Page 30 of Beyond Dreams

She crossed the room and climbed another set of eight steps and pushed through the door at the top, finding only that the stairs continued, twisting up into the tower.

She poked around in several more chambers, but truth be told, there was so few items of any personal merit, so few chests or cabinets or any place to hide anything she might wish to explore, that the tour rather fell flat. She decided she might have more fun in the cellar. Maybe there was a dungeon down there that would be of greater interest. Retracing her steps, her attention was grabbed by the sound of voices, the first she’d heard in quite a while. Naturally, she turned and went instead in the direction of those voices, finding Doirin and Moire seated comfortably inside a room she hadn’t yet noticed. The door was ajar, allowing Holly to peer inside at the mother and daughter before she committed to her entry. The fireplace in this room was wood paneled, kind of fancy compared to the rest of the house, and the ladies sat in larger arm chairs, a rarity here, and upon cushioned seats, each diligently sewing something.

Holly rapped lightly and pushed the door open.

And almost instantly she wished that she had not, for the look upon their faces when they realized her presence. They ignored their sewing, their hands dropped to their laps, their faces lifted toward the door, their distasteful expressions almost enough to make Holly back away.

But then she kind of thought,oh the hell with it, and walked fully into the room.

“Mind if I join you?” She dared to ask even as she wouldn’t put it past Doirin to say that yes, she did mind. Neither she nor her daughter actually gave an answer. Holly wandered around the room, liking it very much for how it was so much cozier and prettier than any other room in the castle. Like that guest chamber below, the floor was covered in a tapestry, this one in muted colors with some event depicted in a scene made by the threads, but which Holly could not make out since half of it was covered by the chair in which Doirin sat, and the skirt of her gown, pooled around her feet.

“Is this like a parlor?” she asked. “A sitting room?”

“Solar,” Moire said, though her attention was returned to her sewing. She applied needle and thread to a boxy-shaped piece of white linen. Doirin appeared to be working on a gown, having the end of one sleeve in her hand, adding a fringe of lace.

Holly walked between where they sat and the fireplace, running her hand along the smooth wood of the mantle. “What are you sewing?”

“Linens,” she answered, “bed linens.”

“Oh, a pillow case,” Holly said. “I see it now.”

“Maitheris working on my trousseau,” Moire said, casting a fleeting glance first at Holly and then at Doirin before returning her attention to her lap.”

Holly paused at the edge of the fireplace. “Your trousseau? Are you getting married?”

Moire nodded but did not look up. “I am, in three weeks’ time.”

“Congratulations,” said Holly. “Who is the lucky man?”Lucky, she allowed, since she was trying to be polite. She had some idea Moire might be half as difficult a person if it were not for her mother.

“He is—” Moire began.

“What do you want?” Doirin interjected sharply, her hands snapping downward, her eyes snapping up at Holly. “Why are you here?”

Though taken aback by the harsh words, by the hostility she did not bother to hide, Holly was able to keep her cool. “Here? As in this room? Or here, at Thallane?”

“Here. Now. With us,” Doirin exclaimed.

“I’m just trying to be friendly, Doirin,” she said, sounding calm though her stomach churned at such obvious dislike, something she’d honestly never encountered. “I thought I should get to know my husband’s family.”

Doirin harrumphed and began to attack the lace and sleeve with quick, jabbing motions of the needle.

Moire spoke up. “To little effect, I dare say. We will depart after the nuptials with Ronan, my husband,” she said, gulping down a swallow after giving him that label, “and journey to Haddo. Thus, you waste your time here, with us.”

“Duly noted,” Holly said, blowing out a breath. She glanced around the room, noticing a writing desk tucked in the far corner. The wood was stained with streaks and swaths of black, she noticed as she drew closer to it; ink she guessed. A squat bottle, its body no more than an inch tall, its neck half as much sat atop the desk. The inkwell. A flat wooden tray sat beside it, holding two feather quills, one whose tip was blackened by the ink. In the far left corner of the desk sat a stack of thick paper, the edges not straight, the sheets not entirely flat. A small and shallow saucer was filled with sand, finger marks still pinched in the sand where the last person had drawn out a bit to sprinkle over the ink.

Everything a person would need to write a letter.

“Moire,” she said hesitantly, with contemplation, her gaze upon the desk and its contents still, “would I be able to get a letter to Hewgill House? To my aunt?” To Sidheag, in truth, the witch who’d promised her that if she wanted to go home, she needed to wed Duncan. Well, she had, and now what?

Doirin answered before her daughter might have.

“If you ken how to write—”

“I do,” Holly cut her off.

“Messengers go about regularly,” Moire said then. “Give the missive to Roland and he’ll—”

“Nae,” said Doirin. “Leave it just there, in the tray. It will be retrieved and marched out soon enough.”

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