Page 3 of Stardust Child

Unspoken was the knowledge that they would only have a little time for such play. For as the summer waned toward the harvest and the devils began to return to the mountains, Remin and his men had sworn to follow them and destroy them in their dens.

“You’re not getting up?” she whispered afterward, as they were lying together. Her fingertips traced the straight line of his nose. He had such a handsome nose.

“No.” Alone in their cottage, his face relaxed from its usual stern lines. “Today you get to lie abed as late as you want.”

“Why?”

“It’s your birthday, little owl,” he said, sounding amused. “Did you forget?”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “It is? I mean, you know my birthday?”

“Miche reminded me.”

She had forgotten her birthday. No one had celebrated it since her mother died, and only the Aldeburke cook Azelma had remembered it at all, slipping her a bag of cookies or a small cake to squirrel away. She wouldn’t have blamed Remin for forgetting when she hadn’t remembered it herself, but the fact that he remembered made her throat tighten.

“Thank you,” she said, a smile curving her lips as he roughly caressed her, drawing her against him until her breath came short and he rolled her over again, tangling his long limbs with hers.

Hours abed with him would have been gift enough, but she should have guessed that Remin would do this as thoroughly as he did everything else. In centuries to come, there would be no room for debateamong scholars as to whether there had been a celebration for the Duchess of Andelin’s birthday.

Her first gift was a hot bath drawn by Remin himself, so that she would be fresh for her second: a new silk gown from Mistress Courcy, who had done an excellent job with some very vague instructions. It was a short-sleeved gown as green as summer leaves and worn without a kirtle, delightfully light and cool, with a skirt short enough to reveal pretty embroidered slippers. Ophele lifted one small foot to admire the scrolling suns on her shoes, overjoyed.

“Do you like it?” Remin asked, examining her with a refreshed expression. He always liked to see her in green, especially with her gleaming hair falling loose to her hips.

“Yes, I love it.” She beamed up at him and very nearly won another of his rare smiles. She had seen three so far, with teeth and everything. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

There was more. In the kitchen, Master Wen yelled at her and then gave her a basket of raspberry pastries. As they left the stables, they ran into Genon Hengest, who had a small parcel of herbs and spices that he said would make a fragrant, restful tisane in tea.

“It’s not medicinal, but it wouldn’t do His Grace any harm,” said the herbman, leveling a yellow eye at Remin.

“It was supposed to be a gift, not another one of your tonics,” Remin began with some heat. But Ophele, seated before Remin on his black horse with a pastry in one hand and the herbs in the other, lifted it to Remin’s nose.

“No, it’s nice, smell,” she said. There was a whiff of some subtle spice and the pleasant, earthy scent of chamomile. “I smell chamomile, what else?”

“What else would you put in a tea if you wanted a light sleep, my lady?” Genon returned, cheerfully putting her to the test.

“Evening primrose?” she guessed, surprised and pleased by the challenge. He had never asked her to try to apply her small store of herblore before. “And maybe lavender? Valerian would be too strong, wouldn’t it?”

“And a little ginger to warm the blood and add savor,” he said, with another one of his grimacing smiles, the scarred side of his mouthtwisting. “Add a pinch of it to your tea in the evenings and it will relax you, without laying you out flat.”

Ordinarily, the gifts one made to a duchess on her birthday tended toward gold, jewels, and precious oils, the more rare and expensive, the better. But such things were not to be had in the valley, and the humbler gifts Ophele received that year suited her very well. At the north gate, Sir Tounot was waiting to present her with a dainty belt knife as if he had known she was coming, a gift on behalf of the guards of the watch.

“It would be our disgrace if you ever needed it, my lady,” he said, bowing his curly head. “But we give it in the hopes that you will have a great many more birthdays.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “And please tell everyone else thank you, too.” She lifted a hand to wave at the distant guardsmen on the wall, who were shouting their good wishes.

She and Remin made the same tour of the valley almost every day, pitching in wherever they were needed, and that day there was a present waiting for her at every stop. The carpenters had made her a set of gorgeous carved combs, the hunters produced two feather fans, and the masons had made necklaces for her from small, polished stone beads. They were only common stones like jasper, quartz, and agate, but they looked as beautiful as jewels to Ophele. She put them on at once and thanked them so profusely, even the rough stonemasters blushed like boys.

As they approached the work at the north wall, they came across Master Eugene, bedecked with flowers in celebration of the day and led by a very grudging Jacot of Caillmar.

“Many happy returns, lady,” he said, extending a flower wreath to Ophele with a red face.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, immediately plopping it atop her head. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Might have done,” he said gruffly. “Don’t have nothing better.”

“No, no, I love it. Did you put the flowers in Eugene’s mane?” She scratched the little donkey’s forelock, admiring the daisies carefully woven into the coarse hair.

“No,” he said instantly. “Other pageboys done it. Sir Miche had ’em at it early this morning.”

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