First Kiss

Three days later, Jevan Auvray reined in his sweat-streaked horse at the crest of a small hill above Granton Castle. He gave Grane the slightest pressure of the knees and they flew down the hill, one last sprint before arriving in a frothy stumble at the gates. Grane headed to the stables where a drink and food awaited him, and Jevan stroked his neck. “No hart of ten today, my lad, but we have had a fine day of riding, haven’t we?”

He entrusted Grane to a pimply stableboy, then strode across the courtyard toward his own supper when Lady Letitia appeared at his elbow. “Jevan! Where have you been? We are all missing you so dreadfully.”

Jevan started away from the wide eyes and upturned chin. “Forgive me, milady, I meant to tell my aunt that I was riding.”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter really. You are always riding. Your Uncle Geoffrey was rather upset that you didn’t come into the library this afternoon; he had to sit by himself for hours.”

“I’m sure his ale kept him company enough. No, don’t repeat that.”

She crossed her arms beneath her insubstantial bosom and was about to reply when Jevan caught sight of a figure across the courtyard—Cecily, walking in the direction of the gardens. He stood motionless for a moment, then patted Letitia’s shoulder and walked toward Cecily, leaving the lady gawping behind him.

Into Pan's Labyrinth, a photo by alexbrn on Flickr.

“Cecily, I have not seen you in days!”

She nearly dropped her mattock. “Forgive me, milord—Jevan, I have been working in the gardens all week. It’s a busy time of year and I am one of the few whom Rivens will allow to tend to certain jobs—”

“And I have not taken the trouble to visit the gardens. I see, you condemn me for my negligence.” He laughed as she opened her mouth to deny it. “Ah Cecily, you should know me by now. I was only jesting. Let us take a short walk around the gardens now and enjoy the sunlight while it lasts.”

She had been examining the pavement beneath her feet, but now glanced up at Jevan’s face. All she saw was a look of quiet interest. A slight touch of his hand to hers and they were going out the courtyard gates and down the path toward a garden entrance.

They walked the curving pathways between neat-clipped hedges, noted the already monstrous salvigia bushes, and approached the Balcony—a sort of folly made of two curving staircases that joined to create an overlook.

Bess is Happy

“Bess, have ye seen to that duck? Good gracious, child, ye’d burn the whole supper if I let ye!”

Bess practically skipped over to the fire where a plump bird was sizzling on a spit. She turned it once or twice in a preoccupied sort of way and Luveday noticed with annoyance that there was a dreamy sort of smile spread across Bess’s entire face.

servants working in the kitchen, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

“And what’re ye grinnin’ like a little idiot fer?”

“Ah, Luveday, my only wish in the world is that everyone could be as happy as I am right now.”

“Hmmph. Been dippin’ into the ale, have ye?” She made a guttural slurping noise in the back of her throat as if to signal disgust. “Girls is all the same these days. Think that love is all about butterflies and pixie dust.”

“Surely you had your own love when you were young, dear-heart?”

Having a servant girl call her “dear-heart” was probably the last straw. Luveday creamed the Brussels sprouts with a ferocious arm and muttered something under her breath about cheeky little chits. Bess giggled to herself as she replayed her afternoon with Robbie in her mind for the fortieth time. The ill-fated duck caught fire

Meeting at the Well

They walked together until they reached the castle courtyard, then Jevan drew Cecily into the shadow of the stables. He seemed to be working up the nerve for something when a loud hemph sounded from a few feet away. Lady Mallkyn and Lady Leticia stood on the castle steps, beckoning to Jevan. He gave Cecily a flash of a smile and a wink, then ran towards the other women, bowing and kissing each of their hands in turn.

Try as she might, Cecily could never be indifferent toward this man. Her first impression had been violent dislike and a vow of eternal hatred, but recent events had made her think better of him.

Pozzo interno, a photo by Frankz on Flickr.

She came out of the shade and moved toward the kitchen door, but caught sight of two people standing near the well. Coming nearer, she realized that it was her mother and Old Rivens. That too-familiar dread invaded her stomach. Mum had been getting worse and worse. Just yesterday she had fallen asleep while stirring the pottage and almost fallen into the fire, she was just that dead tired.

