A Turn of Light (26 page)

Her nerves felt scraped raw; all she wanted was Peggs.

As for Roche Morrill . . . Jenn gritted her teeth and calmed herself with the image of him landing rump-first in the commons pond between Satin and Filigree. Preferably on his new bow.

Unaware, the cause of her irritation walked beside her, not too close but bestowing meaningful looks she refused to meet. She could almost hear the cogs turning in Roche’s head. She’d come to save him; she’d said so. He’d take it as encouragement, no doubt. That she could deal with, though it might come to a dunking, but there was worse. He’d spoken his intention to marry her in front of Kydd, Uncle Horst, and Bannan. He didn’t understand Kydd. He respected Uncle Horst. He detested Bannan. They hadn’t taken him seriously; she certainly hadn’t.

As her aunt would say, public humiliation teaches no one to sing.

Jenn wasn’t too sure what that meant, but she was sure of Roche’s temper once humiliated. Unlike his brother, who’d rant loudly a moment, then forget why he’d been angry, Roche would appear unaffected. But inside? He’d savor a slight, devise what he considered suitable retribution, and, when his victim least expected it, spring his trap.

To this day, she doubted Allin Emms knew who’d spread warmed pine resin around the privy hole that winter night. He’d come close to frostbite before being found and cut free. All because—according to Peggs who’d had it from Hettie who’d teased it out of Devins—all because Allin had claimed the last dance with her months before at the harvest, a dance Roche believed promised to him.

Which it hadn’t been. He was an awful dancer, who held too tight and bounced too much.

Roche could spend the rest of his life with the sows, for all she cared. She did care about his spite. Roche wouldn’t go after Kydd or Uncle Horst. He wouldn’t dare. But the stranger would be fair game.

If Bannan planned to stay, he should be warned.

Which meant talking to him.

Jenn felt her cheeks grow warm.

Worse, it meant talking to him in private.

Ancestors Blessed.

She hadn’t been able to so much as look at Bannan, not directly, not since . . .

Her shoulders tingled where he’d gripped them in support. If she closed her eyes, she could feel where his arms had wrapped around her, hear his heart . . . Her own pounded, remembering. How could his touch affect her like this?

What did it mean?

She had to talk to Peggs.

Kydd spoke. “Hello, Wen.”

Jenn glanced up in surprise. Wen Treff stood in the middle of the lane to the mill, hands in her sleeves, patiently waiting. Her hair was in its usual mad cloud around her head, so she’d escaped the storm. For all she apparently cared; her feet were in one of the innumerable puddles.

Wen didn’t look at Kydd or acknowledge his polite greeting. She ignored Roche, who muttered something under his breath about the witless and stalked off toward his home. Bannan and Tir hadn’t come with them, Jenn realized with a start. She’d been that lost in her thoughts.

Wen’s pale eyes locked on hers.

Did Wen have such thoughts about Wainn?

Not that she’d ever ask, Jenn decided, firmly reining in her imagination.

A fleeting smile crossed Wen’s face, as if she’d heard anyway. “I told him you wouldn’t leave.”

Kydd’s brow rose, but he prudently kept his peace and waited.

“Told—” Jenn looked beyond Wen to the mill. The violent storm would have been Wyll’s first as a man. The mill wasn’t a home. It leaked and shuddered and let in wind. She should have been here. Looked after him. “How is he?”

Wen tilted her head and considered her. A toad poked out from her hair, its wide clawed toes tight on her shoulder, and considered her too. “Broken.”

“‘Broken?’”

Without waiting for an answer, Jenn bolted for the mill.

The floor was as damp as she’d feared. The sunbeams coming through the walls did little more than show the glisten of wet wood underfoot; the light sliced through air empty of dust, for now. There were voices below, deep and male. Uncle Horst had found her father in the basement, was likely helping, as he tried for the right words. After any storm, Radd made sure nothing had blown loose, that water hadn’t pooled in gear casings, that nothing was broken.

Broken.

Forgetting Uncle Horst and the curse, forgetting Bannan and his touch, forgetting anything and everything else, Jenn hurried up the stairs, more afraid with every step. She usually liked the smell of the mill after a rain. It had a friendly tang to it, like a freshly-opened cask of beer. This? A too-full chamber pot. Sickness left on blankets. Neglect.

