Veiled Rose (14 page)

So five years had passed, and Foxbrush had come to visit Leo’s home, but Leo had never returned the favor. He and his cousin got along about as well as they always had, which is to say, not at all.

And yet, there Leo stood (his mother could see him from the corner of her eye), bold as brass, requesting to spend the summer months in a remote mountain household, shut away with a cousin he despised.

Starflower narrowed her eyes at the parchment before her and at her own elegant handwriting. What had gone on that summer so many years ago? She knew that Leo thought about his time at Hill House frequently, though they never spoke of it. What had he found up in those lonely forests that so captivated him? She had asked young Foxbrush many questions on the subject (for Foxbrush was always his aunt’s special pet), but even he had proven reticent. The last thing she wanted was to send her son back to that place where, at least that once, her control over him had slipped.

But his father had agreed. And Starflower never crossed Leo’s father.

Yet even now she could turn this situation to her advantage. A smile touched the corner of her mouth. Starflower made certain it was the corner Leo could not see.

“Very well,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk. “You may visit your aunt at Hill House this summer.”

“Really?” The clouds on Leo’s face cleared, though his expression was far more surprised than pleased. “Really, you don’t mind?”

“Of course not! Why should I mind?” She lifted her half-complete letter so that Leo could watch as she tore it into three long pieces. “I shall not send this letter to Middlecrescent after all, but shall inform the baron that you have regretfully declined his kind offer.” Then she turned, and Leo saw the heretofore hidden smile, and his heart sank.

Starflower handed her quill to him, along with a fresh sheet of parchment. “You may write and invite Baron Middlecrescent’s daughter to join you. Have a pleasant summer, darling.”

So that was her game, was it?

Leo should have known this was coming. After all, he was sixteen. Lads in his position always started having eligible girls forced down their throats right about this time. He shouldn’t be surprised; he should have seen it coming a mile off!

But this knowledge did nothing to improve Leo’s mood as he stormed down the passage from his mother’s sitting room, up a flight of stairs, and on to his own set of rooms in a nearby wing. He slammed the wall with his fist as he went, rattling the gilt-edged frames and mirrors, and knocking a few candles from their sconces. Servants took one look at his face and quickly bowed their heads, pretending not to see him as he passed.

Which one was Middlecrescent’s daughter anyway?

Leo entered the first in his series of five connected rooms, slammed the door, realized there was someone cleaning his hearth, and barked for that person to get out, all without really noticing. His mind was caught up in trying to recall Daylily of Middlecrescent’s face. But memory escaped him. She blended in with all the other girls around his age who’d come and gone from the house throughout the last several years. Of course, he had always known that he would be matched up with one of them eventually, but this thought had never encouraged any particular effort to differentiate among the lot. They were all pretty, flouncy, chattery things as far as he was concerned.

There was no avoiding writing the required letter, however. He knew better than to take up arms against his mother twice in one day. Standing up to her about his summer destination had depleted his supply of courage. There could be no further rebellion on this score.

Dragon’s teeth, she would poke, prod, and pry him into the shape she wanted, and Lumé help him if he resisted!

Leo wrote the letter. Everything polite and well expressed, just as expected, not a single word misspelled, not a single sentiment sincere. Any girl with half a brain reading that missive would immediately write a similarly polite refusal . . . but no chance Daylily would be so perceptive. No, no, she’d probably consider herself highly complimented and set out for Hill House posthaste.

Leo growled wordlessly as he placed the letter in the gold tray on the end of his desk. Then, because his mood was too black for anything else, he went to his fireplace and took an old urn down from the mantel. Supposedly this urn, carved in a relief of Maid Starflower on one side, the Wolf Lord on the other, and a motif of wood thrushes around the lip and lid, contained the ashes of some venerable ancestor. What it really contained was a set of juggling sacks.

Leo started to juggle. First one sack, then two, then three, finally five sacks altogether. He moved about the room as he went, first at a slow, sedate pace, then adding little hop-steps, then moving into a silly jig, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the rotation of his sacks. He orbited the room, avoiding furniture and corners, still jigging, still juggling, and as his concentration increased, his anger faded away.

This was a world that had room for no one else, just him and his sacks, and the energy it took to keep them moving in time to his dancing feet. No one could touch him here, in his element, just so long as Leo kept his eyes steady and his hands flashing, and those sacks flying. He was no prince in this realm of existence; he was king.

He added a sixth sack. Six was the most he’d ever managed to juggle at one time, and then only for a precious few rounds. But today they flowed almost effortlessly, and he started to jig again, softly singing as he went:

“With dicacity pawky, the Geestly Knout

Would foiter his noggle and try

To becket the Bywoner with his snout

And louche the filiferous—”

It was too much. He missed a step and the sacks flew wild. One hit a window, two landed in the hearth ashes, one knocked the gold tray with its letter clattering to the floor, and two more rolled out of sight beneath furniture. Leo stood empty-handed, feeling a bit of a fool.

No, not a fool. A jester.

He remembered dreams of boyhood days. Dreams of travel and laughter and tomfoolery.
“I’m going to be a jester,”
he’d boasted once. A jester, traveling the world, performing for kings but answering to no one. For jesters were wild, madcap, and best of all . . . free.

Which Leo was not.

Gritting his teeth, he collapsed into a chair before the fire, contemplating the empty grate. He should have known how his power struggle with Mother would turn out. She’d take even the freedom he’d known at Hill House and turn it into means for her own ends.

Hill House.

Leo grimaced. Memories of that summer were indistinct. Over the last five years, many things had slipped away, leaving only vague impressions in their wake. But those impressions weren’t unpleasant . . . he remembered games in the forest, and building a dam. He remembered laughing and running and feeling more himself than he ever had before or since. He remembered breathing freedom in that wild mountain air.