Alis now drew a bucket from the well, wrestling it to the top, then pitching backwards as she lost her balance. Rivens steadied her with one hand and grabbed the slipping rope with the other. Back on her feet, Alis said something and Rivens laughed, then they both turned in the direction of the stables. Cecily slipped around a corner where she might hear without being seen, and caught her mother’s words.

Archery Lesson

Over the next week Cecily and Master Auvray met on ten separate occasions. These meetings were entirely out of her control, but it seemed as if Cecily was talking with him more than most anyone else. They never spoke for long, but each time Auvray—or Jevan, as he insisted on being called—was more courteous than at the last. Could it be that he was finding her on purpose? It did seem more than coincidental that he should be reading as she cleaned the library, picking lilies as she weeded the beds, and just dropping into the kitchens when she happened to be working there.

Longbow competition, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

Certainly, though, Jevan could have no control over Luveday sending Cecily out to the Butts on Denby hill where Lord Geoffrey and his guests were practicing archery. The afternoon was especially fine—warm, with barely any wind—and it was natural for the men who had been closeted so long by winter to long for a bit of outdoor sport.

Watery sunlight splashed over the countryside as Cecily made her way through the mud and up a gentle rise, swinging the pitcher of ale as she went, glorying in the chance to get off of her knees. The company of archers was made up of the earl himself, three local lords who had come to pay their respects to the newly-arrived heir, and a passel of small boys whose job was to fetch back the arrows from the straw-stuffed “stags.” Geoffrey was red-faced and jittery as he tried to notch his arrow to the bowstring. Sir Warin stood behind him, and his face looked longer than ever as he viewed the proceedings—like a bored schoolmaster watching idiotic pupils. Cecily quietly announced the arrival of drink and Lord Geoffrey, glad of the interruption, thrust his bow at an underling and came over to pour out a large helping.

It truly was strange, the way she always seemed to meet Jevan by the purest chance. It was more likely that he should have more occasion to see Lady Mallkyn’s waiting maids (who were generally entrusted with the more exalted castle duties) than herself (one of the castle’s servants-of-all-work and one who spent the majority of her time weeding), but Cecily had only just heard Sybll lamenting over the few scarce moments she had been in the young man’s company. “He is always out wandering the countryside on his horse, and when he is at the castle he seems never to be in the same place twice. A proper young gentleman should know his duty better and spend his time inside the castle, learning valuable lessons from milord the earl.” And paying a bit more attention to you, I’d wager.

The line for ale was growing, and the third away from her was Jevan. His cheeks were flushed with the nipping breeze and his tousled hair sought to escape the velvet cord that bound it. Cecily found herself switching her weight from one foot to the other and splashing the drink a little as she poured. He isn’t even looking my way. Does he know I’m looking at him? 

Gracia's Story

“Do you have it?”


Rivens was not looking at Cecily, just chewing on the end of a cold pipe as he stared at the clump of rhododendrons.


“Have you ever used it?”

spinning girl, a photo by hans s on Flickr.

He scuffed his boot in the gravel and worked the pipe stem with his teeth.

“Aye, I’ve got it.”


“Then it’s all real? I knew it wasn’t just my imagination. Gracia was right!”


Rivens sucked in a long breath, puffed his shrunken cheeks, and let it out in a quavering puff of spicy smoke. 

“Gracia, eh? She’s the one who’s been tellin’ ye these things?”


“Yes. No one else saw fit to tell me that I have an invisible power to make things happen.”


“An’ perhaps they were wise not to.”


“Why is that? If I have such a power shouldn’t I be able to know about it?”

“Are ye gonna tell yer mum?”

She opened her mouth, but said nothing.

The Power of Wind

Ever since her talk with Gracia, Cecily had spent many hours thinking hard over “power.” What could that mysterious power do, exactly? And how was it possible to make your thoughts into reality—merely by believing? Whether gardening or cooking or cleaning, the questions plagued her mind. She might have thought that the entire thing was an elaborate lie to give her hope, if she didn’t trust Gracia so completely. But she had to try putting this power to the test at least once, just to make sure that she wasn’t wrong.


