The bridge should have been the most frightening part of the journey. If not the bridge, perhaps the fact the journey had happened at all. That she’d walked in to see the king beheaded, that she’d been spirited away by his killer. Instead, the most frightening thing was standing beside that killer and holding his hand while the clerk on the other side of a simple wooden counter examined their documents.
“It’ll be more convincing,” she’d claimed outside the little office before they’d gone in. She still believed that was true, but it was only part of why she’d asked. In truth, her hands shook like the last wind-battered leaves before winter, and the moment Gil had obligingly twined his fingers with hers, she’d felt better.
Better, like he wasn’t a monster, a murderer, a brute with the dead king’s head in a bag at his hip. At least, she thought he still carried it. He’d never mentioned it again, and she preferred not to think of its existence.
He squeezed her hand.
At last, the clerk sniffed and reached for a wooden block stamp that perched atop a tray full of ink. The stamp just touched the ink before he thumped it down on both of their passports, in addition to a new document he’d drawn from a drawer. He rolled that and their fraudulent marriage license together and tied a pale yellow cord around them to hold the paper shut. “Welcome home,” he announced, his smile both warm and polite as he slid the documents back across the counter.
“Thank you.” Gil accepted the paperwork with only one hand. He made no move to extricate his fingers from Thea’s grasp. If anything, he held her tighter now. “We will need accommodations for the night, but it’s been so long since I’ve visited that I no longer remember where I last stayed. Would it be rude to inquire after accommodations that might serve Kentorian foods?” He tilted his head toward Thea as he spoke, indicating he meant it for her benefit. She wasn’t sure if that was kind or offensive.
“There aren’t many,” the clerk admitted. “Harder to find Kentorian anything now, what with the mess that’s befallen their crown. If your coin’s Kentorian, I recommend exchanging a few for Ranorsh bits before you try and find somewhere to stay.”
“Why so?” Gil asked as he put away their documents. Thea was curious, herself. Kentoria’s currency was minted precious metal, while Ranor circulated notes backed by a reserve. Of the two, Kentoria’s currency was regarded as more trustworthy.
The clerk shook his head. “Lots of rumors, but you know how folk are. Kentoria’s coins sport the crown. Now people say it’s cursed.”
Gil sighed. “That’s one thing I didn’t miss while I was away. All the superstition. Do you have a clerk here who handles the exchange, or…?”
“Two counters down,” the man said, pointing with two fingers.
“Thank you.” Gil drew Thea away from the counter by their interlinked hands.
“Do people really believe money can carry a curse?” she asked in a whisper as he led her farther down the row of clerks.
“People believe many things. Kentorians are given to their own oddities, you cannot begrudge the Ranorsh theirs.” Low as it was, his voice still struck her as loud in the quiet office.
Thea chose to remain silent as he exchanged a handful of gleaming coins for the strange paper money she’d seen only once before. Her father had shown them a handful of Ranosh bills once, when he’d traveled north on business instead of sailing to less familiar lands to the east. She’d never thought much about her father’s travels; they’d been an inconvenience her family was used to, nothing more. Now she thought of the bandits in the Pinch and wondered how her father’s long caravan of wagons might have crossed the mountain range.
A murmur of gratitude from Gil to the money changer told her he was done. He folded the pale bills and stuffed them into his pocket, then tugged her toward the door.
Outside, the evening air was crisp and calm, though the streets still bustled. Farther up the village’s central road, a handful of people worked to set up displays under colorful striped awnings. Thea gazed that way as Gil took a moment to ensure their documents were safely stored. “Is that all there is to it? Getting into Ranor?”
He pointed toward a building near what she presumed was the village center, using the same two-fingered gesture as the man inside. Ranorsh manners, perhaps. Knowing what Gil had shared about his need to fit wherever he was put, it came as no surprise that he’d pick it up so easily. “Yes and no,” he said as they moved in that direction. “We must travel to Ranor’s capital. Of the options, I believe that will be the best place for you to establish yourself. They will expect to see our papers there, too, but we will stay with Rilion until your affairs are settled.”
“Rilion? Your contact? I thought he’d be right on the other side of the mountains.”
“He would have been, had we not been delayed. By now, he will have returned to Danesse. His home is there, in the capital.”
“He left?” She exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“Because we are late,” Gil said simply. “And so he will assume I am dead.”
He didn’t say as much, but she knew that was a problem. “It’s my fault,” she said. There was no point in asking. She knew.
“I don’t blame you. It was my mistake, my failure. I should have accounted for all possibilities, including a strange woman bursting in while I completed my task and then requiring rescue.” The tiniest hint of a smile graced the corners of his mouth and a playful spark lit his eyes.
