Tristan took Bronwyn home after he fed her fried eggs, onions, bacon and toast. She was comfortably full and more than a touch sleepy; this was the most exertion she’d had since she’d overstretched her powers with Millie Thatcher.
Bèatrix was waiting for them, sitting on a bench out front in the sun. “Ah,” she said softly when they approached, “The fine Mistress has come home at last.” Bronwyn dropped her head meekly, biting her tongue. “How kind of you to deign arrive on time for a meal!”
Lunch, thought Bronwyn, mortified. She had taken to preparing all the meals for the family, and had totally forgotten to make something ahead of time for Bèatrix.
“I am sorry, Bèatrix,” she said. “I-forgot.”
“We lost track of time up on the trail,” said Tristan smoothly. “I’m sure we’re all starving now.” Bronwyn looked at him but nodded, feeling how full she really was.
“I’ll get some water boiling,” she said, moving to dismount, but Bèatrix waved her off.
“You think I’m so helpless I can’t make a simple meal for myself?” she complained. “You’ve been spending too much time with Tristan. He’s always telling me I need to retire.”
“She always tells me this is her retirement.” Tristan twisted a smile at Bèatrix, dismounting easily. Bronwyn had a little more trouble; her legs were still sore from the long morning ride.
“Aye, a comfortable enough life it is, birthing the occasional baby, living simply in the countryside, not bothering no one…” Bèatrix shrugged. “I like it.” She fixed Bronwyn with a stern eye. “You, however, miss, have been bothering someone, and it needs to stop.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Bronwyn timidly, trying to lead her horse away, trying to hide behind Trylla.
“I’ll tell you later,” said Bèatrix with a sigh. “Tristan will put up Trylla, won’t you, boy?” Tristan nodded and shrugged.
“Sure, Bèatrix. Anything for the Sorceress.” He took Trylla’s reins from Bronwyn, and his hand brushed hers. She felt the point of contact on her skin burn after he was gone, and she resisted the urge to touch it, rub it, kiss it.
Once Tristan had rounded the corner of the house to the barn, Bèatrix looked at Bronwyn. “Inside,” she said tersely. “Now.”
Bronwyn sighed and obeyed, pulling her apron from its hook just inside the door and tying it on out of habit.
“Sit,” commanded Bèatrix, entering behind her and closing the door firmly. Bronwyn glumly sat on the bench in front of the table, leaning her elbows on it and resting her chin in her hands. Enru was perched on the opposite side of the table, and he wouldn’t look at her. He exuded an injured silence that infuriated Bronwyn.
Bèatrix sat next to Enru, filling her pipe and lighting it. She puffed a few smoke rings thoughtfully before she spoke. “Bronwyn,” she said, and her voice was surprisingly gentle. “I know what you feel towards Tristan. It has to stop. Now, before it goes any further. He is not the sort of man you deserve.”
“Isn’t he your great-great-great-grandson?” asked Bronwyn. Bèatrix nodded.
“Aye, he is, and many more greats beyond that. But he-he is not a gentleman. He could get you with child and think nothing of going off with a milkmaid from the village while you were in labor. He has done it before, to too many girls, and I will not see him ruin you!”
Bronwyn shook her head; this was not right, that didn’t describe the Tristan she knew. “He’s nice to me,” she said finally. “He shows me things.”
“Enru can show you, or I can. He should know better than to even talk to you, let alone whisk you off to gods know where without letting anyone know. If the village knew, your reputation would already be ruined.”
Bronwyn stared at Bèatrix. “Why would I care about my reputation in the village?” she asked, perplexed. The incident with Thomas and Millie Thatcher was the only contact Bronwyn had had with the village in the nearly six months of her residence.
Because reputations travel, and especially bad ones. Someday you will need to find a husband and settle with a family for a while, to continue the line of Sorceresses. Without a good reputation, you cannot find a good, decent husband who would take care of you as you deserve. Enru’s voice was sad. He finally looked at Bronwyn. And that’s all I care about, for while you have your family I cannot guard you, I cannot be with you.
Bronwyn stood. “All right,” she said finally. “I’ll stay away from Tristan,” and her voice was sad, too, because he was...She sighed. Tristan was Tristan, and she would miss him.
The next morning Bronwyn had already forgotten their plan to trap Bèatrix in her daily deception. She was frying some bacon and cornmeal together when the door opened, and he appeared. Her heart leapt, then sank, because she remembered her promise to Enru and Bèatrix.
But he barely glanced at her. That must be the construct, Yldan in disguise, or whatever, thought Bronwyn, watching the figure out of the corner of her eye. She filled a mug with warmed cider and placed it in front of him.
“There you go, Tristan,” she said cheerfully-and loudly. Bèatrix appeared within two minutes, and Enru twined around her ankles. She dropped him a piece of sausage, humming quietly, for now she remembered, and knew the real Tristan would be showing up shortly.
She set the plates, heaping with steaming food, on the table, and sat herself down, looking around. She waited, and waited, and finally the three humans began to eat. Enru sat on Bronwyn’s lap, purring softly when she fed him bits of bacon and sausage and egg.
The real Tristan did not show up for breakfast, and Bronwyn’s heart was heavy as she began clearing the empty plates and setting them in the basin of soapy water for washing.
Enru sat before the fire, watching her as she scrubbed. He could tell that she was upset, but marked it down as Tristan’s silence at breakfast. He hadn’t even greeted Bronwyn today.
After the dishes were done, Bronwyn set to sweeping the kitchen, opening the door wide to let the sweet summer air in. She was banking the fire, letting the embers smolder for when she needed to stir it up again for supper, when there was a soft knock on the doorframe. She stood, turning, and smiled self-consciously. Tristan was standing in the doorway, a large basket of fragrant herbs and flowers in his hands.
“These are for Bèatrix. She’ll show you how to dry each one, and explain what they’re for.” He set the basket on the table, and, mindful of Enru, Bronwyn smiled faintly.
“Thank you, Tristan,” she said formally, and turned. His eyes watched the way the skirt of her dress swirled around her hips, and when she knelt before the fire his eyebrows arched up.
Abruptly he felt a sharp pain in his calf, and he looked down. Enru was biting him. That’s enough, Tristan, he said. You’ve delivered your goods, now be on your way.
“All right, all right,” grumbled Tristan, throwing Bronwyn’s backside one last wistful glance as he left the kitchen.
And you, sashaying around to catch his attention. Enru leapt on his mistress’s shoulders, and she stood carefully, scratching his ears.
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently. “I was sweeping the embers into the fireplace.” She smiled as she pulled several red roses from the basket, separating them out carefully.
“Those aren’t for you,” said Bèatrix irritably. “They’re for the rosehips, and the petals. They make good tea.”
“Right,” said Bronwyn with a straight face. She didn’t believe a word of it; there were rosebushes aplenty right next to the house, in the garden by the gate. He didn’t need to find such perfect specimens when there were many more adequate ones so close by.Bèatrix, of course, knew this too, and she resolved to have a stern talk with Tristan about his wooing of her Apprentice.
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