Page 93 of Fate's Wicked Oath

“Radiant,” she said. “Your fellow will love it.”

For some reason, I didn’t correct her.

33

Anya and Idris

Mariana

Faren was waiting downstairs when I reemerged. His eyes widened when he saw me, gaze dipping to my shimmery bodice. The left side of his mouth kicked up in the smallest of grins.

“Before you make a joke,” I said, and lifted my hem to reveal the long dagger strapped to my thigh. “I can still best you, even in a dress.”

Faren lifted his palms placatingly. “I didn’t say anything.”

I crept farther into the pub, which was now abandoned, save for the man before me. He had changed into dark brown trousers and a clean white shirt, with a gold-stitched, rust-colored waistcoat over top. He’d shaved and combed his hair and he smelled fresh. I should’ve been accustomed to his resplendence by now, but I wasn’t. From the grime of travel to formal attire, there was no version of him I did not find pleasing.

When I halted in front of him, skirts swishing, he looked down at me with a fondness that made my chest feel like an overflowing vessel. I searched for a mean remark to make, butas I noted the snug fit of his clothes and wondered at the smoothness of his shave, I couldn’t for the life of me think of even one unkind thing to say.

“Where is everyone?” I asked instead.

“Gathering in the town square for the parade.”

“Parade?” I whined.

“We can keep to the back. I know you hate to be jostled.” Faren offered his elbow like the gentleman he was. “Shall we?”

I pushed past him like the miscreant I was. “Let’s get this over with.”

When Hattie said the wedding was a town-wide affair, she hadn’t been exaggerating. A crowd was forming along Swan’s Row: a dense mass of exuberance and noise. Men and women wore flower crowns of daisies and yellow coneflowers. Children darted through the throng with ribbon wands of red, ochre, and gold. Farmers led donkeys, goats, and cattle through the crowd, the animals laden with baskets of sweet buns and candies for offer. There were drummers, flautists, and bards strumming lutes, folks already singing along to songs about everlasting love.

And in the center of it all—dressed in cream-colored finery with embroidery in autumnal threads—were Anya and Idris. They were holding hands, their heads tipped up toward the sunshine. Idris appeared vaguely overwhelmed by the press of people, but laughter was spilling out of Anya as the entire town lavished the couple in good cheer. Wicker was barking and prancing around them, his collar adorned with sunflowers, and it all felt so devastatinglyjoyous.

From my place on the sidelines, I snatched a sweet bun from the basket of a passing cow with ribbons woven around her short horns. Standing beside me, Faren chuckled, and I tore the treatin two, offering him half. He took it with a smile, nibbling on the shiny, sticky crust as the music stopped. The crowd hushed, closing in around the bride and groom until they disappeared from view. Moments passed, the excitable energy among the masses increasing, and I found myself holding my breath, waiting for whatever happened next.

There was a thunder of drums, then ebullient cheers rising into the clear autumn sky. Voices shouted a merry chant, “With joy, they wed! Hurrah! Hurrah! With joy, they wed! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Strings announced a new, quickly paced tune, and then the parade began, snaking northward. All I could see were a sea of flower-crowned heads and streamers, the undulation of an entire populous dancing up Stone Hill. Faren and I trailed the procession, following as it led toward the cluster of distant Standing Stones and white tents. His gait was positively jaunty, in keeping with the festive music.

“See? It’s fun,” he said.

Unwilling to admit that therewasa certain charm to the festivities so far—who could dislike sweet buns delivered by dressed-up livestock?—I rolled my eyes.

Children scurried past us in the opposite direction, squealing and trailing their streamers, a pack of local dogs barking at their heels. One young boy of about Timand’s age ran up to me, offering me his ribbon wand. I took it without thinking, and then he was gone with his friends, disappearing back into the parade, leaving me with the toy.

I waved the stick weakly, watching the ribbons coil in the crisp wind.

Faren laughed at my poor attempt. “You’re terrible at this, aren’t you?”

“Not many ribbons in the Western Wood.”

A quick frown. “But we aren’t in the Western Wood, are we? We’re in Waldron-on-Wend.”

He snatched the wand from my fingers and jogged ahead, catching up with the back of the parade. I followed unhurriedly, my skirts swaying with a pleasing weight around my hips and smiled despite myself when the gaggle of children joined Faren’s race up the hill.

At the parade grounds, the music, feasting, and merriment continued. Ale and cider flowed, shouts pierced my ears, and everywhere—everywhere—people danced.

I kept mostly to myself, waiting out the festivities. Faren had disappeared into the crush of revelers, and for a while, my only company was a tuckered-out Wicker, who rested at my feet in between bouts of wrestling and chasing a much-younger collie.