She couldn’t help but tease back. “And what if I’d been a man?”
“Then I would not be holding your hand.”
She gasped and planted her other hand on his shoulder to shove him away, but he held her tight and didn’t let her escape. Worse, he pulled her closer.
“Remember,” he whispered, “we’re newlyweds. Traversing the mountains allowed you some respite from our farce, but if we are to do all that I’ve promised, at least some impression must be given.”
She leaned closer, her lips a hair’s breadth from his ear when she responded. “Is that why you’ve brought me to a festival?”
“That,” Gil murmured, “was wholly unintentional.”
The striped awnings were only the beginning. Women with tiny flames atop poles lit colored glass lanterns along the streets, illuminating banners strung between buildings. Men stacked logs as tall as themselves in the very center of the village, while children added bundles of sticks between them. Already, people sang, though there was no stage for the few musicians present and those Thea saw clustered together still tuned their instruments.
“It reminds me of the summer-night festivals in Kentoria,” she said.
“I suspect it’s similar. They celebrate the pear harvest.”
Thea covered her mouth to hide a giggle. “All this for pears?”
“Ranor’s favorite crop. They’re a staple here, as much as maple syrups and timber are a staple for Kentoria. Come, this is where we’ll be staying.” He turned her toward a tall building of wood and stone. Its door was open, inviting the cold autumn air.
“I don’t want to go inside,” she said. “I want to dance.”
“We haven’t time for dancing.” He gripped her hand tighter and dragged her toward the door.
She put down her heels. “What happened to impressions?”
“Thea,” he breathed, exasperated.
“You’ll make everyone think you despise your new bride!”
Gil clamped his jaw shut and exhaled through his nose, long and slow. The musicians had finished tuning and began a rollicking tune, eliciting a wave of cheers and shouts from the clustered villagers. He let her go, but held out his hand expectantly. “Give me your things.”
She stared at his hand as if it posed danger, now that he’d released her fingers. “What for?”
“There is little threat to you here. You’re free to walk around as you wish.” His frown was stern, though his demeanor softened a moment later. “I will secure a room for us. We have little time to spare, so use it wisely. I will return after I’ve put away our things.”
She didn’t believe for a moment that he would. Nonetheless, the brush with independence was welcome, and she turned toward the nearest stand to see what the event had to offer.
Beneath the striped awnings, people sold handicrafts of every variety. Some offered fresh foods, while others sold jars of preserves and boxes of dried fruits to last the winter. Judging by how well-stocked they were, setup for the festivities had started earlier in the day. It was more like the events in Kentoria than she’d suspected, then; most folk worked through the daylight hours and didn’t walk the festival market or participate in activities until it had grown too dark to continue labor.
With no money in her pockets, shopping was unappealing, so she turned her attention to something better suited to her needs. She knew little of popular fashion beyond Kentoria’s borders. Most of her clientele had been wealthy. People who had known or worked with her father spread her name in their social circles, his reputation offering a security his career had not. Those sort of nobles sought only to compete with each other, never looking to trends outside the capital, never thinking to introduce foreign designs. This close to Kentoria’s border, she’d expected to see more of her homeland’s fashion. Instead, she saw the pride in Ranorsh craftsmanship Gil had already explained. A problem, if she didn’t adapt.
The coarse-spun woolen fabrics and drab dyes didn’t surprise her, but the shape of most garments did. The weather here was colder than what she was used to, and instead of cloaks, everyone she saw wore thick coats lined with feathers or fur. The cut of them was square and tidy, with straight sleeves and tall collars that folded down to display linings of wool dyed a brighter shade than the rest of the garb. That would be easy to replicate, she reassured herself. Already, thoughts of making her own quality dyes and introducing colors that may not be readily available in Ranor spun through her head.
She was less certain about the trousers. None of the women wore dresses or skirts that she saw. Instead, both men and women wore the same strange, loose-fitting pants formed of a multitude of gathers. Or were they pleats? The shape made little sense, hanging low and full around the thighs and then drawing in snug at the knee so they would fit inside the tall riding boots that matched what Gil wore. Those would take more experimentation. Then again, maybe there would be some who were open to a different style. Something similar in shape but less bulky, maybe made with heavier fabrics or even leather, guaranteed to hold warmth better than what she saw. The density of those gathers meant the fabrics were thin, and just thinking of something so loose and lightweight in the winter made her want to clench her thighs together.