He remembered Rose Red. His friend.

Nothing had been the same after leaving Hill House. Perhaps nothing would be the same again, but—dragons eat Foxbrush, Daylily, his mother, the whole fire-blazed world—he was going to find out this summer if it killed him!

Leo closed his eyes, and his head rested on the back of his chair. Soon his breathing relaxed into a snore. But when the snoring ceased, he dreamed.

“Tell me what you want.”

The Lady steps into his dream as if through parting curtains, and they stand face-to-face. He does not want to look into the vast emptiness of her eyes. But she holds his gaze.

“Tell me what you want.”

Slowly, the Lady takes him by the shoulder and turns him to the right. There he sees a vista open up before him. He sees a road leading off into the horizon. He sees beyond the horizon, beyond the edge of the world he knows, and the path leads all the way to the sea. Then he speeds across that blue expanse, riding the wind, following the path over land, over water, over mountains, on and on. His soul thrills at the freedom of it, and he laughs and somersaults and leaps just because he can, as light as a wind-tossed leaf.

“Tell me what you want.”

The Lady takes his other shoulder and turns him to the left. He wrenches his gaze unwillingly, but as his eyes adjust to the new scene, the smile dies on his lips, replaced with a stern line.

He sees a prince . . . no, a king. Noble and bearded and strong, he sits upon the Seat of the Eldest in a great hall of sweeping alabaster arches. The king sits with a golden sword upon his knee, and people flock to his feet, pleading their causes, looking to him for justice, protection, wisdom. At this king’s right hand stands a lady of great beauty, her red hair circled in gold. All those assembled are amazed at the sight of her.

“Tell me what you want.”

The Lady cups his face in her hands and forces Leo to look at her, though he strains to catch a last glimpse of that brilliant hall and noble king. But her white eyes fill his vision.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” he says, trying to ward off her hands, which latch onto his face like roots gripping soil. “I don’t know. How can I?”

“I can make you a king,” she says. “A king like no other in the history of the world. This power I possess.”

“I don’t know what I want!” Leo repeats. “Why must everyone pressure me? It’s always push, push, push . . . but I don’t know who I am yet.”

The Lady continues as though he has not spoken. “I can set you free. I can send you down a path without cares or expectations, where you may become whomever you will.”

He tries to close his eyes and shield himself from her gaze but cannot. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Tell me what you want.” Her white hair surrounds him like a cloud, but the ends of it strike his face like tiny, biting snakes. “The time is near. You must make your choice and let me fulfill your dreams for you.”

“I’ll make my choice when I’m jolly well ready!”

“Soon.”

Blood oozes from the stinging cuts on his cheeks.

“Tell me what you want, and I will make it so.”

“When I know what I want, I’ll tell you. Agreed?”

The stinging stops. Leo opens his eyes and sees her hair, still in a billow about him, but soft and gentle now as droplets of mist. And the Lady’s eyes smile.

“Agreed.”

D
AYLILY RECEIVED A LETTER
sealed in red wax and stamped with the image of a seated panther. She rolled her eyes heavenward when she saw that seal, then braced herself, broke it open, and read the letter’s contents in a quick glance.

“Dragon’s teeth,” she murmured, though it was not a ladylike phrase.

“What have you there, my lovely?” asked Baron Middlecrescent. He appeared at her elbow like some bad fairy, and she had no choice but to hand over the letter.

“Light of Lumé!” said the Baron. “This is better than I’d hoped.”

“I thought he was to come here, Father,” said Daylily. Not a trace of rebellion could be found in her voice, but her eyes may have flashed beneath those long lashes.

“And now you’ll go there instead. A fine thing indeed, and his invitation is a sure sign of favor.”

But for all her pretty arrangement of curls, Daylily was no fool. She had read between the lines and knew that young Leo’s real sentiments were quite different from those expressed in ink. Her face remained calm, however, and she went about the necessary preparations for her journey to Hill House.

It was the most forsaken and loathsome location imaginable for a summer holiday, she concluded before her father’s carriage had carried her even halfway. She was used to spending her holidays with friends in Middlecrescent City, enjoying the society there, the balls and assemblies and theatrical performances. There was more than one young man of certain birth who had proven himself most ardent in his admiration of the baron’s daughter. And while Daylily bestowed favors on no one, she was not opposed to receiving favors herself.

Yet here she found herself trundling across bridge after bridge, passing towns of excellent societal repute, even bypassing the Eldest’s City itself, on her way to some remote house in remote mountains where no one in her right mind would want to pass half a day. And under strict orders to beguile, bewitch, and otherwise entrance a boy for whom she had no use whatsoever.

Life was cruel.

But nobody who saw her passing would have guessed at the thunderous thoughts behind Daylily’s face. She kept herself in excellent order (though her pillow, had it possessed a voice, may have complained of a few vicious poundings in the small hours of the night).

The carriage rolled through the Barony of Idlewild, and now the road led increasingly upward. Soon enough, Daylily found herself gazing back down on the world, and she had to admit, it was a thrilling view. Then the woods grew tall all around her, and villages were few and far between.

One night, while resting herself before the great fire of a mountain inn, she heard a sound such as she had never heard before. She raised her face from a cup of steaming cider and inquired of her goodwoman what it was.

“A wolf, m’lady,” said her goodwoman.

“Ah,” said Lady Daylily, taking another sip. The sound came again, and it gave her a delightful shiver. “Are there many wolves in this part of the country?”

“More than anywhere else, they say,” her goodwoman replied. “Once upon a time, ’tis said the Wolf Lord himself hunted in these mountains. But that was long ago.”

“A legend,” said Daylily with the tiniest shrug. “A Faerie story.” But she was pleased to hear that lone wolf cry a third time. A smile touched the corner of her mouth.