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“Evert? He’s going to study with the Woodworkers Guild in Whitechurch. He’s always been clever with his hands, as long as I can remember. I can’t even list all the things he’s done for the tavern. He built our first childhood fort and was the one who designed my cabin.” Tyr chuckled, remembering. “I always tell people I built my own house, and Iofficiallydid, but the truth is I would have been lost without him directing every board and nail placement.”
“Whitechurch,” Nessa mused aloud. “What a tremendous accomplishment for a young man of the Cross.”
“He’s incorrigibly excited,” Tyr said. “My mother, on the other hand...” His gaze followed his words and landed on Fransiska. She stood next to her husband as they chatted with a local miller, smiling through the bittersweet gleam in her eyes. “Would you like to meet her?”
Nessa looked surprised. “You want me to meet your mother?”
Her hesitation created his own. He rarely “introduced” his parents to anyone. All his friends back in the Westerlands had always just been there. Rikard described meeting Faustina’s family like it had been the official demarcation between a casual dalliance and a serious commitment.
And what was Nessa to him? A friend? An acquaintance? He hardly knew her. He didn’t even know why she’d been coming around or why she was still in town. Nor, as he thought about it further, did he know where she’d be going when she left.
“Why not?” If nothing else, his parents would have heard about Nessa from Rikard and Agnes, because neither were capable of keeping their mouths closed. Better to get ahead of it than wait for the whispers and questions.
Fransiska dabbed at her eyes when Tyr approached with Nessa. She smiled, but part of it faded to confusion and then wonder as she took in his guest.
“Mother, this is Nessa. She’s Grigor Arsenyev’s daughter, visiting from...” He used the opportunity to see if she’d share.
“The Westerlands,” Nessa said pleasantly and bowed her head in a respectful nod. “It’s very nice to meet you, Madam Penhallow.”
“Madam!” Fransiska’s face erupted in stunned delight. “You hear that, love? I’m a proper madam now.”
Olov chuckled and returned to his conversation.
But Tyr was still stuck on Nessa’s answer. The Westerlands. Hadn’t she said before that she’d never been there? Had he misheard?
“I didn’t realize Grigor had a daughter,” Fransiska said. “How do you know my son?”
“She came in one evening,” Tyr answered slowly. He couldn’t say why Nessa answering made him nervous, only that he needed the explanation to come from himself. “We got to talking, and we’ve struck up a friendship.”
“A friend. How lovely.” Fransiska sized Nessa up with a long, sweeping gaze. “Are you hungry, dear? We have plenty of food, and more ale than we need.”
“Thank you, Mad—”
“Fransiska will do.”
“Fransiska.” Nessa glanced at Tyr briefly. “Thank you. This is a lovely celebration, and I appreciate the invite.”
Fransiska furrowed her brows at Tyr. “Well... of course. The fete is open to all, invite or no.” She wrapped her hand around Tyr’s arm with a quick squeeze. “If you’ll excuse me, love.”
“She’s beautiful, your mother,” Nessa said when they’d moved away. She looked behind her. “But did she know I was coming?”
Tyr was still mulling his mother’s perfunctory reception. He had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed—
He suddenly realized he’d been wrong. Hehadintroduced someone to his parents, and not so long ago.
Ana.
His mother and father had both swallowed her in near-inappropriate hugs, leaving him mortified by their gushing. Later, they’d expressed concerns about her being highborn and out of his reach. But what he hadn’t felt, ever, was disinterest.
“Tyr?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Can hardly hear myself think over all the noise. There’s a table in the corner, if you want...” He trailed off in shock when his father climbed up onto the bar.
“Guardians, Olov, you’ll break your neck! You’re not a young man anymore,” Fransiska declared to a roar of laughter. The small, clustered groups broke up and shuffled in closer as their attentions turned to the proprietor of the Tavern at the Top of the World attempting a wobbly scale of the bar.
“What is hedoing?” Tyr muttered, waiting, along with everyone else, to find out.
Olov stretched to his feet, his balance wavering before he straightened with a triumphant smile. The tavern went silent. “My wife and I would like to thank all of you for coming to help us send two of our beloved children out into the world.” He pressed his lips tight and inhaled deeply. “Evert has been recognized for his tremendous skill with building and design, and Whitechurch’s gain will most certainly be our loss. Just be sure to remember us wee folk when you become a city man.”