When the next step would put her head above the floor, she paused to calm herself. The rain made every smell stronger. Wyll was too hurt to climb down the stairs to a privy. Of course they’d brought him a ’pot for his comfort.

She stepped up, stared, and came the rest of the way with one hand on her throat.

Broken.

The pallet was empty, the blankets tossed and torn. The chamber pot had been thrown across the room, leaving a trail to explain the smell. The chair had been overturned. There were marks in the floor, deep and round, as if a sledgehammer had struck the wood.

“Covie?” Jenn looked around desperately. “Riss?”

“You came back.” The voice, faint but steady, emanated from the shadows behind the stairwell.

Wyll. She sagged with relief. “Of course I came back. Why are you alone?” Jenn tried to make sense of what she could see. “What happened?”

“I believe I lost my temper, Dearest Heart. The others ran off.”

Considering Covie’s patience with the most difficult of cows, Wyll must have thrown quite the tantrum. “This isn’t the meadow,” Jenn scolded, “where you can rip plants apart. This is my father’s mill. People will expect you to act—to act like them.”

A thoughtful silence from the shadows.

She briskly rolled her damp hair into a knot at the back of her neck. “Come on. I’ll help you back to bed, then clean this up.” She’d need the mop from downstairs. Soap and some sand.

“I don’t need the bed. You wanted me well, Dearest Heart. I am.”

“Good. You can help clean.” When he didn’t move, Jenn walked around the stair opening toward him, her hand on the wooden rail that guarded its three sides. “What’s wrong?” She could make out his shape now. He was standing—no, he must be leaning against an upright. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She stepped closer; let her eyes adjust. “Wyll?”

“I am what you’ve made me, Dearest Heart.” As she stepped into the shadow, he lurched part way free of it.

He wore nothing but Wen’s lacy shawl around his shoulders. Shoulder. His right was whole and strong, the arm below it, the wrist and hand perfect.

The shawl couldn’t stay on his left shoulder, for that was crushed inward, the arm and wrist and hand that dangled below shriveled and useless.

Had she done this?

Horrified, her eyes followed the sickening scar, as wide as both her hands and deeper than a fist, from the crushed shoulder, down his side, to a hip pried half from its socket. From the hip across a thigh missing half its flesh. From the thigh to a ruined knee. Like a joke, the calf and foot were without flaw, but thrust out at the wrong angle.

She hadn’t seen it. How had she not? They’d been in the water, Jenn thought desperately. Bannan had taken him. Someone had covered him with a blanket. He’d been in bed. His eyes had been silver.

Had she done this?

His right side hadn’t escaped, not entirely. Like poorly done seams, more scars stitched his ribs and marred the flatness of his belly. Without a word, he moved the end of the shawl so she could see he was intact, then let it fall again. Without a word, so she could see he could walk, he came to her.

It wasn’t a walk; it was contortion. He used a powerful backward thrust of his good shoulder to twist his body and swing his bad leg forward. Once that foot was planted, his right came forward and he caught his balance. Pain flickered across his face.

She’d done this.

Jenn made herself reach out and touch him. First the right arm. Warm. Strong, though not heavily muscled. A graceful arm. A good arm.

The left. Fever-hot, bone-thin, wasted. She let her fingers trail along it to find his, but they were limp and flaccid and couldn’t respond. She looked up, into his ordinary brown eyes, and hers filled with tears. “I did this. With the wishing. I did something wrong and this happened to you. It wasn’t supposed to—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Hush.” Wyll’s good hand lifted, fingers brushing her cheek as lightly as a breeze. “You came back,” he said with a gentle smile. “Everything’s all right now.”

Jenn couldn’t smile, but she managed a shaky laugh. “Spoken by the man wearing naught but a shawl. Don’t you dare leave before I find you some clothes.”

His eyes flashed silver—or did she imagine it through her tears? “Don’t you dare leave.” Not gentle. Not gentle at all.

Her other protector. Her best protector.

All these years, she’d made him listen to her prattle about seeing the world. Had it given him nightmares?

