Page 62 of Stardust Child

He went to the barracks. He went to the gatehouse. By the end of the day, he had made three complete circuits of the town, and all the while he went back and forth in his mind about whether to tell Ophele that the long-anticipated gifts were finally due to arrive, or whether he ought to just surprise her. He dearly loved to surprise her.

But when he arrived home that evening, she did not look in the mood for a surprise. She was almost hidden behind her stacks of papers and books, her head propped on one hand as she scribbled, and she did not seem to be enjoying herself.

“Ophele,” Remin said gently, so as not to startle her. His fingers nudged a stack of papers aside as he bent to kiss her hello.

“Don’t touch those,” she said, jerking upright, and instantly apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just that they’re in a particular order. Hello.”

“I’ll be careful,” Remin replied, his eyebrows rising. In all the time he had known her, Ophele had never oncesnappedat him. “Are you well, wife?”

“Yes. I have a headache,” she admitted, laying a hand on his apologetically. “I’m sorry. Sir Justenin wrote his comments on this, so I’m rewriting it, and I still have to finish more interviews, and it’s all so…tedious.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” he said, kneeling beside her chair. “What did Juste say?”

“I want to,” she said stubbornly. “He said it was good, and he thought my conclusions had merit, but I don’t have enough evidence to support them yet. Which is why I need to do…this,” she said, with an unhappy wave at the taller stacks of papers.

“But you still won’t let me read it?” Remin had so far virtuously resisted all temptation to look at her papers, to prove to himself and her that he trusted her, but he was dying of curiosity. Ophele had been terribly secretive about her work, and he was honestly a little jealous that she let Juste read it first.

“I will, I promise,” she said. “I don’t want…in case I’m wrong.”

“As you wish.” Remin leaned forward to kiss her. “Are you sure you’re well? You seem worried lately.”

“I am, a bit,” she said, lowering her eyes to the papers as if they might be the whole of the problem.

“No one’s done anything to make you unhappy?” he pressed, wishing he could peer directly into her mind. Her golden eyes met his, clear as glass, filled with so many thoughts that he could never hope to read them all. “You know you have only to tell me.”

“I know,” she said softly. “Everyone is very, very kind.”

“Are you worried about my leaving?” It sounded arrogant, but he couldn’t guess what else it might be.

“I—no, of course you must go,” she said, her eyes flying to his face. “I mean, I don’t want you to. I will worry, and…oh, I will miss you. But it’s your duty, isn’t it? Everyone in the valley is counting on you.”

She fit into his arms like the piece of him that had been missing. Remin sighed, stroking her hair.

“I think it is,” he said, low. He did truly believe it was his duty to go, whatever his knights said. He was not an aged lord who could no longer swing a blade. He was Remin, Duke of Andelin. Remin Grimjaw. The stories that had grown up around that name were useful, but sometimes he felt perversely like he was chasing his own legend. Remin Grimjaw could not sit safe at home while his men went to hunt devils.

“But you will be careful,” Ophele lifted her head to look at him, and Remin gently smoothed his thumb between her eyebrows. The pain line was back.

“I will.” He had planned to keep Duchess Ereguil’s shipment as a surprise, but it felt like they were needed now. “We have presents.”

“We do?” She brightened, a slow smile curving her soft mouth. “You don’t have to keep giving me presents.”

“I didn’t, as it happens. These are from Duchess Ereguil,” Remin explained, feeling his own spirits lift at the thought of his foster mother. “Some of my mother’s things, and I imagine a few things for the manor.”

“We are moving there soon, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Sousten promises it will be ready by mid-October.” He stroked her cheek, and she moved into him, sighing. And maybe that was all it was. Maybe she was feeling the same thing he did, the weight of their responsibilities closing about them like a cage. Soon, their days in the cottage would come to an end. They were building a splendid home together, a splendid life, but…

“I will miss this place,” Ophele said wistfully, looking around the cottage, and Remin knew exactly what she meant.

* * *

The Feast of the Departed was the first religious responsibility they had faced together, as lord and lady of Tresingale.

It was held every year on the third of October, the night that Imele Mer, the star of Agnephus, hung longest in the sky. Remin spent the day on his own preparations, from the grunt work of hauling tables and chairs from the cookhouse to the market square, where Wen was supervising six massive spits containing three bears and three boars. The valley’s first feast would be a rustic one, composed mostly of game and forage with crusty wheat bread.

Simple food, but of the finest quality.

Ophele was only a little less busy. To her fell the duties of a hostess, and Remin forced himself to stand back and let her do it, flying about all morning to confirm that the number of plates and chairs would be equal to the number of guests. By sunset, both were back at the cottage and dressed in their finest, with Ophele in her red silk gown and braided coronet, and Remin in a black doublet with silver buttons. Silently, he bent his head to let Ophele place a heavy onyx-studded chain over his shoulders, one of the few pieces of jewelry he owned.

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