Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (26 page)

Dayn
slipped past while Kessa hesitated on the doorsill. After a moment,
Iathor realized Kessa's shoes were unsuited to the light rain that'd
started. He pondered carrying her, and whether that could be
accomplished with any grace . . . It seemed unlikely.
Brague would be able to, though having one's servant carry one's wife
to the carriage bruised the pride. Iathor took a breath to ask
Kessa's opinion, then saw his dramsmen were laying out rugs –
not so fine and long as the ones the city-prince had likely provided,
but clean enough for dainty, white slippers, and close enough for
only tiny skips over the gaps.

Iathor
helped Kessa into the carriage as the two dramsmen gathered the rugs
back. Inside, Viala helped Kessa arrange the skirts so nothing was
crumpled beyond repair. He looked at the arrangement and frowned.
"How did all four of you come in the city-prince's carriage?"

Kessa
looked around. "I think it was bigger. Laita sat next to me."

Iathor
swung himself into the compartment, onto the seat opposite Kessa. "I
should've secured it for the return trip." He shifted his legs
as Brague passed in the rugs, and supposed he should've waited till
they'd been returned to the compartments beneath the seats. Viala
perched on his bench, tucked into the corner, and watched out the
window.

"A
point to keep in mind if you find anyone more suitable, and must go
through all this again," Kessa said, tossing her head gently.

He
almost reminded her that high marriages could only be annulled by
royalty, before he realized the jest. He snorted. "A point to
mention to our children, so they may avoid the oversights of their
parents."

Incandescens
Stones shone through the windows, catching a strangely blank
expression on her face; the light faded as the carriage moved past.
"An advantage to smaller weddings," she said, voice
distant.

"Or
wider carriages." He slid a foot out in the darkness, till he
bumped one of Kessa's.

"The
city-prince's took four horses to pull. You'd need bigger stables."
She shifted her foot slightly, and he gently pressed his boot against
her slipper.

"I
suppose that's true. And more feed."

"More
work sweeping up after them."

"Perhaps
smaller weddings are better than larger carriages," he said.

Another
Incandescens Stone lamp-post shone into the compartment, and caught a
little smile on her face. "I win?"

"Indeed."

"Ah."
She didn't say anything further – but didn't move her foot
away, either.

The
ride was long enough for Iathor to revise his initial fantasies, of
the pair of them side by side, to him taking her foot into his lap
and rubbing it along the way. If it not for Viala's silent presence,
he would've. Even with the child beside him, Iathor began considering
whether foot massages would truly be an improper display. He was well
on the way to justifying it when the horses finally turned and pulled
the carriage over a familiar set of bumps.

When
the door opened, Viala got out first. Iathor followed, then helped
Kessa down. She seemed to need the aid, for a change.

Tania
waited at the door. "There's a light supper in the sitting room,
and you're to get out of at least some of those fancy clothes for it,
m'lord." She smiled at Kessa. "M'lady."

"Thank
you," came her faint reply, which Iathor echoed more firmly.

Tania
frowned. "And you've probably neither one eaten enough. Well.
Large breakfast tomorrow, if I'm not told to bring more dinner."
She bustled off kitchen-ward.

Iathor
took a different turning, that let them out in the house's main hall,
before heading for the stairs. He slowed to let Kessa tuck up her
various skirts, and held a hand behind her lest she trip over any of
them. Her veils flowed behind her head. "How many layers is
that?"

"Four,"
she said. "I can get out of two of them myself."

"Perhaps
these boots are less irksome than I'd thought, comparatively."

"They're
very fancy boots."

"And
I look a right fool in them, not being descended from marchlords like
the city-prince, mm?"

"Less
than I look in finery like this." She let the hems fall back
around her ankles, at the top of the stairs.

"You
don't look any kind of fool," he said, leading her to the
suite's door. He opened it for them. "You move in that as if you
were the city-prince's own lost child."

She
paused, just over the threshold. Breathlessly, she asked, "Is
that a good thing?"

Iathor
smiled down at her, though she wasn't looking up. "A good thing
when you do it, yes."

"I . . .
I'm . . . supposed to . . ." She
brushed at her veils.

He
escorted her to the sitting room's right-hand door. "Your room.
Which I am barred from, save by your leave. I . . . do
hope you emerge for dinner. Will you need Viala? Or is she lying in
wait already?"

Kessa
pushed the door open, looking inside. From what Iathor could see,
it'd been rescued from being storage space, but Loria'd not yet
changed the wall fabric or bed curtains from the blues his mother'd
favored. Kessa said, "I don't see her. I'll . . .
be right out." She stepped inside and closed the door.

Iathor
reminded himself how long the accursed boots had taken to put
on
and hastened to take them
off
, picking at each button.

To
his satisfaction, he'd enough time to rid himself of the tabard as
well, and when he glanced into
his
room, saw a plainer tunic
and outer robe had been laid out.

Changing
was a hasty business, and he hid the discarded clothing in the bottom
of the wardrobe for later tidying. He got back to the sitting room in
time to see Kessa open her own door.

The
veils were gone, along with the wire head-piece, and her hair hung
down in a braid in back, with abbreviated side-sweeps; he could see
the gold wire gleaming in her ear, where alchemists and herb-witchs
traditionally wore wedding rings lest metal or wood react with a
preparation. The true ring still waited on its ribbon around her
neck, a golden gleam on the white of her high-necked, sleeveless
dress. Her feet were bare. She'd her eyes down, and turned her head
toward the fire in the large hearth while he stood and stared.

White
and dark copper, with black and gold accents, like a carved statue.
No matter that her lines were thin and straight, rather than the
curves the noblewomen sported. She was his, and herb-witch, and
immune, and Iathor was sure he'd find her blazing temper again if
only he looked in the right ways.

