. I'll... I'll get your pants."
She slid away and around him, hurrying through the door. The ghost boy chased the cat from the room.
Slowed by his aching joints, Dubric staggered to the bed and fell upon it, tucking the blanket around him. "Damn fool. How could you let the secret slip?"
When the woman returned, she had Dubric's clothes crushed to her chest. Pale and shaking, she handed him his clothes and stepped back to stand by the door.
"Thank you," he said. Although still damp, the garments had dried enough for him to endure them and all traces of mud and filth had been removed.
The woman reached behind her to close the door with a trembling hand, keeping her back against it. "I need to know," she said, scrunching her eyes and turning her face away. "Do you see the ghost of my son?"
Dubric nearly dropped his pants. "Your son is missing?"
She stared at the hinge, her cheek trembling. "Three days now. He went to see my niece, Sarea, and the girls but never came home. Someone found a body in the river the day before last, and I'm afraid..." She turned her head to look at Dubric but remained pressed against the door. "Do you see him? Is my Braoin dead?"
By the King, she is Sarea's aunt. Now if I could only remember her name. "I do not know, milady."
She fell to her knees. "How can you not know? Tell me, please! Do you see the ghost of my son?"
Dubric kept his attention on her as he drew his trousers under the coverlet. "I cannot know if I see your son for I have never met him. Both ghosts are strangers to me."
Her eyes shone and her blotchy, pale skin highlighted the structure of her finely-boned skull. "You said you saw a score or more."
"Yes, milady." His feet fumbled into the legs of his trousers and he dragged them to his knees. "A score or more set upon me in the road, but two currently remain. The rest have departed to their favorite haunts, wherever they may be."
"Was one about my height, dark hair and eyes, with the form of a grown man, yet not filled in? He's thin and wiry, but the muscles will come, I can tell."
Dubric's breath caught in his throat. A slender, almost scrawny build on a grown man's frame, having approached full height but not yet begun on the girth. Like both remaining ghosts, and most he had seen on the road. The culprit preferred boys who were not quite men, somehow capturing and killing them. Young men like Lars. By the King, what have I done?
"Oh, Goddess, you see him!"
Dubric silently cursed the Goddess and yanked the trousers over his hips. "I do not know if I see him or not. One is dark haired and slight of build, but the other is fair skinned and freckled, with curly hair." Dubric pulled the lacings tight and stood, tossing aside the blanket and reaching for his shirt. Undergarments could wait until later. He stared at the dark-haired ghost as he drew the chilly shirt on. "Does your son sport a short beard? Have a scar upon the back of his left hand?"
Air fell out of her in a rush. "No, Braoin's clean shaven with the hands of an artist. He has a scar near his spine though, from when he was a child."
Dubric knelt before her. "Then I do not see his ghost."
She wiped her eyes. "So there's hope?"
"Yes, milady, hope remains." He grasped her hand, finding the tips of her fingers rough and worn. "I will need help to track and catch whoever is preying upon the Reach."
She let him draw her to her feet. "I'll do whatever I can."
"First though, milady, I would like to know your name."
She blushed, bringing color to her face once again, and looked barely thirty instead of the forty summers he had guessed her age to be. "Maeve Duncannon, milord." She released his hand and dropped into a shaky curtsey.
"Thank you Madam Duncannon, for taking in a strange man and a boy during a storm. We appreciate it more than you can possibly realize."
Her eyes grew oddly flat. "Just Maeve, milord. Please."
"As you wish." He reached into his pocket for his notebook, but found it empty. "Did you find a notebook among my belongings? A battered, old, leather bound tome?"
"Oh, yes," she said. She opened the door and he followed her through. "When I cleaned your garments I found an unusual assortment of effects. I put yours in one box, and the boy's in another." She glanced at him over her shoulder as they walked down the hall. "He has a penchant for feathers. I pulled several from his pockets and some were quite beautiful. Lachesis kept trying to play with them, but I put them away. They're safe."
They reached the kitchen and Maeve motioned Dubric to a pair of closed boxes on her table. The cat sat upon one, cleaning itself. "Lachesis! Get down!" she said, shooing the cat away. Dubric did not see the ghost boy anywhere.
Maeve gave Dubric an apologetic frown. "The horses would barely let me lead them, let alone get close enough to tend. The saddles are still on their backs."
"That is not unexpected." Dubric picked up his notebook and sighed. The pages were drenched.
