Ivy's Choice (The Fey Quartet Book 3) (8 page)

Aleyn charged at Hugh, dagger raised, his face contorted with hatred.

Rauf moved fast for a man in his fiftieth year. He caught Aleyn before he’d gone three paces. Aleyn fell headlong, with a thump Hugh felt through the floorboards. There was a quick tussle, Rauf and Aleyn rolled over one another, the dagger flashed in the candlelight again, the thrashing bodies stilled—and then Rauf pushed up slowly from the floor. He turned to Hugh’s father. “He’s dead, Guy.”

Hugh looked at his brother and father, both standing open-mouthed in shock, at Cadoc, gripping his arm tightly, blood leaking between his fingers, at Rauf, standing over Aleyn’s body, and lastly at Aleyn.

The hatred was gone from Aleyn’s face. He looked handsome in death—the high brow, the aquiline nose, the chiseled features.

Hugh lifted his gaze, and swallowed, and tried to make his tongue work. “Why did he hate me so much? What have I ever done to him?”

“You’ve been yourself,” Rauf said, in the gravelly Ironfist voice. “Which is a better man than he could ever be. And he knew it. We all knew it.”

Hugh swallowed again. He sat shakily in the great oak chair.

A faint sighing breath came from Aleyn’s mouth. His body seemed to deflate, like a wineskin that had been uncorked. His muscles lost their tension and became flaccid.

Aleyn was dead. Truly dead.

Hugh doubled over in sudden agony. His intestines writhed in his belly. His joints seemed to crack open, his muscles to pull apart. A scream tore from his mouth.

MIDMORNING, WHEN IVY
was packing a basket of food for Larkspur, Hazel ducked her head in through the open door. “Mother’s here,” she said, before disappearing again.

Ivy limped hastily across the room. Yes, Maythorn was coming across the meadow, holding up her skirts, running, her hair as bright as gold in the sunlight. Behind her strolled her new husband, Ren Blacksmith, with his six-year-old son on his shoulders.

Ivy stood on the doorstep and watched Hazel run to meet their mother, watched them embrace. She heard Maythorn’s laughter, a joyous sound, and then Maythorn released Hazel and picked up her skirts and ran again. “Ivy, love!”

Ivy hobbled down from the doorstep to meet her. Maythorn hugged her fiercely, laughing and crying. Ivy hugged her back.
Mother
. But Maythorn didn’t feel like a mother, she felt like a sister, a beloved friend.

“I missed you, my Ivy. Very much.” Tears of joy were bright in Maythorn’s eyes. She shone with youth and health. No one, looking at her, would believe that last month she’d been the crippled, graying Widow Miller. Maythorn looked around. “Where’s Larkspur? Where are the dogs?”

Ivy met Hazel’s eyes briefly, then glanced at Ren and Gavain, approaching across the meadow. “Come inside,” she said to Maythorn. “There’s something I need to tell you. You and Ren both. Hazel, stay out here with Gavain. Play with him. He doesn’t need to hear this.”

IVY TOLD THE
tale of Larkspur’s gift as succinctly as she could. The happiness drained from Maythorn’s face. The tears in her eyes were distress now, not joy.

“Tomorrow everything will be put right,” Ivy said. “I shall ask the Faerie to take Larkspur’s gift back. That will be my wish.”

Maythorn shook her head. Tears spilled from her eyes and tracked silently down her cheeks.

Ivy’s throat tightened.
The one gift Mother wanted most was for me to walk again.

Ren gathered his wife in his arms and held her close. The expression on his face—tenderness, love, grief—made Ivy’s throat tighten further. She looked away, out the open door, to where Hazel and Gavain were playing hoodman blind in the meadow.

Ivy took a deep breath, and continued. “There’s more to tell you. Several days ago, we found a roebuck in the forest . . .”

The tale sounded fantastical, even to her ears, and yet Ren and Maythorn believed her; she saw it on their faces—their astonishment, their growing horror. “So, you see, Larkspur’s wish was a
good
thing. Without it, Hugh and Tam Dappleward would both soon be dead.”

Maythorn wiped her cheeks and inhaled a shaky breath. “I want to see Larkspur.”

“We promised her we wouldn’t bring you. I’m sorry.”

Maythorn’s brow creased in fresh distress. “Bu
t—
”

“Your grief would be too much for her to bear.”

Ren hugged Maythorn close again and pressed a kiss into her hair. “You’ll see her tomorrow, dear heart. Once she’s restored to herself.”

