Stray (21 page)

“I thought the candles last night were quite lovely,” Linnea said, her hand tucked into Westerly's elbow.

“They were quite lovely,” he repeated, his voice a deep baritone.

“It was so much better than I ever imagined it would be.” Linnea's beaming face inspired only the slightest hint of a smile from her suitor. “I was disappointed that I didn't get a chance to see Princess Fallenne, though. The headmistress told me she was ill and unable to attend.”

“Yes, I heard that as well.” Westerly turned away from her and looked across the garden. His gaze caught Aislynn's and her throat tightened. His eyes were so cold.

“Her parents were very close to mine.” Linnea's expression was thoughtful. “I should write again and see if we can meet another time.”

“Darling.” Westerly's term of endearment carried as much affection as the word “onion.” “I thought we decided you were going to focus less on the past and direct your energies toward the future.”

“Of course, dear.” Linnea smiled up at him, demure and obliging. A perfect demonstration of Practiced Compliance. “You're right. It's much better to focus on the future.”

“I just want what's best for you,” said Westerly. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes, of course,” Linnea whispered. “I will only think about the future.”

S
omeone far too tall to be Brigid was standing in the kitchen when Aislynn sneaked down after midnight. She wasn't surprised to see Thackery, but she was confused to find that he was alone. He was unpacking small cloth bags from a large wooden box, the final bag expelling a white powdery cloud when he set it on the table. Flour.

When she got closer, she saw that he had an array of baking supplies, from sugar to yeast to eggs. There was even a neat bundle of dried rosemary and lavender, tied up with a cheery yellow ribbon.

“Where's Brigid?” Aislynn asked, and Thackery jumped.

“Hi.” He turned toward her, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Uh, Brigid isn't coming. It's just me.”

Aislynn's palms were suddenly damp. “Oh,” she managed.

Thackery's smile was nervous as he swept up the rosemary-and-lavender bouquet and presented it to her. “I wanted to apologize,” he said. “It isn't as fancy as flowers, but I thought you might be sick of roses.”

“Thank you,” said Aislynn, startled. “What are you apologizing for?”

“For a lot of things, I guess.” Thackery shuffled his feet. “But mostly for how I treated you after I found out you were a fairy godmother. It was unkind.”

“I understand,” said Aislynn, because she did. She imagined that if she had been in his place, she would have reacted in much the same way. “Are you expecting me to bake for you?” she asked teasingly. “Is it really a proper apology if I'm doing all the work?”

Thackery blushed. “Not all the work,” he said. “Think of me as your apprentice.”

Aislynn knew she shouldn't think of him at all. She shouldn't be standing alone with him in the kitchen at midnight, and she shouldn't be smiling up at him. She lifted the bouquet of herbs to her nose and took a deep breath. The scents of lavender and rosemary made her dizzy, and she immediately knew what kind of bread she wanted to make.

“I need to get something from my room,” she told Thackery. “I don't know the recipe by heart.” He nodded, and she could tell that he wasn't convinced she was going to return. She pulled an apron off the hook on the wall and tossed it to him. “If you want to be helpful, you could try lighting the oven.”

Aislynn raced to her room quietly and quickly. She grabbed her journal from the top drawer of her dresser and hurried back downstairs before she could talk herself out of it.

The kitchen was getting warm when she returned, and Thackery had the apron tied around his waist and a spring of lavender tucked behind each ear. Aislynn pulled another apron over her head, hiding her grin.

“What are we making?” he asked.

“Rosemary thumbprint bread,” said Aislynn, opening her journal and flipping through the pages until she found the recipe.

“That doesn't look too hard.” Thackery's breath caused her wimple to flutter against her ear. The back of her neck grew hot. Grabbing a large bowl, she pushed it into his chest, causing him to grunt and back up, still grinning.

“Why don't you do the first step, then?” she offered.

“It would be my pleasure.” He bowed dramatically.

She watched as he carefully measured out the ingredients and poured them into a bowl. Then he slowly, slowly, slowly began stirring them together. It was like watching someone walking through a blizzard.

“Give me that,” said Aislynn, taking the bowl from him. “You don't need to be so delicate with it.” She mixed the ingredients quickly, the wooden spoon an extension of her wrist. When it was blended together, she added the next items and passed the bowl back to him. “Why don't you try again?”

He nodded seriously, his forehead creased as he took the bowl and gave its contents a nice powerful stir. The result was a huge puff of flour that exploded and settled over both of them. Without a word, Thackery pushed the bowl back at Aislynn, his expression sheepish.

She burst out laughing. “It takes practice.”

He shook his head, dislodging flour from his hair and covering Aislynn anew. With a shriek, she jumped back. The sound echoed around the quiet kitchen. Quickly she clapped her hand over her mouth. Eyes wide, she listened while watching Thackery, who seemed to be doing the same thing. When the castle remained silent, she let out the breath she didn't know she was holding.

Thackery smiled and wagged his finger at her. “You're going to get us in trouble,” he said in a low voice.

“This was your idea,” Aislynn whispered back. Carefully she began stirring again, the smell of flour all around her. “We should get the rosemary prepared,” she said, reaching for the herb. But Thackery got to it first.