Her first chance came when she went with a few other families to gather firewood from the nearby hills. It was achy work—bending down and straightening back up, noticing a dry stick here, a fallen tree over there—back and forth, again and again. But the job seemed easier when they were doing it all together, laughing and singing and seeing who could tell the tallest tales.

Fallen tree near Woodcutters path, a photo by Jack Picknell on Flickr.

Alis was still feeling weak, and Cecily had insisted her mother stay at home while she worked with the Walpoles. The day felt more like spring than ever, and Pypa (a girl with fiery red hair and large lips) was whistling with an infectious, off-key enthusiasm that made Cecily want to do a little dance. But she noticed that Bess appeared more subdued than usual, almost colorless. She soon realized why: Robbie had joined their party and was gathering wood about thirty yards down the slope. Cecily decided to meddle.

Heart to Heart

The walled chapel garden was Cecily’s haunt when she wanted to contemplate the mysteries of the world. When the bluebells had just begun to unfold, dripping blue and dewy among ferns and frothflowers, the chapel garden was consumed by their rippling blossoms. A sun-drenched arbor made of cedar limbs, twisted and slumping with age like an overweight matron, occupied one corner of the garden. A large swing hung underneath for the convenience of visitors, the perfect refuge for two friends. Cecily and Bess sat there for hours at a time in their childhood, laughing and whispering about a thousand little secret hopes and dreams.

Bess rarely delved into deep waters, no matter how Cecily tried to lead their conversation there. Cecily tried to imagine what life was like beyond the mountains. She told and retold minstrel ballads until she almost believed them. She tried to linger near the nobles when they conversed about worlds beyond her own. Bess was perfectly content to chat about recent happenings and the doings of friends and family, going so far as to speculate as to who might marry whom, but never going much deeper. Cecily itched to dive into the dark middle of the lake, while Bess paddled in the pleasant shallows.

Bluebells, a photo by Paul Albertella on Flickr.

The carefree afternoons of childhood had gone long ago, but on a few rare days the two friends could still be found on their garden swing at sunset. Creaking back and forth on the old ropes, they were usually more silent than talkative; a long day of work has a way of making even the closest friends quiet.

A few days after Cecily's conversation with Gracia, Bess came to the swing with pinched lips and eyes swollen a suspicious red.

The Power to Change

Gracia was a woman who knew things. Ask anyone in Whitcrowe and they could tell you. She was spoken of as a wise woman. An interesting lassie. A queer one. “A woman ye would’na want to cross.” She was hardworking and hospitable, and something like a second mother to Cecily. Gracia was the one who had nursed Alis back to health from the illness she had nearly died of, and Cecily had grown up eating her jam and biscuits.

Bess’s face showed in the window as Cecily approached the Walpoles’ house, then disappeared to pop through the open door. “Dice and bones, Cessy, what brings ye here at this time of night?”

star & tree, a photo by Ctd 2005 on Flickr.

Cecily stepped inside the warm cottage, furnished almost exactly like her and her mother’s, only with a tall piece of battered furniture displaying a few chipped plates artistically arranged with a vase of winter cherries. She gave an uncomfortable look toward the table where Milo and and Lander were finishing bowls of thick porridge, with Gracia looking on. Cecily caught Gracia’s eye and tried to give a subtle hint. “Is there summat you need, child?”

Gracia waited patiently as Cecily licked her lips and avoided Bess’s inquisitive stare. She didn’t feel that Bess would really understand what she was feeling, not this time. But maybe Gracia somehow could.

“Yes, I would like to speak to you. Ask you something.”

Unanswered Prayers

Sewing blindly by the dying fire a few nights after, Cecily was wracked by Alis’s incessant coughing. She could almost hear the bones rattle in her mum’s chest with every burst of hacking.

Alis had been weak all through the bitter winter, and now it seemed that the wet spring had settled in her chest and meant to stay. For days she had only been able to manage the lightest work, and a pile of unmended clothes grew daily. Cecily came home every night to help reduce the pile, but inevitably her mum forced her to go, yawning, to bed.

Three watching angels, a photo by shaggy359 on Flickr.

Alis was one of those women, to be found in nearly every family, who is a born mother. She was always ready to comfort a frightened child in the night, never refused a beggar, and never took the last helping of anything. She had not had an easy life, especially after her husband’s death, but Alis had no enemies, and was loved by everyone—especially her daughter.

