Page 13 of The Blacksmith

“Aye.”

“Hmmm.”

Her mother’s watchful eyes finally closed. If at all possible, she looked worse today than she had the day before. Fear thrummed inside her. “Marina will be along soon with food . . .”

When her mother shook her head, she took on the commanding tone she’d learned from the very woman who now lay before her.

“Mother, you will eat something.”

Another murmur as her breathing slowed and she drifted off to sleep. Though Idalia hated how often her mother slept, she knew it brought her much-needed relief. Squeezing her mother’s hand once more, she went in search of the lady’s maid and found her returning from the kitchens.

Nearly the same age as the countess, Marina had served Stanton since before Idalia was born. Her dark hair was now sprinkled with gray, though it was difficult to see under the head covering she always wore.

“She’s asleep again,” she told the plump maid. “Please force her to eat something.”

“I will try.”

Together, they walked through the buttery, which connected the kitchens to the great hall. Barrels of drink surrounded them, the stone walls keeping the chamber cool. “The stores of wine are low,” she commented as they walked through.

It was true. Idalia had planned to speak with a new wine merchant on market day. The last shipment they’d received had included too many bottles that had gone sour. They could not afford the waste.

“I will speak with Dawson in the morning.”

“Very good. Now off for some rest yourself, my lady.”

With that, Marina shuffled off into the hall, disappearing along the back wall, which led to the lord and lady’s chamber.

It had been a long few days, but Idalia wasn’t quite ready to retire for the evening. She wandered out into the courtyard without stopping to find a torch. The full moon provided enough light to illuminate her path to the Small Tower.

Though the courtyard was mostly empty by now, guardsmen passed through, preparing for their night watch. Just as she was about to unlock the door securing the tower, a chicken ran by, chased by a child she didn’t recognize. Idalia knew most everyone who lived within the castle walls, so she briefly considered following the boy to question him.

The promise of a few moments of quiet beckoned, however, and she made her way up to the wall-walk. Once at the top, she took a deep breath, watching as lights diminished in the village below, one by one.

“A most unusual tower.”

She spun around at the voice—deep, rich, and familiar—not having heard anyone behind her.

Immediately Idalia’s heart began to thud, so quickly she wondered if he could hear it.

“Good eve, Master—”

“Just Lance, if it pleases you.”

Lance. She’d begun to use the given name in her head, but to do so aloud . . .

“You followed me.”

“I did. You left the door unlocked.”

She nearly blurted out another question, one she had no right to ask. But from his clean trewes and linen shirt and still-damp hair, Idalia wondered if he’d been to the public bathhouse in the village or somehow managed to secure a private bath.

Why had such a thought even passed through her mind? Her older sister had always been the boldest of the three sisters, though sometimes Idalia thought Tilly might not be far behind.

“Why?” she asked.

“I imagined the view would be better up here than down in the courtyard.”

By now her heartbeat should have returned to normal.