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Chapter Sixteen

Vanni

Ihear her laughter before I see her. Not the tinkling laughter of one of the women at court, but a deep sound. A sound one could cherish, if given the chance.

I nearly reconsider my visit when a voice calls my name.

Sitting beside the forge, looking out toward the sea, a woman who must be her grandmother crooks a finger for me to come close.

Smoke billows from the building as I move toward her.

Lady Edrys has the kind of eyes that see through a person. She says nothing as I stand before her, waiting for her assessment.

“You are the commander.”

Her voice is stronger than her body. Hunched slightly, her hands knotted on her lap, the Garra reminds me of the steward’s wife at Castle d’Almerita, wise in a way that none who’ve lived a shorter time can match.

“Aye, my lady. Lord Vanni d’Abella, if it pleases you.”

Bowing, I stand as she reaches out her hand.

I take it, not knowing what to expect. She turns my palm up and holds it for some time. When she finally releases it, I feel as if she knows more of me than I do of her.

“You worry for Aedre,” I guess, knowing she’s told her grandmother a little about the time we’ve spent together.

“Always.”

I try to reassure her. “I’d not dishonor your granddaughter, despite what you think of me.”

She seems surprised by that.

“And what do I think of you, Lord d’Abella?”

My answer is swift. “That I disagree with your practice. I don’t, though, and I would never seek to harm you or Aedre.”

“Hmmm.” She does not deny it.

“I’ve a purpose here, and ’tis not to persecute anyone.”

Another “hmm” follows.

“Forgive me for being forward, but Aedre seemed to believe I’d wish her harm when we first met.” Realizing I used her given name, I attempt to amend my words. “Lady Aedre. I mean no disrespect.”

“I thought I heard your voice.”

I turn . . . and immediately wish I hadn’t. Seeing Aedre this way, her blacksmith’s apron covering her, no gown today but a pair of men’s breeches and shirt beneath it . . .

Her hair is piled atop her head. Hammer in hand.

God, what a woman.

“Good day, my lady. I’m here to check on the progress of my sword.”

And to see you, for it seems I can’t stay away, even when you wish it so.

The sound of iron banging against iron and the smell of smoke reminds me of the forge at the castle. The people of Murwood End may not bow to either king nor queen, but they’ve many of the same customs as we do. This forge could easily belong in the south.

“’Tis nearly finished. Come, see.”