Proper Introductions

It was midday before Cecily and Alis had gathered the requisite number of truffles, and Alis went home to sew while Cecily spent the next hour in the kitchens chopping meat off the bone. The kitchens were always crowded at this time of day, with cooks and servers climbing over each other to get at the spits and ladles, and Luveday’s face growing redder with each passing moment. Once the meat was chopped Cecily was finally able to grab a bit of bread and cold mutton and slip through the crushing mass, out of the kitchens, through the courtyard, and beyond the gateway. 

The day had warmed, and the shining sun brightened Cecily’s spirits as she left the stuffy air of the dark kitchens behind her. She strode through the grass and down the castle hill, out into a wide expanse of meadow that sloped down to the sparkling river. She sat on the growth of new grass and threw her head back, shutting eyes against the sun, letting a chilly little breeze play with her sleeves. The weight that had clutched her heart since her mum’s fit of coughing almost lessened, almost went away, was almost forgotten. She tossed her head and the sun caught the glint of her hair. Bright. Strong. She would prevail. All would be well. The day was beautiful, fine, fair, and pleasant. Why shouldn’t she be happy? Why shouldn’t Alis get better as the days got warmer?

   

Something came between Cecily’s closed eyelids and the sun, and she opened them to find that a man stood directly in front of her. 

Weser meadows, a photo by Markusram on Flickr.

She was stunned for a moment, trying to make out who it was as the face was obscured, backlit against the brightness. She took in the soft leather boots, the expensive cut of the coat, the gold stitching along the edge of the cuffs…it was Master Jevan Auvray. With a little jump, she stuffed the last of her mutton underneath her skirt and tried to remember if she had washed her face since cutting up that venison. There was nothing appropriate to say so she kept her mouth shut and just looked at Auvray, waiting for him to make sense of the absurd situation.

Truffle Hunting

Master Auvray did not stay much within the castle in his first few days. Cecily overheard that he had insisted on spending a great deal of time outdoors, and his first week was spent combing the woods and nearby marshland for game. The castle wasn’t quite sure what to make of this—perhaps he was an avid hunter, perhaps he just wanted an excuse to get out of the drafty castle (which was no doubt far less grand than his own home back East). Cecily only ever caught glimpses of him—an erect silhouette riding over the fields, or a well-dressed shadow in the courtyard—and she tried her best to get no closer.


It was impossible not to hear from the servants, however. The whole castle was glowing with pleasure and excitement, and chipper banter could be heard under every stair and in each wardrobe and cupboard. After the initial shock of the young heir’s surprise appearance, every cook and cotter seemed to live for nothing but to talk of Jevan Auvray. He was good-looking, clever, civil even to the lowest servants, and most of all had an air of nobility that suited him far better than his uncle and aunt. He was not a perfect saint—as Gunnora was eager to point out, he had a nasty habit of leaving his clothes lying about his bedchamber, and he had spoken crossly to a page boy once or twice when especially peeved—but it was only the sour old women and disgruntled young ones who had any real trouble with him.

Mallkyn’s personal waiting maids, Sybll, Peronell, and Amelia, made their intentions known very early. Cecily often noticed them lingering about the doorway of whatever room Master Auvray happened to be in; all of them dawdled in their tasks whenever they came within hearing distance of him. After several encounters, however, it seems that he showed them no more attention than they deserved, and Sybll was soon making biting comments about his being “too high and mighty even to speak to some people.” When Old Rivens mentioned that he had taken quite a fancy to the young man, he was expressing the nearly unanimous opinion of Granton and Whitcrowe. One can never truly know a person by secondhand, however, and Cecily’s dress was still spattered with shameful mud. She was not one to forgive in haste.

The Sow, a photo by plindberg on Flickr.

Early on a morning when the sky was thick with gray clouds and a chill wind whipped their skirts into whitecap billows, Cecily and Alis walked out to the river forest, dragging a reluctant hog behind them, to gather truffles for Lady Mallkyn’s sharp palate. They always enjoyed truffle hunting together, chiefly because the sow did most of the work and they were left plenty of time to talk and laugh together. They spoke of everything under the sun, from fond memories, to cabbages, to the doings of their friends.