Page 51 of An Ill-Made Match

“Are you not trying any?”

He shook his head and re-filled her cup. “Stay here with Seth.” He touched his hand briefly to her cheek, then he too mounted the stairs and was gone.

Eden wasn’t sure how long she’d spent staring into the fire, when she heard grumbling and faltering steps descending down toward them. Seth raised his head from his front paws and glanced around, but then re-settled himself, looking unconcerned. Clearly, he recognized the owner of those scuffling feet. Eden drained the last of her posset and set the cup down. She turned her eyes expectantly to the doorway, and sure enough at last there appeared a hunched old man carrying a brace of dead birds. He started a moment when he saw her, but other than a sharp breath in and a hunch of his shoulder, he gave her no other greeting and shuffled over to the kitchen table where he slammed down the birds bad-temperedly. Eden cleared her throat. He stiffened. “I see ye,” he muttered. “I see ye well enough! But be ye sprite or harlot, I’ll have none of ye!”

Sprite or harlot? “I am neither of those things!” Eden told him loudly. “I am… Lady Eden Vawdrey,” she said with only the slightest hesitation over her new name.

He made a quick gesture which Eden recognized was to ward off evil spirits, but otherwise refused to look her way.

“I am lately married,” she said, starting again. “To Master Roland.”

He muttered under his breath and started tearing out the feathers on the uppermost bird.

“Perhaps you know his older brother, Oswald, who is now styled Earl Vawdrey?”

He turned his head sharply at that. “Don’t ye be trying to tell me you’m married to Master Oswald,” he said pointing a small bladed knife at her. “He married a local lass. Sitchmarsh born and bred, and you’re none of her!”

“I never said I was married to Oswald,” said Eden. “I am married to his brother Roland, who is now master here.”

“Master here, you says?” cackled the old man, shaking his head. “That he b’aint!”

Eden gazed at him irritably. “He most certainly is,” she stated firmly. “And I am not going to sit arguing here with you about it. What is your name?”

He gave a snort. “I knows better’n that, I’m country-raised.”

“What do you mean?” asked Eden, momentarily thrown, despite herself.

“Give a spirit your name and you gives ‘em power over you.”

“A spirit?” Eden pursed her lips. Still, Fulco had said the village girls all thought the Keep was haunted. “I am no more spirit than you.” Another thought occurred to her. “I suppose you know Fulco? He recognizes me as mistress here.”

“Fulco?” the old man spat. “Ah, you’re one of his slatterns, are you? Might have known. Shameless! Giving yourself airs and graces and coming into my kitchen!”

“That is quite enough!” said Eden, drawing herself up. “You go too far!”

The old man gave her a hard look, and puffed out his cheeks. “Well,” he conceded. “You’re done up fancy, I’ll give you that. Fine as the Faery Queen herself.”

Eden glanced down at her finery. The fur-lined cloak and mittens from Cuthbert, and Lady Payne’s wedding dress. Maybe she did look rather frivolous sat among his pots and pans? She lapsed into silence, cupping her chin and leaning her elbow against her knee. She’d waste no more words on the stubborn old buzzard. The old man carried on dressing the birds in silence, and Eden’s eyelids began to droop. The fire was hot at her front, but her back felt chilly. In spite of that, she was feeling sleepy. The old man was ignoring her, and she would return the favor. If anyone looked like a bad faery, it was him. A hobgoblin or brownie. She frowned. She was thinking of her old nurse’s tales again! Weren’t brownies paid for household chores with a bowl of cream on the hearth? Insulting them was said to bring bad luck. Perhaps she ought not to have spoken to him so harshly. How did you free brownies from labor? Was it them you had to sew a smock for or was that elves? And which ones turned into boggarts when they went evil?

The next thing Eden knew, she was being carried in a pair of strong arms.

“It’s me,” said Roland, when she started.

“A boggart runs your kitchen,” she murmured, before dropping her head back to his shoulder.

“A boggart?” repeated Roland. “That’s funny. He accused me of wedding a wicked faery. Said I must have found you sat in a rowan tree.”

Eden considered this a moment. “They must be very superstitious parts around here.”

“The boggart’s name is Baxter,” said Roland. “He’s been here for years. Before my father’s time even.”

Eden thought this over. “Maybe he’s more of a goblin than a boggart. Boggart might be a bit harsh.” She glanced at one of the narrow windows that they passed and gasped. “Has night fallen? How long was I asleep?”

“It’s late afternoon,” said Roland. “It looks darker due to the thunderclouds.”

“And now it’s raining,” observed Eden, catching sight of another glimpse through an arrow loophole.

“It rains a lot round here. That’s why it’s so green.”