“That dress doesn’t fit you,” he continued, his eyes still on his work. She could see that he was smiling.
“Yes, it does,” she said, trying not to stumble over her words.
“Look at you, you’re swimming in it.”
“It’s none of your business how my dress fits,” she said, unable to disguise her irritation.
He shrugged, still not looking at her. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks, Jude. You’re always so helpful. Is Tom around?”
“He’ll be back soon,” Jude answered. “He went to drop some things off to the Widow Bardell.”
Rowan stood there, not knowing what to do with herself. The inn was practically her home, but she never knew how to hold herself around Jude.
“Do you mind if I wait here?” she said, feeling an idiot for asking, weak for not demanding her place.
“Suit yourself,” he said, still focused on his whittling, the knife sliding slowly down the length of the wood.
She walked to the edge of the wall and sat down as far from Jude as she could.
“You have news, then?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“For Tom,” Jude said. “You have news, I can tell. It’s good news, I presume.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. Fiona Eira, the girl he can’t stop talking about. You’ve been to see her.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, wary.
“Because there’s something different about you,” he said, still refusing to look at her, as if she didn’t merit his attention. “You’re sad. You’re never sad. And you would only be sad if you’d been to see her and you had good news for Tom.”
She stood up, her body feeling suddenly frail, as if she were composed of only brittle bones and weak tendons ready to snap at a single blow from Jude.
“I’m not sad,” she said. “And I don’t look different. How would you even know when you’ve refused to so much as look at me?”
With that, he grinned and looked up at her, his heavy eyes lit with a boyish beauty. “Ah, Rowan. When will you ever learn?” Then he shook his head and went back to his work.
Staring at him, she felt rage burning in her chest. How was it that he could make her so angry? How was it that he always seemed to know how she felt without her saying a word? It was unfair. He had no right to her feelings. Her temper getting the better of her, she strode over to him, her hands clenched into fists, and took a single wretched swing at him. The force she’d put behind the blow was intense, but she never connected, for he caught her forearm gently in his hand, and looking deep into her eyes, he held her gaze.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said.
She wrenched her arm away from him and smoothed down the sleeve of her cloak.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she sneered, unwilling to let him see any more of her heart. “I’ve just come round to speak with Tom like I always do.”
“Why? Why are you trying to marry him off? Surely that can’t be in your best interest.”
“Jude, you’re not making any sense,” she said, changing tack and feigning concern. “Have you been at your mother’s ale again?”
“No, I’m just observant,” he said, something like kindness in his eyes. Rowan recoiled at that more than she would have from a blow. Kindness from Jude was disorienting, and it could mean many things, but she was sure that sincerity wasn’t one of them.
She took a step back but was unable to look away from him. His gaze seemed to pull her closer, to see deep within her. She wondered just how much he knew. “Why wouldn’t I want Tom to marry?” she asked, testing him.
“Do you want me to say it?” He raised his eyebrows. “Out loud?”
She opened her mouth to speak but found that the words refused to come.
“I don’t think you do,” he said, and shaking his head, he broke eye contact and went back to his whittling. “I don’t think you want me to say it.”
She stood there, breathless. Her cheeks began to burn, and she started to feel that familiar dizziness that usually accompanied making the mistake of engaging with Jude at all. It was always the same. She knew he meant to make her uncomfortable, and that was the pain of it all. He always succeeded.
Turning on her heel, she walked away with short determined steps, all the while looking at her feet.
“Don’t go,” he said, and she could hear him stand up.
She turned, fighting back the tears, and saw him standing there, arms out to the sides, something like regret in his eyes.
“Rowan,” he said. “I was only teasing. Don’t act like that.”
“Don’t tell me how to behave. I will act how I want to act, and I will feel how I want to feel.”
“Don’t go,” he said, his voice cracking. “Listen, I’ll go, okay? You can wait here for Tom.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. He climbed over the wall and walked away, slowly disappearing into the trees.
Rowan stood there a moment, watching Jude go, wondering how two brothers could be so completely different.
Then, as she always did when she was nervous, Rowan began to pace, slow steps, her small black boots sinking into the snow. She liked to count her steps … fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …
Somehow things didn’t have to be so bad. It wasn’t as if the world were ending or anything like that. Tom liked a girl and the girl liked him back. A beautiful girl, yes, a bewitching girl, true, but that didn’t have to mean anything so bad. Maybe he would get to know Fiona, and he would find her tiresome.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen …
Or maybe he would marry her.
And then there was a snap, a crack far out among the trees, and she found herself slowly backing away from the forest edge, staring into the darkness therein with eyes that didn’t want to see. Surely, she thought, it was only a rabbit or a deer, but maybe it wasn’t the right time to tell Tom after all. She found herself moving quickly out of the empty yard, back toward the sound of drunken voices on the other side of the inn. Soon she was out in the open again, Joel Proudy and Sarah Unger up ahead, laughing and smoking pipes. Rowan’s shoulders, which she hadn’t realized she’d been holding high and tensed, relaxed, and she fell into a comfortable stride, hoping the nascent and unexpected fear did not show on her face. Yes, Tom could wait. It was best to get home. It was best to get indoors.
5. THE MAGICIAN
IN THE MORNING when Rowan awoke, she sensed that the house was more full. There were extra noises, different smells. The duke must have arrived in the night, she realized. Market Day was Rowan’s favorite day of the week, and there was a bounce in her step as she dressed herself and went downstairs.
As she walked down the hall, she could hear the quiet muffle of voices behind closed doors. She wanted to stay and introduce herself, but her father had told her to head straight to market in the morning. When she passed his office, she thought she could hear her father raise his voice. That gave her pause, and she considered listening at the door, but she wasn’t a dishonest girl, and besides, she was eager to head out.
On Market Day, all the mountain folk of the smaller neighboring villages gathered in Nag’s End to sell their wares, and to buy and trade with others. It was always a festive time, and since it was the main opportunity for young people to socialize, the girls tended to fix their hair and the boys tended to wear their finest clothes, while their parents did their best to push them off in agreeable directions. But Rowan had no interest in courtship, so she never bothered to dress up for the day or to plait a purple ribbon into her hair to display her maidenhood, not even to dab smudge grass behind her ears, as was the custom among girls of a marriageable age.