First came proper baths. The women went off to the well; the men were dispatched to the river. Fawn had grave doubts about leaving Dag to the mercies of her father, Fletch, and Whit for such a vulnerable enterprise, although at least the twins weren’t to follow till a long list of dirty chores had been completed.
Filly and Ginger dragged her away as she was still yelling strict orders down the hill after the men about not letting Dag’s splints get wet. There followed a naked, wet, silly, and sudsy half hour by the well; Mama brought out her best scented soap for the task. Once they were back in the bedroom with Ginger and Filly starting on her hair, Fawn was relieved to hear footsteps and men’s voices through the closed door to the weaving room, Dag giving some calm instruction to Whit.
Filly and Ginger did their best, from Fawn’s dimly remembered description of what Reela had told her, to imitate Lakewalker wedding braids, although Fawn was glumly aware that her own hair was too curly and unruly to cooperate the way Lakewalkers’ long locks no doubt did. The result was creditable, anyhow, with the hair drawn up in neat thick ropes from her temples to meet at her crown, and from there allowed to spin down loose behind after its own turbulent fashion.
In the little hand mirror, held out at arm’s length, Fawn’s face looked startlingly refined and grown-up, and she blinked at the strangeness. Ginger’s brother had ridden all the way to Mirror Pond this morning, four miles upriver, to get the flowers Fawn had begged of him: three not-too-crumpled white water lilies, which Ginger now bound into the knot of hair on the crown of her head.
“Mama said you could have had all of her roses you wanted,” Filly observed, tilting her head to examine the effect.
“These are more lake-ish,” said Fawn. “Dag will like them. The poor man doesn’t have any family or friends here, and is pretty much having to borrow everything farmer. I know he was pining that he couldn’t send down his Lakewalker bride-gifts till after the wedding; they’re supposed to be given beforehand, I guess.”
Filly said, “Mama wondered if no women of his own people would marry him because of his hand being maimed like that.”
Fawn, choosing to ignore the implied reflection upon herself, said only, “I shouldn’t think so. A lot of patrollers seem to get banged up, over time.
Anyhow, he’s a widower.”
Ginger said, “My brother said the twins said his horse talks human to him when there’s no one around.”
Fawn snorted. “If no one’s around, how do they know?”
Ginger, considering this, conceded reluctantly, “That’s a point.”
“Besides, it’s the twins.”
Filly granted, “That’s another.” She added in regret, “So I guess they made up that story about him magicking together that glass bowl they broke, too?”
“Um. No. That one’s true,” Fawn admitted. “Mama put it away upstairs for today, so it wouldn’t risk getting knocked down again.”
A thoughtful silence followed this, while Filly poked at the curls in back to fluff them, and pushed away Fawn’s hands trying to smooth them.
“He’s so tall,” said Ginger in a newly speculative tone, “and you’re so short.
I’d think he’d squash you flatter than a bug. Plus both his arms bein’ hurt.
However are you two going to manage, tonight?”
“Dag’s very ingenious,” said Fawn firmly.
Filly poked her and giggled. “How would you know, eh?”
Ginger snickered. “Someone’s been samplin’, I think. What were you two doin’, out on the road together for a month like that?”
Fawn tossed her head and sniffed. “None of your business.” She couldn’t help adding smugly after a moment, “I will say, there’s no going back to farmer boys, after.” Which won some hoots, quickly muted as Nattie bustled back in.
Ginger set her a chair by Fawn’s bench, and Nattie laid out the cloth in which she’d wrapped the braided cords; she’d just delivered Dag’s to him, together with the other, surprise present.
“Did he like his wedding shirt?” Fawn asked, a bit wistful because she couldn’t very well ask Nattie How did it look on him?
“Oh, yes, lovie, he was very pleased. I’d say, even moved. He said he’d never had anything so fine in his life, and was in a wonder that we got it together so quick and secret. Though he said he was relieved for the explanation of you girls with your measurin’ strings yesterday, which had evidently been worryin’
him a bit.” She unrolled the wrap; the dark cord lay coiled in her lap, the gold beads firm and rich-looking upon the ends.
“Where is he wearing his cord? Where should I wear mine?”
“He says folks mostly wear them on the left wrist if they’re right-handed.
T’other way around if not, naturally. He’s put his around his left arm above the harness, for now. He says when the time comes for the binding, he can sit down and you can stand facing him, left side to left side, and I should be able to do the tyin’ between you without too much trouble.”
“All right,” said Fawn doubtfully, trying to picture this. She stuck out her left arm and let Nattie wrap the cord several times around her wrist like a bracelet, tying the ends in a bow knot for now. The beads dangled prettily, and she twisted her hand to make them bounce on her skin. A little of her most secret self was in it, Dag said, bound in with her blood; she had to take his word.
Then it was time to get her dress on, the good green cotton, washed and carefully ironed for this; her other good dress being warm wool for winter.
That Dag would remember this dress from that night in Glassforge when he had so gently and urgently removed it, unwrapping her like a gift, must be a secret between them; but she hoped he would find it a heartening sight. Ginger and Filly together lowered the fabric carefully over her head so as not to muss her hair or crush the lilies.
A knock sounded at the door, from someone who did not wait for permission to enter; Whit, who looked at Fawn and blinked. He opened his mouth as if to fire off one of his usual quip-insults, then appeared to think better of it and just smiled uneasily.
“Dag says, what about the weapons?” he recited, revealing himself as a messenger sent. “He seems to want to put them all on. He means, all of them, at once.
He says it’s to show off what a patroller is bringing to his bride’s tent.
Fletch says, no one wears weapons to a wedding, it just ain’t done. Papa says, he don’t know what should be done. So Dag says, ask Spark, and he’ll abide.”
Fawn started to answer Yes, it’s his wedding too, he should have some of his own customs, then instead said more cautiously, “Just how many weapons are we talking about, here?”
“Well, there’s that great pigsticker that he calls his war knife, for starters.
Then there’s one he slips down in his boot, and another he straps on his thigh sometimes, evidently. What he wants with three knives when he only has one hand, I don’t know. Then there’s that funny bow of his, and the quiver of arrows, which also has some little knives stuck in it. He seemed a bit put out that he didn’t have a sword by him—seems there’s one he inherited from his pa back at his camp, and some ash spear or another for fighting from horseback, which he also doesn’t have here. Fortunately.”
Ginger and Filly listened to this lengthening catalog with their faces screwing up.
Whit, nodding silent agreement at them, finished, “You’d think the man would clank when he walked. You wouldn’t want a patroller to fall into water over his head on his way to his wedding, I’ll say.” His own brows rose in gruesome enthusiasm. “You suppose he’s killed anybody with that arsenal? ‘Spect he must have, sometime or another. That’s a right sobering collection of scars he has, I saw when we were down washing up. Though I suppose he’s had a long time to accumulate ’em.” He added after another contemplative moment, “Do you think he’s getting nervous ‘bout the wedding? He don’t hardly show it, but with him, how would you tell?”