Islien Plum Tart

"Red! I hope you're not too full from dinner. I have something for you."

The red-haired woman sitting alone by the fire, stripping cured beech branches into arrowshafts, flicked her eyes upward warily at the other woman's approach. Her ash-blond hair had been hacked off ineptly, and her face was filthy, but neither could disguise her fine features or her graceful bearing. "Evening, Maegrid."

Maegrid approached the fire, grinning, bearing a small dirty bundle in her hands, and presented it to the woman called Red, unable to contain her excitement. Still wary, Red set aside her arrowshafts and paring knife and reached for it. She unwrapped the dirty rags, and within found--

"A... pie?"

"It's Islien plum tart! I know you love plums. Hells, I saw you step over a full coin purse, last caravan we raided, to get to a basket of plums. I saw them at the bakery back in Seven Hills, so I thought I'd get you one... they make it just like the cooks at my family's est--" Maegrid stopped as she realized what she was saying, and where, and what it could cost her.

Red, however, made no sign. "How much do I owe you for this?"

"Haelyn, Red... it... you don't owe me anything!"

And that, she thought, marks you as painfully new to this life, and born painfully far from it, more than your soft hands or your gentle manners. No one does anything for anyone else, here, without expecting something in return. Maegrid was an odd one. She'd showed up a few months ago, cold and clearly near starvation, but still dignified and with a brave face, offering her sword to the ragtag band of brigands in exchange for such protection as they afforded. The men had been skeptical, and clearly a few of them had been interested in other attributes than her sword arm, but Red had warned them off, had invited Maegrid to spar to see what she could do on the field. She wasn't sure why-- usually weakness and naivety inspired contempt in her-- but there was something about the other woman that drew her. Something unfamiliar, a... kindness, a bravery, a stubborn unwillingness to show or admit fear or pain despite being worlds away from her element. And the girl proved to be good with a blade; Red speculated she'd trained under a skilled fencing master in her previous life. She lacked the pragmatic savagery of the back alleys and hedgerows; she'd need to acquire it if she wanted to last long in them, but Red hoped she could impart it, somehow...

She bit into the pie with the same savagery, but as her teeth parted its crust, she instinctively knew it demanded to be savoured. The pastry burst into her mouth in a thousand crisp, buttery flakes. The filling, sweet slices of plum, oozed with honey and cream. She had never eaten anything this fine, not in her whole life. The baker had even made it beautiful, woven into an artful lattice, with pieces of dough shaped to form leaves and petals adorning the top. It was almost a shame to eat it. Gods, it must have cost Maegrid enough silver to eat rock-hard trail bread and questionable stew for several days.

"This is a pie fit for a baroness, Maegrid," Red said. "Too good for a lowlife like me. Many thanks, milady!" And she set it down and attempted a bow.

To her surprise, Maegrid's smile widened. "If you're eating a pie with a baroness, you'd say something a bit more flowery... 'Tis a pleasure to sup in your garden, your Grace! Would that the Count were not in his cups and spilling the good Brosien vintage down the front of his silk doublet!" And she swept a curtsy that was no less graceful for her stained trousers, or the fact that they occupied a bandit's roadside encampment, not a perfumed garden.

Red laughed and, imitating her inflections, intoned "Come, then, to the Great Hall, your grace! We shall dance till Avani raises her lantern above yonder hills!" And she mimicked Maegrid's curtsy.

Maegrid giggled and clapped her hands. "Damn, Red, just a little practice and you could probably trick a noble lord into marrying you!" For indeed, Red had always had a knack for accents and mannerisms, and it rarely took her more than a try or two to learn a move with knife or bow... curtsying was comparatively effortless.

"Oh really? Sounds like a better life than robbing merchants. Maybe you'll have to teach me more sometime. For now, why don't you share this pie with me? It's too good not to share. Sit down, I've been saving a flask of brandy that isn't entirely awful."

------------

Reynhild sat at the window, staring down into the moonlit garden. She could barely breathe, with the whalebone corset strangling her midsection, felt clumsy with the frothy confection of a violet gown tangling her legs. Elena snored softly from the cot adjacent to her big empty bed.

She thought she'd hated Stormpoint when she'd visited its whorehouses and alleys; that was nothing, nothing, to the profound, soul-gutting despair and loneliness its palaces engendered in her. This place has nothing for me. I hate it here. I don't belong here. Cathal barely belongs here more than I do, though I could play its hateful games better than he could. 

Not for the first time, she thought of how Corrac would have handled any of this. Hah. He always knew what to say, but not in the manner of these silver-tongued lackey toads; the irrepressible, genuine sunshine of his nature won everyone over. He would have had those venom-spewing, two-faced vipers eating out of his hand.

Reynhild's gaze flickered over to the empty bed. Appearances needed to be kept up, after all. Her mood sank even further. She was far from a fool; the people of the Keep would never dare to criticize her or Cathal, but Merrec's disapproval at their liaison screamed loud and clear at her from the slightest furrow of brow and tension around his mouth.

What are you doing, anyway, you gods-damned, worthless, lying, deceiving impostor. Cathal and Mara are great people, destined for greatness. You are nothing. You don't belong here. None of this was ever meant for you. Corrac wasn't even meant for you, and his brother even less so. If you cared for either of them even a quarter as much as you profess to, you'd leap out this tower window and break your own neck on the paving stones.

She'd seen the noblewomen around the round palace; she'd seen their hungry gazes alighting on Cathal, broad-shouldered and golden-haired and cutting a fine figure in his elegant doublet. If you really cared about him, or about the House, you'd let one of them have him. You'd let her wealth bolster the House's coffers and her womb spit out a dozen little Fulcairn heirs. You'd reassume the role of grieving widow and live out your days with the hounds and the hawks, like you should have done in the first place.

Or you'd just disappear altogether. Free the Fulcairns from the curse that you bring down on everything you love.

She thought of Maegrid. Maegrid, who'd taught her to speak like a noblewoman, who'd taught her to read and write and curtsy and recite poetry, the names of the Great Houses and their histories. Her first and only friend. The memory tore at her heart, rent it into pieces. Less than a year after she'd bought Reynhild that Islien plum tart, she was dead. Her fencing master had taught her skills against a single opponent in an honourable duel. They'd attempted to rob a lord's carriage on the Great Highway, and a guard patrol had come along and split them up. Three had cornered Maegrid, and one of their swords had half cleaved off her head.

She should have been riding in that carriage, not robbing it. Reynhild had never learned who Maegrid was, or why she had left her life of wealth and comfort. One never asked, not in the quiet desperation of the roadside camps.

Gods. Maybe she was a daughter or a sister to one of the Taeghan nobles at the gathering. Maybe one of them mourned her loss, felt her absence as deep an ache as Reynhild did.

I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere. All I do is bring a curse on everything I love.

Maybe they're better off without me.

Maybe they're all better off without me.