Fool's Errand (17 page)

Persephone—who was already trembling at the sudden and unexpected feel of Azriel's arm around her—felt her knees go so weak at the word “bride” that she would have collapsed if Azriel had not been there to hold her steady. Unfortunately, feeling herself pressed up against his warm, broad chest did not seem to be helping to alleviate the weakness in her knees.

“Make no mistake,” he whispered now, in a voice that made her knees weaker still. “Binding my fortunes to yours until death do us part will be a tremendous sacrifice on my part. However, it is a sacrifice that I am willing to make.”

“For the sake of your people,” murmured Persephone, half-closing her eyes.

“And for the sake of your brother, the king,” added Azriel, his mouth so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her lips.

“Yes,”
she breathed, slowly leaning forward.

The instant her lips brushed against his, Azriel abruptly let go of her and stepped back. “So, we're agreed then?” he asked cheerfully.

“W-what?” stammered Persephone, who hadn't really heard the question.

“We're agreed?” said Azriel, a little louder. “We'll marry for the sake of others?”

As his words slowly sunk in, Persephone was overcome by that same feeling of disappointment she'd had the night she'd realized that his willingness to undertake the quest had nothing to do with the fact that it mattered to her. This time, however, it was disappointment borne of the certainty that at another time and place Azriel might very well have begged her to marry him for the sake of his own heart, because it could not go on beating without her.

But of course, it was not another time and place.

Persephone cleared her throat. “Yes, of course—we're agreed,” she said, striving to sound as matter-of-fact as he. “We'll marry for the sake of others.”

Azriel nodded crisply, then turned toward Rachel and the Gypsies, whom Persephone was startled to see were crowded around the mouth of the tunnel wearing the rapt expressions of spectators watching an especially spellbinding play. When he gave a thumbs-up sign they all began cheering.

“Azriel?” said Persephone, touching his arm.

“Yes?” he said, turning back around so quickly that he nearly bumped into her.

“Since … since you say that your intentions are honourable and we're agreed that the marriage has a higher purpose,” she mumbled, striving to sound nonchalant even as she felt her cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment, “can I assume that you'll not expect me to fulfill any marital, uh, duties?”

A shadow of something flickered across Azriel's face and was gone.

“Duties?” he said, sounding so absolutely perplexed that Persephone knew that he knew
exactly
what she was talking about.

Relieved to be back in familiar territory, Persephone dropped her hand to the dagger at her thigh and said, “You know—the kind of duties that would cause me to feel the need to slit you from bow to stern.”

At this, Azriel smiled. “Oh, Princess,” he said as he led her back out of the tunnel. “You needn't worry about that.”

For some reason—perhaps because she and Azriel were only marrying for the sake of others—Persephone had just assumed that the wedding ceremony would be a rushed affair, to be gotten over with as quickly as possible so that they could get on with the business of finding the healing pool.

The instant she and Azriel emerged from the tunnel, however, it became clear to her that the Gypsies had other ideas. For without preamble, she found herself swallowed up by a crowd of women and girls who patted her back and pinched her cheeks and laughingly informed her that it was not meet for a bride to look upon her groom so close to the wedding. Then, singing at the top of their lungs, they all but carried her across the clearing to the same thatch-roofed hut into which she'd been unceremoniously tossed the first time she'd visited the Gypsy camp.

She was not tossed this time, however, but rather deposited with many promises that her upcoming “big day” would surpass her wildest dreams.

“But I have no such dreams!” she protested with a grimace at Rachel, who'd followed her into the hut. “I never imagined I'd get married at all—I never gave it the slightest thought! I just want to get this over with so that—”

“No dreams!” clucked a grandmotherly Gypsy woman, reaching through the doorway to give her cheek another lusty pinch.

Fayla laughed as Persephone hastily retreated farther into the hut, beyond the reach of her well-wishers. “I'm sorry, Persephone, but we Gypsies love a celebration, and there is no celebration we love more than a wedding,” she explained. “I know you are eager to be on your way, but we cannot allow this joyous event to pass unremarked. Preparations for the ceremony will be completed by tomorrow sunset. Until then, you must stay in here and promise that you won't try to sneak peeks at your betrothed.”

Persephone swelled up with indignation. “I—”

Fayla was gone before Persephone could offer more protest than this. A short while later, Tiny arrived bearing two heavy blankets, a large brass pot full of hare stew, a loaf of dark bread, a jug of ale, a fat candle and the pack containing the jar of white beans. He was assisted in his task by Mateo's younger brother, Raphael, and also by Sabian, who flung his chubby arms about Persephone's neck and lisped in her ear that he had “mithed her motht grievouthly.” When Persephone told Sabian that she'd missed him most grievously as well, he beamed at her and then trotted out the door after Tiny and Raphael.

As soon as he was gone, Persephone turned to Rachel and, in a low voice, said, “I just want you to know that I'm only marrying Azriel for the sake of others.”

“Oh?” said Rachel as she tore off a hunk of bread and dunked it in the stew. “Are you sure about that?”