“It says fresh rosemary.” He pointed to her journal. “This is dried rosemary.” He waved the fragrant bundle under her nose.

“We can use dried rosemary.” Aislynn tried to grab it, but he transferred it to his other hand, the one that stretched out nearly across the room.

“But it says fresh.”

“Sometimes you can change the recipe.” Aislynn glanced at the book. “For example, we didn't have any honey, so we used sugar.”

“Then why doesn't it say sugar in the recipe?”

“Because that's the way my fairy godmother taught it to me.” She reached for the rosemary, but he just raised it above his head. She huffed and crossed her arms. “It will taste the same.”

“Exactly the same?” Thackery lifted a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Well, maybe not exactly the same. But it will still taste good.” Aislynn finally grabbed the rosemary from him. She plucked the tiny leaves, and dropped them onto the dough.

Thackery leaned over to watch. He was very close, so close that if he lowered his head a bit, his chin would be resting on her shoulder.

“Sometimes you need to ignore the recipe,” Aislynn added. She could smell the lavender in his hair.

“Interesting.”

“What's interesting?” She began pressing her thumbs into the soft dough, kneading in the rosemary.

“It's interesting how easily you can ignore some rules . . .” He perched on the counter. “. . . and not others.”

“I'm not ignoring the rules,” she said indignantly as she covered the bread. “But there are times when you have to make . . . adjustments.”

But Thackery's attention was now focused on her wimple. “Does that thing itch?” he asked abruptly. “It looks like it itches.”

The change of conversation was surprising but welcome. “It used to. But now I barely notice it.” Automatically she reached up to adjust it. “Though it does get hot sometimes.”

“Like now?” Thackery gave her a knowing look, and she turned away instead of answering. She opened the oven door, checking the heat. “You could take it off, you know,” he said.

“It's against the rules.” She realized instantly that she had walked straight into a trap. Thackery smiled gleefully as she straightened.

“I wouldn't tell anyone.” He leaned over and tugged at it, but she swatted his hand away. “You wouldn't be breaking a rule, you'd just be making an . . . adjustment.”

She wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, so she gave her wimple a yank and pulled her braid free.

“Happy now?” she said, folding the purple fabric neatly and placing it on the counter.

“Very,” he responded, leaning back on his hands.

Aislynn lifted the braid off her neck. She untied the ribbon, uncoiled her hair, and ran her fingers through the waves the braid had created.

When she looked up, she realized that Thackery was staring at her. Aislynn felt her cheeks flush. She could only imagine how she looked.

Gently, as if approaching a wild animal, he reached out a finger and touched a curl. The heat from the stove behind her burned her skin.

“You have some flour in your hair,” he said.

Aislynn's heart gave a lurch. She stepped away from him and turned toward the oven, shutting the door.

By the time she made it back to her room, Aislynn's belly was full of warm bread and the sun was mere hours from rising. Wiggling out of her robes, she left them in a pool on the floor and put her journal down on top of the dresser. She was about to blow out her candle when she noticed that the journal was speckled with drops of wax similar to those that had dotted her robes and blue dress. Turning the book over, Aislynn found that the back and spine were untouched.

As she tilted her candle to get a better look, it dripped hot wax onto the cover, leaving an identical mark. Understanding clicked into place. The wax circles were from a candle.

The room was suddenly cold, and Aislynn's spine felt as if it was made of ice. Had someone been searching her drawers? Looking through her things?

No. She dismissed the thought quickly. Who would be interested in her belongings? And what could they possibly imagine they would find? An old dress, uniforms, and a journal full of recipes? A hairbrush and scraps of fabric to secure her braid? A couple of slippers and well-mended stockings? Needle, thread, and a pair of sewing scissors? The writing materials had been returned to Brigid ages ago, and none of her other meager possessions appeared to be missing.

The wax must have come from her own candle. Of course it had.

But when Aislynn crawled into bed, she was no longer tired. Suddenly every sound became a footstep outside her door, and she fell asleep with her hands clenched.

W
esterly's proposal came as summer departed. It arrived in the form of a letter, delivered by Adviser Lennard and twenty servants, each bearing an armful of roses. While the monarch princess buried her nose in the flowers, breathing in their extravagant scent, Aislynn thought of the bundle of herbs Thackery had given her. Not only had they inspired the creation of a particularly crispy and delicious loaf of rosemary bread, but they continued to make her smile every morning, hanging in her window.

After Adviser Lennard left, Aislynn escorted Linnea to her room. When they entered the suite, the monarch princess went immediately to her window and stared out across the grounds. She said nothing.

Aislynn busied herself with tidying up, occasionally glancing over at the monarch princess with concern. She had been expecting happy, excited chatter and was surprised at this sullen silence. After a long while, Linnea turned and quietly went to her vanity, where she unlocked a drawer and removed a small cedar ring box.

“Adviser Lennard thinks I should give this to Westerly as a wedding present,” Linnea finally said, opening the box. Inside was a man's ring made of polished silver, set with a large white stone. Aislynn thought that she caught a glimmer of blue in the center of the stone, but Linnea snapped the box closed before she could be sure.