She’d glibly explained she’d done this to him so he could come with her, as if it was a gift, and left him broken.

“I won’t,” Jenn promised. “Uncle Horst told me. About the road and the curse and my mother.” She settled the shawl closer to Wyll’s neck, her hands trembling. The torn blankets, thrown chamber pot, the holes in the floor? He’d somehow known her danger and been desperate to save her, needing help those tending him wouldn’t—couldn’t—understand. “And you,” she concluded miserably. “I’m right, aren’t I? You knew where I was. I scared you too. I’m s—”

Wyll placed a finger over her mouth. “Hush.” The finger traced her lower lip, slowly, softly. His eyes followed it. “I always know where you are, Dearest Heart. I always know how you are. You came back and all is well.”

Jenn couldn’t move or speak. She didn’t want to, though what she wanted wasn’t the least bit clear at the moment. Other than to close her eyes and pay attention to nothing but his touch and how it made her tingle all the way to her toes and . . .

Footsteps. Wyll’s finger abandoned its exploration.

“Jenn?”

Kydd. He must have followed her into the mill.

Of course he’d followed her into the mill. The wonder was everyone hadn’t . . .

“What’s going on?” With concern. Of course with concern. The room looked and smelled terrible and she was in the shadows with an almost naked—a lace shawl didn’t count she was sure—naked stranger and . . .

“We’re fine,” Jenn said, raising her voice. “Wyll—needed a bit of help.”

“Looks like a storm in here too.” As Kydd came around the stairwell to where he could see them, his concern turned to icy disapproval. “Get away from him!”

Hettie Ropp, Jenn thought wildly, couldn’t turn something into a scandal faster. She should be thankful it was Kydd, who never gossiped, though he’d had worrisome notions about Roche, she could tell, and now with Wyll . . . “Kydd—”

“At once!”

Her feet moved before she thought to argue, but Jenn didn’t go far. “Wyll needs help.”

“I need clothing,” Wyll said.

Kydd’s gaze dipped, then rose again. “That’s obvious.” He jerked the tie of his sodden shirt open, yanked it over his head, and threw it at Wyll. “Here. Cover yourself!”

Wyll let the wet garment strike his chest and fall to the floor. Was that a silver glint in his eyes?

Worse and worse. “Stop this!” Jenn protested. “Wyll’s my friend.”

“And what else? It’s been mere hours.” Kydd’s eyes never left Wyll. “Where are your friend’s bruises? His cuts?”

“I heal quickly,” Wyll said calmly. “A family trait.”

“Then why are you maimed?”

Jenn felt the blood drain from her face. How could he ask that?

Wyll lifted an eyebrow. “This?” His right hand lifted the withered left. He let it drop and it thudded against his hip like a dead fish. “I survived what you could not.” He twisted his good shoulder and ducked his head. “I am Wyll, honored to be the friend of Jenn Nalynn.”

Wise Wyll. Manners cooled tempers, her aunt said. Jenn held her breath as Kydd was compelled to return a short, if angry, bow. “Kydd Uhthoff.”

“You are the bee friend. The truthseeker.” The smallest of smiles, as if sharing a secret. “The almost wise and the lovelorn. Greetings, Kydd Uhthoff.”

Kydd blinked. Curiosity lightened his face. “You have me at a disadvantage, Wyll. And know me better than most. How is that?”

Because Wisp had been her confidant and she’d told him everything? Ancestors Witness. Jenn couldn’t count the number of secrets, silly or otherwise, her friend shouldn’t share. Ever. “Surely we can leave such things till Wyll is properly dressed,” she suggested.

“That won’t be a problem,” Kydd said. “Jenn, kindly ask my brother to let you choose from Wainn’s clothes chest. Wyll’s about the same size.”

Curiosity, not trust. Not yet. Kydd didn’t want to leave her here, with Wyll. Jenn cast about for a reason to stay. “You should go,” she said brightly. “I have to clean before my father comes up here.” Or anyone else, for that matter. The villagers would be preoccupied with storm damage, but all too soon, Covie or Riss would be back. After Wyll’s fit of temper, it was unlikely they’d return alone.