Page 45 of Fortunes of War

Colum’s face closed up hard, jaw setting, eyes hooding. His hands curled to fists, and Amelia could discern the crack of his knuckles over the pop of the fire.

Propriety demanded she flee; her role here, in this brigade, in this house, demanded she pretend as though she hadn’t seen anything.

“Thank you, my lady.” She dipped her head in brief acknowledgement. “We were truly blessed by the gods tonight,” she said, making her way to the sideboard and inspecting a glass for lip prints. Satisfied, she reached for the nearest bottle and poured generously. “With brave men, and powerful drakes, we were able to take the tower, reclaim our men, and acquire a valuable prisoner.” Formal words, rather than the tired honesty that had come to exist between the two of them. She could feel Colum’s gaze boring holes into her back and resisted the urge to twitch beneath the onslaught.

A rustle of fast whispers sounded behind her, like the rustle of wings in a dovecote. When she turned back around, glass in hand, Colum bowed stiffly, voice choked when he said, “Congratulations, my lady.”

“Thank–” He set off for the door at a brisk walk, not once looking at her. “You,” she finished, and looked to Leda, as the doors slammed shut behind him.

Leda sighed, and fell into her usual armchair as if her legs have given out. She slumped to one side, temple resting against her fist, and gestured to the chair opposite. “Won’t you join me?”

Amelia did, grateful for the chance to sit on something that wasn’t a moving drake saddle, lips clamped firmly shut to hold back her curiosity.

Leda could read it in her face, however, a rueful smile touching her lips. She sighed. “He’s not as familiar with scandal as I am, you see,” she said. “And he’s terribly protective, I’m afraid.”

Amelia took a long – much-needed – swallow of wine. “I noticed.”

In the glow of the fire, it became clear that Leda hadn’t been sitting around with her feet kicked up while they were gone: she’d been fretting. Quietly, gracefully, but the worry had etched her face into a shadow of its usual beauty. Her hair was coming down out of its pins…though perhaps that was down to Colum’s fingers. Amelia’s mind was still spinning at this new revelation, a surprise that didn’t affect her personally, but agenuinesurprise nonetheless.

Leda’s gaze came to her face. “I see you wanting to ask me.”

Amelia took another slug of wine. On an empty stomach, it was instantly warming; she could already feel her sore muscles relaxing. “It’s none of my business.”

Leda smiled, truer this time, and sat back in the chair; reached for the glass waiting on the table beside her, half-full of red. “I don’t suppose you give much credence to rumors, do you?”

Amelia met her lifted brows with a steady gaze. “I was a duke’s daughter sleeping with her man at arms. I care about people, about who they are, underneath the masks we’re all forced to wear – I don’t give a fuck about rumors.”

Leda snorted into her wine. “Too true.” She sighed, and the defensive set of her shoulder relaxed. “Gods,” she murmured, gaze shifting to the fire, its flames throwing tongues of orange light up her face, glimmering in eyes that could go wet at any moment. It was a tragic sort of expression, as though she was clinging desperately to something she expected to dissolve. “My marriage was arranged,” she said, and Amelia was careful to keep the surprise from her face, her voice.

“I didn’t know that.”

“All marriages are arranged, really,” Leda continued. “I’m sure your mother tried to chivvy you into a less-than-desirable union?” Quick glance.

Amelia swallowed more wine. “Yes. The last, before she gave up, was Reginald.”

Fast, rough bark of a laugh. “Oh, that would have beengrand.”

Amelia grinned. “Wouldn’t it?”

“At least he’s young and pretty, though.” Leda shook her head, memory dragging her back. “My family gave the impression we were doing well for ourselves…but the truth is, Father was skint. Too many bad crops, too much land mismanagement. We had two years of floods, lost all our crop, and had to buy from other lords to feed the vassals. We had to let go the servants – Mother did my hair herself for every ball my last season – and there was one snowed-in week in which we fed the fire with books instead of logs. Mother wept for them, her precious books.”

Amelia hadn’t known that, either, but she kept silent, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Mother cried all the time, and Father got thin and sallow, and the steward packed up his family and left: it became very clear that me marrying a wealthy lord was all that could save us. I know, I know.” She flapped a hand and threw back a hard slug of wine. “We could have given up the manor and gone to live in a cottage somewhere. Lived a simple, happy life without all the trappings. Could have even emigrated to the Crownlands, lived in a townhouse, or a terraced flat, gone to the market each morning for bread, taken in washing and sewing. I could have married a nice country lad, or a city merchant. Someone handsome and kind, if not rich. That…gods, that sounded wonderful.” Her voice went wistful, before it took on a leaden, damp quality. Defeat. She was back in her last season, seventeen and lovely and despairing of happiness.

“But that wasn’t what Father and Mother wanted, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint them. I knew my job. I knew what I had to do.

“The balls, though…The house parties. The musicals.”

Amelia remembered her own all too well: the suffocating corsets, the stifling ballrooms and drawing rooms. Too many people packed into a space sipping lukewarm punch. Sweaty young men offering her a hand, asking for a dance – getting fresh when the dance turned them out of sight, and their hands slid down to grip her backside. All the girls tittering behind their fans, talking about their hair, and their dresses, and which boy was giving them glances across the room. Amelia had loathed it all. Had felt its weight around her throat like a millstone.

But Leda said, “That was freedom. No books in the fire, no sobbing Mother. There was tea, and punch, and cakes, and sandwiches. There were bright young people in the loveliest new fashions. We didn’t talk about what might happen if the crops failed again; we talked about who looked handsomest, and which lady was accused of a scandal. We talked of silly, unimportant things. I – I got to be a girl. Just a girl.” Her gaze came to Amelia. “I know it must sound horribly shallow–”

“No,” Amelia assured. “I understand.” And she did: the season had been Leda’s Malcolm. Her Shadow. Her escape. Her wild, uncomplicated joy.

“I was…well, I don’t suppose I always comported myself as a lady should.” She left it at that, but Amelia had heard the stories; wondered which were true, and why anyone had cared so bloody much. “There was a boy…oh, a lovely boy. Black hair, and blue eyes, and a laugh like music. He was – well, it doesn’t matter, because he wasn’t as wealthy as the man my father decided should be my husband.”

Amelia had seen him only a handful of time at parties, seated with his hands propped on a walking stick, stooped, and white-haired, and liver-spotted. The last thing a vibrant and beautiful young lady would want for a husband.

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