Summers at Castle Auburn (44 page)

“Never know when a little extra cash will come in handy,” Darbwin said, laying an additional stack of bills beside the first. “Even the queen needs to buy something now and then that she might not tell her husband about.”

I leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. “Don't tell your wife,” I said.

He kissed me back. “Don't tell the king.”

The next morning, we rode out to visit my grandmother. We were followed by the twelve guardsmen who had accompanied Kent on his mission and who had been waiting outside the tavern while
he made his proposal. I was delighted to find, among his escort, several of my old friends, including Cloate and Shorro. Cloate was reserved with me, now that I had attained such high status, but Shorro could not have been more pleased had he been the one elevated to the royal house. He rode beside me for the whole three miles and regaled me with stories of events that had transpired in the past year. I laughed till my sides hurt. Kent gave me a sidelong look, and at one opportune juncture leaned over to whisper, “I think I know how the aliora escaped past the guards that night.” I gave him an innocent look and continued bantering with Shorro.

When the royal entourage pulled up in front of my grandmother's house, she and her apprentice were out front, fertilizing the garden. They stared, dumbstruck, as the fourteen of us came to a halt. Kent lifted me from the saddle. “King Kentley of Auburn and his bride-to-be!” Shorro bawled out, and the two women dropped hasty curtseys. Kent gave each of them his hand and offered a grave hello. Milette, at least, looked awed into silence. I waited somewhat nervously for my grandmother's response, however, for she could not always be counted on to behave as one would like.

But she merely accepted Kent's hand and came to her feet and gave him one of her curt nods. “And if you're really taking her to wife, you got the best bargain from her mother's house
and
her father's,” was what she said.

“I think so,” Kent replied. Then he followed her into the cottage.

We stayed for an hour, politely drinking tea and talking, though the conversation was strained from the fact that so many of the people in the room had nothing in common with each other. It was a relief to finally stand up and prepare to leave. I was actually a little surprised when my grandmother came over to hug me goodbye.

“I knew you'd never stay to be a witch's apprentice,” she said in my ear. “He seems good enough, but it's hard to tell with men. You know you've always got a home here if you need it.”

Which was as generous a thing as she'd ever said to me. I hugged her tightly in return and said, “I'll visit. Often.”

She stepped back. “I know you will,” she said briskly. “Now, do you need any provisions for the road?”

Five minutes later we were on our way.

Back to Castle Auburn, but it would not be the same place it had been when I left a year ago. Bryan was dead—Elisandra was gone—the aliora had disappeared—and I was to be married to the king. Not the same place at all.

Unconsciously I dropped my hand to the saddlebag behind me, where I had packed my satchel with all my herbs. I would need an elixir or two to get me through the next few months, I thought, mentally running through the store of dried plants I had brought with me.

“What are you thinking about?” Kent asked. “You look so purposeful.”

I smiled at him. “The brews I'll need to mix up to give me the qualities I need at court.”

“What qualities?”

“Courage. Strength. Will.”

“Love,” he said, smiling.

I reached out my hand to him and he took it—no simple maneuver for lovers on horseback. “That I have without a potion,” I said.

He kissed my hand. “So much happiness with so little witchcraft,” he marveled. “Who would have thought it possible?”

I laughed, squeezed his fingers, and would have dropped his hand except that he would not release mine. We rode that way, handfast, for the rest of the trip. It was the shortest and most direct journey I had ever taken in my life.

My own royal wedding was even more lavish than my sister's, though many of the same people attended and many of the same scenarios played themselves out. I sprinkled myself with nariander for serenity and moved among my guests—my subjects—with a majestic calm. So far, so good.

Gifts arrived from all over the kingdom, exotic and beautiful things—clothes, jewels, tapestries, sculpture, illustrated books, decorative boxes, rare pet animals—too many to count. I opened every box myself, had Daria keep a record of who sent what, and spent the next six months of my life writing gracious letters of acknowledgment.

One box came with my name written on the front but no return address and no card from the sender to be found.

Inside was a box within another box within another, each container progressively smaller and more ornate until the tiny final one appeared to be made of hollowed ivory encrusted with a mosaic of gems. The lid was tied in place with a length of silken cord, and the whole thing weighed practically nothing at all.

I opened it cautiously, and instantly the room was filled with the sweetest of scents. A small mesh bag was nestled inside the box and tied with a red ribbon, and from this bag rose the most delicious
and tantalizing medley of spices. I sniffed several times, trying to identify them all. Some were ornamental, for fragrance only, but a few came freighted with a sorcerous significance. For that was surely pansy pat, for true love, and rareweed for fidelity, mingled with the nariander and stiffelbane I used so frequently myself. I took another sniff.

There was something else mingled with the more lighthearted herbs, something gorgeous and foreign and seductive. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Images of the forest evergreens rose around me in their silent, emerald clamor. I smelled the earth and the trees and the winding, beguiling wild vines, heavy with their summer blossoms. I had a sudden urge to kick off my satin shoes, lift up my heavy embroidered skirts, and run gaily from the castle toward the river, toward the woods.

This was the perfume of Alora, packaged by a master hand, sent to reward me or charm me or mystify me. Who knew? I thought it might be Rowena's way of saying, more elegantly, what my grandmother had said:
If you find you are unhappy with the choice you have made, you will always have a home here.
I inhaled again, greedy for that magical scent, that hallucinogenic wash of primeval exuberance. Then I set the lid firmly in place.

“And who shall we be thanking for this lovely gift, my lady?” Daria asked respectfully.

I tied my handkerchief around the little box and carried it to my dresser drawer. It would be safe enough in the very bottom, at the very back, where I would not accidentally come across it more than twice a year.

“Nobody,” I said. “No reply is expected. Come, let us see what we have received from Hennessey of Mellidon and his bride.”

The embroidered silk tablecloth was much more to my taste, and much less problematical. I sat down that very afternoon to thank the couple for their exquisite gift, and signed my name with the flourish that I had begun to affect:
Coriel, Queen of Auburn.
It made me smile to write such a ridiculous thing.

But the scent of Alora still lingered in the room, caught in the whorls of my fingertips, perhaps, or sparkling invisibly through the
air. I scrubbed my hands three times with the strongest lavender soap, but still the forest smells drifted around me.

“We will finish this tomorrow,” I told Daria, and left the room looking for Kent. I found him fifteen minutes later, reading over his own mail and making a list of people to whom he owed replies. He greeted me with an absent smile, but let me perch on the edge of his chair and run my fingers through his hair while he continued to frown over his correspondence. His rough curls scrubbed away the last clinging scent of Alora; the perfume evaporated into the room. I wrapped my arms around his neck and rested my cheek on the top of his head. I was content.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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