Page 8 of Strange Grace
“I was.”
Mair leaned up onto her knees. “You’re the saint, always and forever. My father...” She could say no more, but John Upjohn seemed to understand.
“I’ll try,” he promised wearily, “for the daughter of Carey Morgan.”
“None have survived and stayed,” the lord said, studying not John, but Mairwen. She studied him back, staring at his face, warm and sunny even in these shadows.
“Please,” she said, “let him stay.”
With no word, the lord stood and went to Aderyn. Vaughn touched the back of Aderyn’s hand. “Keep him alive, then, Grace witch,” he said, and swept out.
Mairwen did not sleep again that night, though her mother refused to acknowledge anything odd had occurred, and John curled back again into the blanket nest, head tucked into Mairwen’s warm embrace.
She can’t help but think of it now, as she drags at the iron gate of the manor with all her weight, because it’s three years since the last Slaughter Moon and the bargain is failing. The only change she knows of is John Upjohn both surviving and staying.
At her urging. At her plea.
And Rhun Sayer might pay the price of it, too soon.
The iron squeals open and she pounds on the cold wooden door with her fist. “Lord Vaughn!” she yells. “Are you here? You’re needed! My mother, Aderyn Grace, sent me!”
Her words echo around the stone archway. Mair waits, pressing her back to the door. The manor shelters her from wind, and she can see the southern edges of the sunset against the mountain slope, and far beyond it, the next mountain all green dark shadow and lightning-strike of white peak. Beyond that, she imagines another peak and another, in a long string of mountain range, or if she sends her thoughts even farther, the plains of farmland they’re told lead to a vast river and the first of the great cities. Sometimes in the spring, a cart and horse makes its way along the narrow passages through these mountains to their valley, led by a trader who knows Lord Vaughn’s name, and they tell stories of the cities and kings and vast church government. Less often, a person stumbles into Three Graces to stay, like Rhun’s mother. Refugees or orphans or folk seeking they’re never sure exactly what, until they land here. Even more rarely a person leaves, never to return.
Mairwen’s mother says someday Arthur Couch will leave, because he burns too hot for Three Graces. But Mair suspects Arthur burns too hot for all the world. She can imagine him, though, far away from here, past those large mountains and surrounded by others to fight.
The thought of him gone sours her tongue.
It strikes her how quiet it is here at the lord’s manor: unlike every step of the valley, where you can hear birdsong or the clang of Braith Bowen’s hammer and anvil or complaining sheep at all times. Even at night, the wind seems to chitter and chat.
But here it’s silent.
Perhaps Vaughn has not come home, because it’s not supposed to be a saint year. Perhaps he reclines in an elegant city house, with oranges and fancy wine, with that lover of his, reading a book and not thinking at all that he’s needed here four years early. But no—she saw smoke lift off his chimney this afternoon.
Against the small of her back, the handle twitches as someone on the other side unlocks it.
Whirling, she’s ready when the door pushes out, and there stands the lord in elegant black with his face clear toward the sun. It catches his miscolored eyes, making them clear as glass.
Vaughn slides away to allow Mairwen entrance to the small foyer. She does, and he quickly shuts them into darkness. The only light comes from the hallway to her left, just a flicker of fire.
“Lord Vaughn,” she says, offering an awkward curtsy.
“Mairwen Grace,” he says, smooth and relaxed. “Welcome to my home.”
He sweeps past her and leads her toward the firelight.
The hallway is broad enough for two abreast and built with no windows and the candle alcoves are empty. Some tapestries warm the walls, dark, bold floral patterns woven into them. Vaughn takes her past two closed doors and then down three shallow stairs into a warm room with wooden rafters and limewash to brighten the walls. The shutters on two tall windows are drawn, but a small fire burns in the great wide hearth she remembers from her visits with Aderyn. A wingback chair rests near the fire, surrounded by stacks of books, and she spies a small writing desk and an entire shelf of ink bottles and pens.
“Sit if you will,” he instructs, pointing at a three-legged stool with a velvety cushion, then at a small sofa with gilded legs shaped like talons. She perches on the stool with her hands on her knees, glad not to feel uncomfortable or strange in his lovely room.
Vaughn sits in his wingback chair and stares at her. Still handsome, despite the oddness of his eyes: one dark brown and one gray. His long fingers curl around the green arms of the chair, adorned by only one ring: a silver band gripping three black gemstones.
She draws a breath and says, “There’s a sick horse in the field and Rhos Priddy went into early labor. My mother sent me to fetch you, for it seems there’s something wrong with the bargain.”
He nods, resting back so his face half disappears in the shadow thrown by the wing of the chair. The fire crackles, and Mair hears her pulse suddenly in her ears, but nothing else.
“You aren’t surprised! Did you know? Is that why you returned this year?”
“I come home nearly every year. It is difficult to stay away, knowing outside the valley anything might happen to me and I will not be healed.”
