Part X: Consequences

He took her to the moon and back, and it was late morning by the time they finally awoke. Bronwyn blinked awake, smelling something fantastic cooking. She sat up, and the bedclothes fell away from her, revealing to her her nakedness and reminding her abruptly of the previous night’s activities. She flushed, but her clothes were neatly folded at the end of the bed, and the door was closed.

She dressed quickly, and combed her hair with her fingers before braiding it in its usual plait. Straightening her dress, wishing for her apron, a cloak, more layers than she had, she opened the door and peeked into the kitchen.

Tristan was at the stove, an apron haphazardly tied around his waist. His brow was furrowed; he was tilting the skillet in swift circular motions. Every other breath he would take up whistling part of a tune, and then stop absentmindedly.

She smiled to herself, standing a little straighter. He wouldn’t make her feel dirty or ashamed. Pushing the door all the way open she strode across the room and sat at the table, conscious of a new tenderness between her legs.

“Awake at last,” said Tristan, turning his head and throwing her a smile. He returned to his task; flipping the thin pancake out of the skillet, he added it to a small pile on a plate, covering it with a towel, and then adding another ladleful of batter to the pan. “I’m making breakfast.”

“I see that,” said Bronwyn, amused. “And what are we having?”

“They’re called crêpes. I have blackberry jam and sweet cream for them, and sausage in a moment.” He completed another of the crêpes and paused, pulling down another skillet and popping several links of sausage on it, setting it on a burner. A small spark of magical energy and a flame was lit underneath the pan, and the sausages began to sizzle.

“Smells wonderful.” Bronwyn breathed deeply the aromas emanating from the stove and watched Tristan cook, the graceful way he moved, the odd tune he was half-whistling.

She glanced out the window and took in a sharp breath. The snow was very deep; several feet at least. And the frost lacing the glass indicated a very frosty temperature. She shivered just thinking about the miserable time she’d have getting back to Willowood.

“Don’t think about going just yet,” said Tristan, setting the platter of crêpes and a jar of dark jam on the table. He took a few more trips to bring the sausage, bread and butter and the cream over, and finally sat, smiling brightly at Bronwyn.

“Shall we eat?” he asked. She nodded mutely, and he showed her how to put butter, cream and jam in the middle of the crêpe and roll it up, drizzling it with more cream. They ate with gusto, every last crêpe and sausage link.

Bronwyn sat back with a sigh, gazing fondly at Tristan. “So what now?” she asked with a vague gesture.

Tristan gazed out the window for a moment, chewing the edge of his lip in thought. He sighed and pulled from the pocket of his apron a pipe and a leather pouch of pipeweed, lighting it with a flick of his fingers. He took several deep, pensive puffs before answering. “We have to get you back to Willowood.”

“Yes,” said Bronwyn. She waited.

“How did you get away last night?” Tristan’s gaze flickered toward her for a moment when he asked this.

Guiltily Bronwyn chuckled. “I spiked dinner with sleeping herbs. I think Enru caught on, but only after he’d eaten three helpings, and was already half-asleep.” Tristan grinned.

“Of all the ways of sneaking out, that was probably the most sure, except you didn’t plan for the snow.”

Bronwyn sighed. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted. “I wasn’t watching the weather, I was trying to slip the herbs into the food without being caught.” Her tone was rueful.

“You were incredibly ingenuous, and I am proud of you,” said Tristan, taking her hand. “We just have to get going soon, if we’re to make it back before dark. It’s past noon already.”

Bronwyn blinked in surprise. “Already?” she asked in disbelief. Tristan nodded, laughing at her discomfiture.

“Yes. You slept very late, my darling.” Bronwyn froze for a split second, the term of endearment hanging in the air, before she forced herself to forget it. He probably told every village girl that he loved them, she thought to herself viciously. Her smile became brittle and she dodged his gaze.

She couldn’t deceive him, though. He tilted his head, catching her chin in his hand. “What is it, Bronwyn?” he asked gently. She shook her head, forcing away the tears that threatened to spill. Something was different, she sensed, and it made her irritable that the fragile budding relationship was somehow altered.

“All right,” said Tristan, lifting his hands defensively. “You don’t have to tell me, but I do wish you would.” He regarded her for a moment, but her expression stubbornly did not change. “Bundle up,” he finally said. “I’ll go saddle Trylla and Jethro so we can get started back to Willowood.” He stood and donned a heavy dark red cloak, leather gloves and his boots. Bronwyn watched him prepare in silence, and when the door had shut after him with a firm click she let out a watery sigh, and let the tears flow for a moment.

He was acting as though he cared, that what he had said last night was true. But Bronwyn couldn’t afford to delude herself-she’d broken her promise to both Enru and Bèatrix, and she felt shameful of that.

She donned her own dark blue cloak and riding boots slowly, making sure her face was dry of tears before she stepped outside, making sure the door was latched firmly behind her.

Tristan was patting Trylla’s neck, as she stamped nervously in the snow. “She doesn’t like the way the snow slides underfoot,” explained Tristan, giving Bronwyn a boot up into the saddle. Bronwyn looked around.

“Where’s Jethro?” she asked. Tristan lifted the broom in his hand.

“I’ll go on foot and make a path for Trylla. She's skittish today, and it’s deep.” His manner was brusque, curt almost.

“Thank you,” said Bronwyn rather frostily. Two could play that game. They maintained a cool silence the long frigid ride home, and only when Bronwyn almost slipped dismounting did any of the former friendliness burst forth.

Her left foot caught in the stirrup, and she nearly fell flat on her back but Tristan caught her easily, dropping the broom into a snowbank.

“Easy there,” he said, and Bronwyn winced at the wrenched muscle in her leg, right up the inside of her thigh to her groin. She limped inside, and Bèatrix looked up, eyes snapping. They softened-minutely-as she saw the young woman’s injury, but she was clearly upset.

Gods damn it all, thought Bronwyn. She was very tired and not at all in the mood to deal with Bèatrix.

Where were you? demanded Enru, leaping onto the table. He paced agitatedly. What happened?

“I went for a ride last night; I couldn’t sleep,” said Bronwyn dully. “I got caught in the storm and Tristan saved me.”

‘Tristan saved you’ my ass! spat the cat. His fur was bristling with anger. You went up to see him and didn’t plan for the storm, you little tramp!

“Enru!” said Bèatrix sharply, but it was too late. Rage was rising in Bronwyn, and her face grew red.

“Yes, I saw him, and yes, I spent the night, and yes, I have joined the ranks of stupid village girls!” she cried, fists clenched. “I don’t care!” She strode past Bèatrix toward her bedroom, pausing at the door and turning. Her posture softened. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said cryptically, and went to go sleep in her bed.