Maeve pulled two cups from a narrow cupboard in the corner. "I thought about hanging all four books near the fire to dry, but I had no idea what they contained. If they were diaries I'd never have forgiven myself for the intrusion."
He opened the notebook and ruffled the pages, splattering his fingers with droplets. "Four? Begging your pardon, milady, but I carry only one."
She set a pot of tea to steep and glanced at him. "The boy carried three."
"Did he?" Curious, Dubric lifted the lid to Otlee's box and peered inside. Three pocket-sized books lay amongst an assortment of coins and feathers, as did a worn pencil, a page's file, a pair of keys, and a library token. Dubric shook his head - Clintte the castle librarian would seethe if a borrowed book had been ruined - and closed the box. "Where is he?"
"This way." She led him from the kitchen to a closed door across from where he had slept. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." She slipped away, down the hall again.
Dubric closed his eyes to the pair of ghosts. The latch felt cold as he grasped it and opened the door.
Otlee lay propped upon pillows with a shallow basin tucked between his arm and his waist. He slept, his breathing sounding steady and strong, but the air smelled vaguely of vomit. Dubric approached the bed and winced when he saw Otlee's face. A leaf-shaped mark cut into his cheek and the surrounding bruise stained the boy's face from his cheekbone to his chin. Other bruises darkened his eye sockets and he had a bandage wrapped around his head. The ghost boy stood in the corner, picking his nose.
"Oh, lad, I am so sorry." Dubric sat upon the edge of the bed and touched Otlee's brow.
Otlee's eyelids flickered and he yawned. "Sir? What are you doing here?" Wincing, he sat and stretched, peering at Dubric through bleary eyes. "Did I oversleep? Why didn't my mum wake me? Why does my head hurt?"
"Look at my finger," Dubric said, holding his index finger before Otlee's eyes. As soon as Otlee focused on it, Dubric moved his finger upward, then to the left. The ghost boy mimicked Dubric.
Otlee yawned again, watching Dubric's finger, then his eyes grew wide. He glanced around the room. "Where are we, sir? What happened?"
Dubric moved his finger closer to Otlee's bruised face, nearly touching his nose. Otlee's eyes tracked the movement without error. "There was an accident and you hit your head. We found shelter in someone's home. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three. Two. Four. An accident?"
Dubric leaned close and gently tilted Otlee's head, checking his eyes, ears and neck. "What is the last thing you remember?"
"Crossing a rusty old river bridge. There was a man with a pack-pony and a little black dog crossing too, going the other direction. The dog was terrified of our horses."
By the King, they had passed the man and dog the previous afternoon, barely half-way through their journey. "You remember nothing since then?"
"No, sir, not really. Vague things. A fence made of old gears. Being cold. You seeing something in the rain. A woman tending my head. What happened?"
"Dien and Lars journeyed to Tormod, to Dien's family, while you and I continued to Falliet." Dubric clenched his hands, pushing past the shame. "While on the road, in the dark and in the rain, I became confused, beset by memories and my own demons. You tried to help me, but in my confusion I struck you and you fell. I am sorry."
Otlee leaned back, startled. "You... hit me?"
"Yes. I did not intend to, I swear."
Panic edged into Otlee's eyes and voice. "But you hit me? You? Sir, how can that be possible? I've never seen you hit anyone, least of all a page."
"I did not know my own mind, I swear upon my life. It will never happen again."
Otlee nodded, staring at his hands. "Yes, sir."
Dubric sighed and rubbed his eyes. The older ghosts flickered and dissipated like smoke, but the solid, crippled ghost remained. "Do you think you can walk?"
"Yes, sir, I believe so."
"And are you strong enough to work?"
Otlee raised his eyes again and nodded. "Yes, sir."
Dubric grasped Otlee's shoulder and met the boy's gaze. "Good. We have much to do today." He paused then added, "If I ever seem out of my head again, acting like I have gone mad, do not touch me. Please, I beg of you, do not touch me."
"It's that coldness, isn't it? It follows you sometimes. I've seen how you hate it, and you usually send Lars and me away when it's near."
A wry smile teased Dubric's mouth. Otlee was an observant boy. "Coldness, yes. That is as good of a description as any, and yes, you lads should not be forced to endure it."
"It's here, isn't it sir? Here in the Reach?"
The ghosts returned. "Get dressed," Dubric said, standing. "Once you have eaten, we need to get to work."