Page 100 of A Most Forgettable Girl

“Well, I am sure you must know best,” the Queen said, still looking vaguely disapproving. “Wymer’s parents were both dead when I was married, so I have no experience of my own in such matters.”

Gunnilde pressed her lips together and tried not to worry. The Queen was just out of humor, that was all. It was nothing to do with herself or James. Nothing at all.

33

On returning to their rooms that evening, Gunnilde found only Neville in residence.

“James isn’t back yet,” he said, looking up from the letter he was reading. Gunnilde recognized it as the letter that had arrived that morning.

“He said he was going into town to work on his music this afternoon,” she said, crossing the room to pour herself a cup of ale. She watched him set the letter down on the arm of his chair, frown, pick it back up again, and stuff it into his tunic. He cast a furtive look in her direction.

“Can I help you to some refreshment?” she asked, lifting the jug.

“Oh, no thank you.”

She thought he looked rather uneasy. “Did you spend a pleasant day?”

Neville seemed to cast about him as though trying to remember how he had passed his time. “Er, I went to watch the lance throwing this afternoon,” he said, brightening. “Cosgrave has a surprisingly good arm, you know.”

“Did any of our own pet squires advance to the final?” she asked with interest.

“Oh, all of them, your brother, Ames, Montmayne, Cosgrave.”

“What about Hadrian Kellingford?”

Neville shook his head. “He was being forced to run laps about the field dressed in full armor as the result of some misdemeanor or other.”

Gunnilde sighed. “If it’s not one of them, it’s another. Can they never stay out of trouble?”

Neville grinned. “There’s always something afoot with that company,” he said with relish.

“I am sure you and James must have been far better behaved when you were squires.”

“Yes,” Neville agreed forthrightly, “but I don’t think we enjoyed the experience half so much.”

Gunnilde smiled. “I suppose that must count for something.”

“I would say so.” Neville gestured to the seat next to his. “Won’t you come and sit here before the fire awhile?” He glanced toward the window. “I wondered if we might see snow before the day was out. The sky looked so white and there was such a bitter chill in the air.”

“I feel it may be too cold currently to snow,” Gunnilde commented, moving to collect a folded blanket off the bench before she seated herself in the chair beside his own. She arranged the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl and settled back comfortably. “At least Bennett is keeping the logs piled nice and high for our fires.”

“These days he is!” Neville said darkly. “But in past days it was cold as the grave in here with precious little cheer! It has been a good deal more pleasant living in these rooms since you moved in, sister.”

“Really?” Gunnilde turned to look at him.

“Oh, decidedly! I scarcely recognize my brother so amiable is he becoming!”

Gunnilde was pleased. “I’m sure it is at least partly because I have encouraged him to partake in regular meals,” she said earnestly. “You must have noticed how he breaks his fast now. It seemed to me, when first we were married, that his irritability might be down to the infrequency of his meals causing digestive problems.”

Neville gazed back at her with an arrested expression on his face. “Really?” he asked in strangled tones.

“It is often the way with artistic types, I understand,” Gunnilde explained. “They get caught up in their creative work and forget to eat.”

Neville gave an explosive cough, then begged her pardon. “It is certainly true that he seems a good deal calmer these days,” he ventured cautiously. “But I would attribute it less to his stomach and more to another organ.” Gunnilde’s eyes widened. “I mean his heart, of course,” he said hastily. “He seems much lighter of heart, and I attribute that entirely to you, Gunnilde.”

“To me?”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “It’s very noticeable, to someone who knows him of old.”