Children’s clothing was much the same. The coats could be a little roomier, the colors a little bolder. Children often preferred bright colors, and everything here was drab. Only the striped awnings and colorful coat colors sported any sort of vibrancy. Dyes were a luxury, then. Used only for drawing attention to the most important things. Collars framed faces, and the awnings represented a livelihood for the families who sold goods beneath them.
After her circuit of the stalls spent looking at shoppers rather than goods, she went around again to confirm her suspicion. There was no dyemaker here; those bright fabrics had to be brought from elsewhere. The capital, she presumed. Danesse.
By the time she was certain there was no one selling dyes, the great fire in the middle of the village was blazing and the musicians had moved farther away, to where they could play without discomfort. People danced in an open field, where the low stone walls that separated the space from the village roads cast long shadows in the firelight.
Small clusters of village folk stood around the gates and near the walls, clapping along with music or chatting amongst themselves as they watched the dancers move. Thea lingered near one such group, observing the steps. The dances were unfamiliar, nothing like the slow, swanning motions in the usual Kentorian three-step. Before long, she found herself nodding along with the rhythm, and it was not much longer than that before a gentleman split away from the dancers to offer her a hand. It wasn’t until then that she noticed the dancers were segmented into groups. There were those who danced as families, a mix of all ages that bounced along in time with the melody, and those who danced in pairs. The movements were similar, but more focused.
She smiled and touched her fingertips to the stranger’s palm, as she’d seen other young women do. He led her into the field and raised her hand high overhead to lead her in the first few steps.
At first, he went slow, giving her time to learn the pattern. By the third revolution, she was confident enough to tear her eyes from her feet. She raised her head to offer a smile to her partner, but her gaze slid past his face to land on the people near the gate.
Gil stood among them, his arms crossed and his face so fraught with anger, she saw his stormcloud eyes through the illusion she’d sewn.
Thea set her jaw and stared back as she went around again. He had no right to look at her that way. She’d done nothing wrong. Yet by the time she completed the circle with her partner and looked toward the gate again, he was gone, and the sudden disappearance made her heart skip and then flutter with uncertainty.
Had she done something wrong? She’d told him she wanted to dance, he told her she was free to explore. That he might tell her she could and then rescind the offer sat poorly with her.
A shadow moved to her right and her partner halted their dance. Her head snapped around as an arm reached past her shoulder to take her hand from her companion’s. Gil. How had he moved so quickly?
“It’s unbecoming for a woman to dance with a man other than her husband,” he said as he turned her toward him and raised their hands together, his hand cupped, her fingertips in his palm.
“Then I’ll be unbecoming.” Despite the anger that still furrowed his brow and set his mouth hard, she stared up into his dark eyes, challenging him to scold her.
“Not of you,” he replied through clenched teeth. “Of me.” He led her through the first turn, his steps more graceful than the first man’s had been.
“You didn’t want to dance.” Four steps right. Two left. Four more right. She looked to her feet again, to Gil’s feet, to his Ranorsh boots that made him a blend of her homeland and here. He fit in everywhere, truly. Even the unfamiliar dance came naturally to him. Or was it unfamiliar? She tried to picture him here before, twirling some unknown woman in the same field. The thought lodged a strange discomfort in her chest.
“I still don’t.” He added a new step, one the other dancers had incorporated when the music changed. Four steps. Two. Four more, and a tap of his heel against hers. The motion brought him closer and instead of resisting, she savored when his other hand came to rest on her hip.
“You’re good at dancing.” Was this what she’d wanted? What she’d hoped for when she tried to get him to dance? She rested her free hand atop his, tracing the tendons from his knuckles to his wrist, sliding her hand up his arm. Four steps, two. Something firm beneath his sleeve greeted her exploring fingers. A sheathed dagger. She shouldn’t have been surprised.
He never tore his eyes from hers. “I’m good at many things.”
“Perhaps you should show me more.” Light’s mercy, she shouldn’t goad him. Her hand lay atop what had to be one of a dozen knives hidden on his person. What more did she need to remind her what sort of man he was?
Without warning, he stopped, staring down at her with a fire in his eyes that threatened to consume her whole.
Her breath caught and her gaze slipped to his mouth. He was right there, so close. All she had to do was rise on tip-toe, to lift her face, to meet his lips—
“You have put off your end of this bargain long enough,” he growled, shattering the moment.
Her heart shattered with it.
“You will finish sewing. Tonight.” He released her and spun back toward the gate to stalk toward the inn he’d chosen.
It was all Thea could do to stay on her feet. “Tonight,” she croaked.
And tomorrow, she would pretend everything was the same.