Ivy met his eyes and gave a nod of thanks.

MAYTHORN WASHED AWAY
her tears and put on a smile for Gavain’s sake, but grief shadowed her face and her eyes were dark with misery.

“Time to go, young scamp,” Ren said, swinging his son up onto his shoulders again. He looked at Ivy, at Hazel, his expression grave. “If you need anything—anything at all—we’re only five minutes away.”

“We know,” Ivy said. “Thank you, Ren.”

Ren nodded, and put an arm around Maythorn, gathering her close. “We’ll come tomorrow.”

Ivy watched them cross the meadow. Gavain, laughing and joyful, perched atop his father’s shoulders. Ren—tall, dependable, and kind. And Maythorn. Maythorn’s youthful grace was gone; she walked as if she were weighed down.
She looks like Widow Miller again, burdened with sorrow
.

“Thank the gods she has Ren to comfort her,” Hazel said quietly.

Ivy turned back to the cottage with a sigh. “Let’s visit Larkspur. The basket’s ready.”

IVY STRUGGLED WITH
her crutch today. It seemed to catch every tree root, every fallen branch. Three times, she tripped and nearly fell. Her shattered kneecap began to ache fiercely. Frustration built in her. Frustration, and something close to anger.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, halting in a tiny glade dappled with sunshine. “I’m not calm enough to visit Larkspur. I need to rest for a few minutes.”

Hazel turned to look at her, her gaze searching. “Is it Maythorn?”

Ivy nodded, even though that was only partly the truth. “You go ahead. I’ll follow shortly.”

Hazel hesitated.

“Go. I just need to sit for a moment, clear my head.” Ivy began to lower herself to the soft, sunlit grass.

“Here, let me help.” Hazel put down the basket and slid an arm around Ivy’s waist, taking most of her weight, settling her gently on the grass.

I hate being so helpless
. For a moment Ivy almost wept with rage and self-pity.

Hazel’s brow furrowed with concern. “You don’t look at all like yourself. I’ll stay with yo
u—
”

“No.” The word came out sharply. Too sharply. Ivy took a deep breath and forced herself to speak calmly. “I’m fine. I just need a few minutes alone. Please, Hazel.”

Hazel gave her a long, frowning look, and then a dubious nod. She picked up the basket again and stepped towards the trees, looking back over her shoulder.

Ivy made herself smile. “Go.”

Hazel did, still frowning.

When she could no longer hear Hazel’s footsteps, Ivy lay back on the grass. It was Maythorn’s grief, yes, but it was far more than that. It was her lameness, the crutch, Hugh Dappleward, Larkspur, everything. Emotions stewed in her breast: frustration, bitterness, regret.
I want it all. I want Larkspur back. I want Hugh Dappleward as my husband. I want not to be lame
.

But she couldn’t have all of those things. It wasn’t possible.

Ivy took a deep breath, and released it.
Calm. Calm
. She stared up at the sky—blue sky with a wisp of white cloud trailing across it—and listened to the beating of her heart and concentrated on her breathing—slow inhalation, slow exhalation—and waited for her agitation to fade and calmness to take its place.

In winter, when her knee ached almost too much to bear, she did this—brought her awareness back to breath and heartbeat—until the pain became manageable. And sometimes in spring she did it, too, when the flowers blossomed and she wanted to run through the meadow with her arms outstretched, and frustration at her lameness built inside her until she felt she would
burst
from it.

It usually helped, usually brought calmness.

Inhalation. Exhalation. The slow thump of her heart.

Gradually, the bitterness unraveled into nothing. The frustration dissipated like the wisp of cloud was doing above her, fading until it vanished entirely. The regret took longer to deal with. A stubborn knot of it remained, like a clenched fist beneath her breastbone. Regret that she’d never walk freely. Regret that Maythorn grieved. Regret that she’d allowed herself to fall in love with Hugh Dappleward.

But at least Hugh lived. He and Tam both.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Tomorrow we get Larkspur back. That is the most important thing in all this: Larkspur.

At last, the knot loosened and the regret was gone, too. Only calmness remained. Ivy sat up, and reached for her crutch, and levered herself to her feet.

HUGH DRIFTED BACK
to consciousness. For a long time, he was too weary to open his eyes.
Why am I so tired?
Memory escaped him; he knew he was exhausted, but not why.

Finally, he mustered the energy to lift his eyelids.