The question made Persephone almost as agitated as did the speculative look Rachel was giving her. “What do you mean am I sure about that? Of course I'm sure!” she spluttered. “Azriel and I agreed upon it.”

“Really?” said Rachel, taking a big bite of saucy bread. “Was that before or after you kissed?”

Persephone's heart missed a beat. “We didn't kiss,” she said, her throat tightening at the memory of Azriel pulling away from her at the last second. “We only
almost
kissed and it didn't mean anything.”

“Which is what your marriage vows will mean?” said Rachel, watching her closely.

“Exactly,” said Persephone, lifting her chin. “Pass the ale.”

Persephone spent most of the next day pacing inside the hut like a caged beast. In the morning, Tiny and the boys came by with more food; in the afternoon, Fayla delivered a clean, pretty gown for Rachel. Somewhere in between a gaggle of giggling girls showed up with a basin of cold water, a rag, a dish of slimy soap, a crude hairbrush and a handful of rusty hairpins. Persephone used the lot to attend to her toilette, all the while stubbornly telling herself that she was not such a princess that she
truly
yearned for her lovely claw-footed bathtub, her creamy speckled soaps and the soothing ministrations of Martha and the sisters.

It only
felt
like she did.

By the time sunset finally arrived, she and Rachel were as clean as they could be and their identical dark hair was brushed to a glossy shine. In addition, Persephone was as nervous as a cat and on the verge of throwing up.

Before she could do so, however, the door opened and three women entered the candlelit hut. The first carried an exquisitely crafted headpiece to which was attached a veil so sheer that it seemed hardly more than a mist. The second carried the most delicate pair of beaded slippers Persephone had ever seen in her life. And the third had a pair of silk stockings draped over one outstretched arm and a spectacular gown laid over the other. Exceedingly simple in its form, the material of the gown seemed more liquid than solid, and even in the dimness of the hut, it sparkled like sunlight on fast-running water.

“Oooooh,” breathed Persephone, who'd temporarily forgotten that her wedding was naught but a transaction of necessity being undertaken for the sake of others.

“Where on earth did you get these things?” asked Rachel in amazement.

“Azriel says he ‘borrowed' them from the Regent,” explained the woman holding the dress.

“I hope they fit,” said Rachel.

“Azriel says they're bound to,” said the woman, “seeing how they were once worn by the princess's dead mother.”

“They were what?” exclaimed Persephone and Rachel in unison.

The woman chuckled at their reaction. “Worn by the princess's dead mother,” she repeated. “It seems that while he was prowling about the Regent's bedchamber looking for gold, Azriel happened upon several large chests filled with the dead queen's finest clothing. Kept by the Regent for what purpose, I shudder to think, but anyway, Azriel decided to pick out a few things.” The woman chuckled again—indulgently this time. “I'll warrant the scalawag had a mind to make you his bride even then, Princess, and thought to make your big day just as special as it could be.”

Ignoring the look that Rachel was giving her, Persephone swallowed hard and stammered, “That was, uh, thoughtful of him, of course, but he really oughtn't to have taken such a risk—”

“Oh, don't you worry about that,” chortled the woman as she handed over the dress. “I'm sure you'll think of
some
way to make it up to him.”

Persephone grimaced at this. Then, as soon as the three Gypsy women left the hut, she nervously slipped out of the grubby shift she'd been wearing for days and stepped into her mother's gown. It fit perfectly, just as Azriel had anticipated it would. While Rachel laced up the back, Persephone pulled on the stockings, worked her feet into the beaded slippers and set the headpiece atop her head.

“You look
perfect,”
sighed Rachel as she gave the veil one last twitch to ensure that it fell properly over Persephone's shoulders. “Why are you trembling? Are you nervous about the wedding night?”

“No,” said Persephone, louder than she meant to. Reaching for her mug to moisten her suddenly dry mouth, she added, “Azriel said I needn't worry about that.”

“Oh?” said Rachel as she crouched down to straighten the hem of Persephone's gown. “You mean because he intends to be a gentle lover?”

Her words jarred Persephone so badly that she nearly slopped ale down the front of the gown.
“What?”
she spluttered and coughed. “No! I mean because he doesn't expect me to … you know …”

“Are you sure?” asked Rachel doubtfully, looking up at her. “Because telling you that you don't have to worry about it is not the same as telling you that you don't have to do it. And I must say that while Azriel seems the type to stay true to a wedded wife—which is what you will be, regardless of why you say you're marrying him—he does
not
seem the type who would be content to live the rest of his life without. you know.”

Persephone was about as horrified by this shrewd observation as she'd ever been by anything in her life, but the sound of someone impatiently knocking on the door of the hut told her that it was too late to turn back—or even to temporarily halt events to obtain clarification as to Azriel's expectations with respect to “you know.”

And so, with a hammering heart, Persephone lifted up the slippery, silvery-white skirt of her beautiful gown and stepped out of the hut—

And into a dream.

SIXTEEN