He
managed to keep himself from being anything less than a gentleman as
he walked over, guiding her to one of the two chairs by the table.
"This is the best chair." He settled her into it. "The
one across is the second best chair. And the couch is . . ."

"For
irksome husbands?"

"Is
it so obvious? I should worry." He uncovered the tray upon the
table.

It
didn't make her laugh as he'd hoped. He only got a nervous smile
before Kessa addressed herself to her soup. He did likewise,
carefully, lest an unwary swallow interfere with breathing and shreds
of dignity.

She
put down her bowl first, perhaps half finished, and the bread even
less. Iathor took another spoonful, in case she was merely pausing,
before he set his aside. "My lady wife?"

"I . . .
I suppose I'm not hungry."

The
chair creaked as he stood. He held out his hands. "Then, will
you join me, my lady wife?" he said, as he had so many times in
daydreams.

For
a moment, she hesitated. Then she put her hands in his, whispering,
"Yes."

He
led her into his bedroom, and let her pause at the door, her head
twitching as her gaze darted about the wood-paneled room. The
Incandescens Stone at the table by the bed, dimmed by multiple
shutters of colored glass and a final outer one of metal to shield it
entirely. The tall bed itself, with the curtains tied back and covers
turned down to show pale sheets. Wardrobe, chair, mirror . . .
A door into a water-closet, edged in worn felt so any odor that got
past the clae would be trapped away from the bedroom itself.

On
the table, he noticed, was a glass jar filled with shimmering,
greenish liquid. He grunted thoughtfully, then had to catch Kessa as
she nearly tripped, hurrying toward it. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yes."
She almost laughed. "I'm fine. That's . . . mine.
The brew I was working on."

"Now
I'm worried." He watched as she picked it up.

"Don't
be." She held it a moment, then drank – swallow after
swallow, as she'd once drunk the Tryth-laced tea that'd proven her
immunities.

"Will
you tell me what that is, now?" he asked when she lowered the
nearly-empty jar, moving to stand behind her.

Kessa
took several breaths to answer. "Conception potion. I found the
recipe at the hospice."

Oh.
That perhaps explained the tastes he'd wondered about. "Kessa . . .
You didn't have to brew that."

"I
did." She set the jar down, unsteadily. "I can't get all
these buttons myself."

Iathor
ran his hand across her back, feeling the tiny things. "Let me
help."

"I
think that's supposed to be the idea." She gave a shaky, breathy
laugh, and braced her hands on the table as he picked at buttons, one
by one, and folded back the dress.

The
one underneath had ribbons that laced down from her neck, ending in
the most inconvenient place below her shoulder-blades. In front,
another came up to her waist, tied there. He undid both flattened
bows and pulled the top ribbon free entirely before loosening the
lower one. He could push the fabric down her arms a little, now, and
run his hands over her bare back.

Her
ribs moved with her breathing. Her skin was like delicately stained
wood, but warm and supple under his hands. He'd feared she might have
scars, but felt none of note. She gasped when he slid his hands
against her ribs. He nuzzled the back of her neck, with her braid
against his cheek. "Mm?"

"My-my
arms. I can't . . ." Her voice held muted alarm.

He
looked up; the dresses had slipped down to her elbows. "Here,"
he said, and stroked down her arm to push the fabric off, freeing
first one hand and then the other, at the end. She only moved her
hands from the table briefly, left and right, to let the dresses fall
free before clinging to the table's edge again. "Kessa," he
said, meaning to suggest that she lie upon the bed and let him soothe
the tension from her back.

Her
voice was a rough, quick whisper. "Just get it over with."

"Kessa,"
he complained gently against her shoulder, his hands at her narrow
hips, just above where the dresses had caught. "We're not
animals in rut. I've learned a
few
things from my reckless
youth." Deliberately; his father'd said that if Iathor was going
to spend coin on Cym's courtesans, he should gain skill, not just
momentary satisfaction.

"I . . .
It's not that." She'd gone tense, and not in any good way. "Just
get it over with."

Of
all times for her to be contrary, as he'd feared . . .
"Spending time is much nicer," he said, sliding his arms
around her waist. He let one of his hands slip downward, gently
pushing the dresses free.

As
the fabric rustled to the ground, and his hand brushed her leg, she
choked out, "No!" Her shoulders jerked with some stifled
movement. "Don't . . ."

He
froze as well, carefully pulling his hands up and around, to just
touch her back.
Blight it. Did more than torn clothes happen in
that attack? Gently, gently . . .
"We don't
have to do this tonight."

"I-I
don't know how long the potion will last."

"People
get children without potions. There's no obligation to plant one on
the wedding night." He tried stroking her shoulder-blades
lightly. "Nor even to try, for that matter."

"Blight
it," she nearly wept. "I didn't spend so long brewing,
moon-steeping . . . Not to
waste
it!"

"You
were expecting it to be a
chore
, to come to my bed?" He
should've bitten his tongue, he knew, as soon as he'd spoken.

She
reined in the emotion in her voice, if not the intensity. "I
know what I am. I don't want . . . to become the
chore."

Iathor
supposed the thought of being
bred
without passion might be as
heart-killing to her as he found the idea of taking her without even
trying to give pleasure. "Have I ever given you reason to think
I don't want us to
enjoy
each other? Do I kiss you from duty
alone?"

"I
don't know." She sounded as lost as a child in the night.

"Then
let me prove my sincerity." He slid his hands down her back
again, toward her hips, thinking of stroking her belly, slowly moving
to breasts, and perhaps then try lower . . .