Again the contrast with his own people struck him as odd. He recalled a grand ball that had been given for a dowager aunt who had reached the age of seventy. Though Owen had not been adopted by his stepfather, his presence was still required. He'd been fitted for a proper set of clothes and given a wig that had been expertly prepared and powdered. He'd even suffered through a couple of rudimentary dancing lessons. The dance master decided he was beyond hope and should beg off dancing for an imagined "wound from the war, any war, anywhere."
And despite his having served the Queen honorably in a number of conflicts, women stared and laughed at him behind their fans. Men came up and greeted him, dropping names and clearly making fun of him with their airs and insinuations. He played dumb, taking some pleasure in their being too stupid to understand he couldn't be as obtuse as they thought him and still have done his job. That, however, formed just a tiny silver lining to the cloud of his being an outsider.
And then Catherine appeared. Young and very pretty, she was just growing out of the coltish stage marking the transition from adolescence to womanhood. She wore her dark hair up, but had teased three ringlets loose. The fashion of the day dictated that only two should have been present, but she flouted convention.
She passed by him once, her brown eyes studying him above the lace edge of her fan. Then she returned in her pale yellow gown and snapped that fan shut in a gloved hand. "I hope you can save me, Lieutenant?"
"I beg your pardon, Miss…"
"Catherine Litton. My grandmother is your aunt's best friend. I have lived with her since my parents, missionaries, died of cholera in the Punjar."
"My sympathies at your loss, Miss Litton."
She leaned in, smelling sweetly of apple blossoms. "I shall need you to rescue me. They shall begin the dancing soon, and Percy Harlington has already vowed to kill any man who dances with me. It frightens me, so I would ask you to walk with me through the gardens to save me."
Owen later discovered-after he and Catherine had wed-that she was seldom so timid at cotillions, receptions, or galas. She loved dancing, and gossiping, tittering laughter from behind a fan. Never cruel things, only pointing out how a person had failed, completely, to abide by social convention. The rules for proper seasonal dress seemed far more complex and less forgiving than the Military Code of Justice. Catherine, however, understood it all better than any barrister, and often corrected Owen's dress as they headed off for a night of fun.
That first night they walked in the gardens for a bit, then stopped outside the Ryngian windows and peered back in from the darkness at the gaily lit party. Catherine laughed and told him all sorts of things about the people inside. Owen learned which men were dancing with their mistresses while their wives glared, and watched a beautiful young widow playing three ardent suitors off against each other. Catherine layered meaning onto things he'd always noticed but had never understood. With her at his side, a world he had rejected because of how it treated him suddenly became oddly interesting and filled with new depths of hypocrisy.
And he recognized, later, that Catherine had set her heart on more than rescue. She told him she fell under his spell because of his gallantry that night. He had been her hero, and would forever love him for it.
Catherine accepted me just as this little girl has, but to the others of my own kind, I remained an outsider. Here, however, I am welcomed.
He would consign none of his memory about that dance to the journal. Instead he concentrated on the Altashee and how their opinion of him had changed. The fact that Msitazi and Kamiskwa lauded him as a great warrior meant the Altashee accepted him as such. When he went for a short walk, looking for a couple of plants on the Prince's list, six boys had followed him, walking as he did, then squatting in a group to study what he studied. He caught no mockery in how they acted, just the hope that they, too, by doing what he did, could become a great warrior.
He smiled as he wrote. He imagined Bethany reading the words, tracing her fingers over the ink, perhaps reading some passages to her younger siblings, and others to her father and mother. He doubted she would share much with Caleb; and suspected Caleb would have little interest in what Owen had to say.
As pen scratched on paper, Catherine came again to his thoughts. Her sidelong glances, her little smiles, the way she would sigh and take his hand in hers, wishing aloud for a day when he could leave the army and they could be free to live as they wished. He loved her for all those things, and more. I cannot wait to have her in my arms again.
He finished a passage, then sighed loudly, wishing she was at his side.
The little Altashee looked up, read his face, then handed him one of her dolls.
He smiled at her kindness and admired the doll before handing it back to her. And she smiled, as if all was well with the world, and for once, Owen thought, just for a little bit, such a judgment might have been right.
That evening passed uneventfully. The presentation of the wurmscales to Msitazi pleased the Altashee elder. He ran his hands over them, studying the underside with its mother-of-pearl sheen. He then placed him on his shoulders like epaulets, and Owen suspected he might see them affixed there in the future.
After a dinner of venison and vegetable in a stew, Owen spent time cleaning and oiling his musket and pistol, quietly observing everything going on around him. Life seemed anything but hurried among the Twilight People. For the most part they seemed happy, smiling and humming as they worked. On the rare occasion a child cried out, the closest adult came to his rescue, and peace was restored.
He didn't see much of Kamiskwa, but Nathaniel Woods had three children following him wherever he went. The two boys looked enough alike to be brothers and neither had reached his teens. The third, a little girl, appeared only a couple years older than the lass who had attached herself to Owen. The three of them got along well enough, with the two boys being solicitous of the young girl's needs.
Nathaniel played with the children a little, laughing and joking with them, admiring things they showed him. He let the girl sit in his lap and tousled the boys' hair. Though Owen couldn't understand a word they said, hand-gestures, pantomime, and growls led him to believe Nathaniel was relating some story about hunting a jeopard. Others stopped to listen, and broad smiles suggested the story was a well-known favorite.
Owen also noticed his spending a certain amount of time, both separately and together, with two of the Altashee women. Given the beadwork and motifs on their clothes, they'd made Nathaniel's clothing, the rifle-sheath, and bags. Owen also guessed that they were related to Kamiskwa, being the right age to be his sisters, largely because their clothes had bear paw prints beaded onto them.
And, because the children appeared to be a bit lighter in color than others in the camp, Owen came to the conclusion that they might well be Nathaniel's offspring. Their previous conversation about Altashee marriage and mating customs held Owen back from assuming that Nathaniel was a flagrant womanizer. Tenderness characterized the way he interacted with the women and Owen saw none of the predatory aggressiveness so common with lechers.
As they sat together rolling cartridges, Owen turned to Woods. "The children are yours, by those women."
"The boys is by Naskwatis and the girl by Gwitak. Ten, eight, and five." Nathaniel shook his head. "And we ain't married. Iffen you're of a mind to tell me I'm going to Hell, save your breath, save your teeth."
Owen measured out some brimstone. "Do you love them?"
"The kids, yes. Their mothers, sure, but not in Norillian thinking. Love is fine for fancy stories and songs. Ain't much of a place for it in the world." Nathaniel looked around the village. "You know the Altashee word for romantic love is the same word they use for madness."