Gwynn’s neck was gracious, holding her head high in spite of the disappointment heaped upon it. Her back was gracious and straight as a mast, and her gracious shoulders square as a yard. Even her eyes were gracious, unblinking and tearless, but her mouth…
In the shadow of the alcove Condal thought she would at last be free of fire. The heavy logs of the hearth blazed their heat out harmlessly into the room beyond. The countless candles shone at a distance, warming her no more than stars.
At last the hour had come. In augur of this historic event, the Divine Hand of Destiny had aligned all the earthly bodies in the room just as carefully as it arranged the heavenly. Cynan was with Gwynn’s father. Dunstan was occupying Kraaia. Britamund had taken Condal aside. Nothing stood between Cearball and Gwynn but Hetty.
Gwynn would not stop looking. If Cearball had even once looked up at her, Margaret would have assumed that Gwynn was merely attempting to engage him in a far-sighted flirtation. But Margaret could see Cearball from where she sat, and she saw what his violet eyes were doing. Better still she could see how Gwynn’s fat lip was swelling into a full-blown childish pout.
Supper had scarcely begun when Cat slammed down her fork and demanded, “What happened to boy girl, boy girl?”
Finally Cearball turned away in disgust. There was certainly no use in squinting or staring or twitching one’s head if the boy would not apologize when he was flatly told he was being rude.
The moment Britamund’s slipper crossed the threshold, Cynewulf leapt up and blurted, “Britamund, Cat, Flann, Gwynn—no, wait! Cat, Condal, Flann, Gwynn, Hetty, Lasrua, and… no—Kraaia, Lasrua, Leila. Is that everybody? Margaret! Of course!” He laughed deliriously. “My own sister!”
Gwynn caught Hetty’s arm just outside the door and dragged her to a halt.
“Wait! Wait, Brit!” she squeaked.
Britamund laid a heavy hand on Flann’s shoulder as she passed and waved the other at Cat and Hetty.
“Don’t get up, don’t get up, ladies,” she said breezily. “I will not have expecting mothers standing on my account, and I will not ask the rest of you to partition yourselves accordingly, lest you be forced to reveal any little secrets you would rather keep.” She winked down at Flann.
“It must be the most romantic thing!” Gwynn sighed. “I wish you would ask Osh to do my hair.”
“It wouldn’t be so romantic if he did every lady who asked him,” Flann smirked.
“Not every lady… just his dearest friends… and just for the party…”
“On your knees, bitch.”
Chapters
Latest Comment