He was in his own bed, in his own room. His father sat on a stool alongside the bed, his face weary and unshaven. Sunlight streamed through the open window. The shadows it cast told Hugh that it was late afternoon.

Memory grudgingly returned. Nighttime. His father’s work chamber. Aleyn.

“What happened?” Hugh whispered. His voice was hoarse, his throat painfully raw.
I’ve been screaming again
.

His father’s head jerked up. “Hugh!” He pushed hastily off his stool and leaned over the bed and gathered Hugh in his arms as if he were a child again. “Son . . . Oh, gods,
son
.”

Hugh tried to return the hug, but his arms had no strength in them.

His father laid him carefully back on the bed and returned to the stool, wiping moisture from his eyes. “I began to fear you’d never wake.”

“What happened?” Hugh whispered again.

His father grimaced and looked away and rubbed one hand over his face, making the stubble rasp. “When Aleyn died, you changed into a roebuck again, and then back into yourself, and then into a roebuck . . . A dozen times at least. Gods, you were screaming! Woke the whole manor. You fainted before it ended, else you’d have woken the whole vale. I thought you were dying . . .” Guy Dappleward swallowed, and rubbed his face again.

“I’m fine,” Hugh whispered hoarsely. He found the strength to untangle one arm from his bedclothes and reach out and take his father’s hand.

“When your mother died, I felt helpless,” his father said, in a low voice. “But this was a thousand times worse. You were in such pain and there was nothing I could d
o—
” His voice cracked. He swallowed again, hard.

Hugh tightened his grip on his father’s hand. “Father, I’m unharmed.”

His father reached out and stroked the hair back from Hugh’s brow, as if he were six years old, not twenty-six. “Thanks be to the gods—and Widow Miller’s daughters.”

Ivy
.

Hugh let go of his father’s hand and tried to raise himself up on one elbow. “Father, I have to go to Dapple Bend. I need to speak with Ivy Miller.”

“Not today.” His father pushed him gently back down onto the mattress. “Not for several days. You’re as weak as a newborn kitten. You’d fall right off your horse.”

“But I have to see Ivy Miller!”

“You shall. And so shall I. I need to thank those girls personally.” Guy Dappleward stood, tall and lean, and bent over the bed and stroked Hugh’s hair again and kissed his brow. “I’m glad to have you back, son. More glad than I have words for.” And then he straightened and cleared his throat, and blinked several times, and said, “I’ll fetch you some broth. And tell Tam and Cadoc you’re awake. They’re desperate to see you, been haunting this room all day.”

IVY’S TWENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY
dawned clear. She packed bread and cheese into a basket, and her sewing. “I’m going to the bluebell dell,” she told Hazel. “To wait for her.”

“I’ll carry the basket.”

“She won’t come if you’re with me. She only came when you and Larkspur were alone.”

“I’ll carry the basket and then leave.” Hazel’s tone brooked no protest. “It’s hard for you with the crutch, carrying something.”

And it always will be.

The words echoed in the small room, as if they’d been spoken aloud. Or was she the only one who thought them?

No, Hazel’s lips were compressed; she was thinking the same thing.

“I shall be glad to have Larkspur back,” Ivy said, turning away and limping to the door. “And Bess and Bartlemay. The cottage is so empty without them.” It would be even emptier soon. Hazel would be gone, married to Tam.

Tam, whose brother was Hugh.
No, don’t think about Hugh, either,
Ivy told herself as she hobbled over the doorstep.

They crossed the meadow and entered the trees. Glade Forest was cool, green, quiet. At the bluebell dell, Hazel set down the basket and hugged Ivy. “I love you,” she said, her voice tight, as if she was trying not to cry, and then she released Ivy and turned and ran back along the path.

Ivy lowered herself awkwardly to sit. She unpacked her sewing, threaded the needle, and bent her concentration to placing the stitches. Her thoughts tried to bend themselves in directions she didn’t want them to go, but by focusing absolutely on each stitch, on its placement, on the tautness of the thread, she managed to hold them back.

Morning ripened slowly towards noon. The dew dried on the bluebells, bees buzzed and hummed, the breeze grew warm—and Ivy sewed calmly and methodically.

When the sun was high overhead, she laid aside her sewing and ate a slice of bread with cheese, and then sat for a long moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of the dell—the rich blue flowers, the lazy murmur of insects, the breeze bearing mossy forest scents. Somewhere, a squirrel chittered.