Percia was so excited she couldn’t stop twirling. The letters from Lordling Marcot and Duchess Naven had arrived a week ago. After spending time in the other two Eastern Duchies, Marcot had chosen to return to the duke’s manor house for Winterfest. The duke and duchess had invited her, her mother, and Tilim to spend a week with them and their special houseguest from Cascada. They would be sending a coach for their visitors on the morrow.
“I’m so pleased,” said Stahlia. “Holidays are the hardest time; we miss Wilim and Wren keenly then. Being somewhere new will be a welcome change. How very thoughtful of the duchess.”
Percia privately wondered if the invitation came at the duchess’s instigation, or whether the duke and Lordling Marcot had pressured her into the invitation, but it really didn’t matter because she was overjoyed to see Lordling Marcot again.
Marcot had visited their cottage once more in the fall. He had invited Percia to show him Wyndton and her dancing school, and they had had several hours alone together (if one didn’t count the Cascada guards, who followed him discreetly). They had talked and talked; they could have gone on for hours. When he left that day, he had bowed to her and kissed her hand.
Percia had hardly been able to think of anything else since meeting Marcot. Thoughtful gifts had arrived from Barston—a lovely bowl for her mother, a practice sword for Tilim, and a wrap of the finest silk for her. Just as precious was the note that accompanied the gifts.
Mistress Stahlia of Wyndton,
Greetings.
My visits with your family have been the high point of my journeys. I hope you will accept these small tokens of my esteem. In addition, I entreat you to permit me to visit with you again before too long.
Your servant,
Marcot of Cascada
When the letter had come, Stahlia had said to Percia, “We should not encourage this young man if you do not fancy him. Do you know your own heart?”
“Aye, Mother, I do.”
“You’d like to get to know him better?” Stahlia had asked with a teasing smile.
“Oh, yes!”
So her mother had written back, thanking Marcot for the gifts. And she’d allowed Percia to add a line.
And Percia would see him tomorrow! She ran about in a joyous flurry, unearthing skirts from trunks, trying to get Tilim to sit for a haircut, and arranging for Lem and Rooks to tend the horses and chickens while they were away.
Stahlia took care of gifts to give their hosts. With her backstrap loom she had stayed up late into the nights, creating sashes for the duke, duchess, and all their daughters, each colorful and one of a kind. For Lordling Marcot she wove a blue river running through a green embankment, with a fringe of green and blue.
Percia hugged her mother with gratitude. “Oh, Mama, such a special gift!”
When they arrived at the manor house, the duchess greeted them with formal politeness. But Percia didn’t mind; she only had eyes for Marcot, and he only for her. When they could escape on a walk together, they didn’t notice the frosty temperatures.
Their hosts planned for dancing in the manor’s great room, so Percia organized everybody into lessons to refresh their knowledge of the Winterfest Reel. Tilim and the children of the now-wedded duchettes who were also visiting for the holiday went wild with delight. The house servants joined in, as did the lordling’s Cascada guards and even the duke and duchess. The practice sessions sent them all into gales of laughter, especially when Marcot collided with a footman.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Lordling Marcot said. “Let me help you up.”
“My fault entirely, my lord,” said the footman, whom Percia recognized as one of Nettie’s cousins. He added, with a wry smile, “I should have known better than to take my eyes off a man in his cups.” Although no one had been drinking any spirits, Marcot was obviously drunk on something, so the room rang with laughter.
The night before the feast it snowed heavily, and white blankets decorated every tree and shrub. The manor house overflowed with candles, and the fireplaces glowed; candied nuts and hot mulled cider were set out in every room. Two other families—one a wealthy sawmill owner, and the other distant relations—came for the feast, which was served at midday. The table grew so cluttered with cuts of venison and roast goose, potatoes and glazed carrots, spinach in walnut paste and stewed apples, that passing the dishes around became an exercise in finding space to set them down.
During the meal, much talk ensued about conditions in Weirandale. All the older guests wanted to ask Lordling Marcot about his father’s plans to quell the flurries of unrest they had read about in the broadsheets. While most of the Weir gentry stood behind Regent Matwyck (Percia saw Duke Naven raise his eyebrows at his cousin’s protestations), everyone worried whether the common folk would rise up. Percia found the political situation confusing and slightly frightening, and she was eager to spare Marcot any discomfort or embarrassment. The children inadvertently aided her, because they grew bored by political talk, started wiggling, and interrupted. Another day, they would have been disciplined and sent to the nursery, but Winterfest was a time of indulgence.
After the meal, the furniture was pushed back, the musicians invited in, and the floor belonged to the dancers. The older generation paraded through the reel with dignity. Duke Naven escorted his female relation, and Marcot accompanied Duchess Naven. Then the young adults and children took over—twirling, capering, and shouting with laughter. Every time Marcot and Percia touched hands, she felt a tingle; when his hand held her waist, she grew warm.
The dancers got so overheated they had to throw wide the room’s windows for a spell. Light snow fell steadily—and with curtains drawn and windows agape, it looked as if it were snowing inside. Then servants opened the house to everyone from the hamlet surrounding the manor for dessert: throngs came to enjoy hot apple custard cake and snowballs with pumpkin-honey syrup, while Duke Naven passed out coins and toys and Duchess Naven bestowed bars of her lilac soap. The adults were servile and quiet but their children ran wild with excitement.
The hour grew late. As the servants cleared the dishes and restored the great room, the houseguests gathered in the manor library to exchange presents. When her mother passed out the sashes, the duchettes exclaimed over them and Percia beamed with pride. Marcot thought his was “magnificent,” but he pretended he didn’t know the best way to wear it, so Percia had to go help him tie it on, standing so close she could smell the honey on his breath and a whiff of pomade in his hair.
Marcot gave her mother a set of small porcelain bowls that matched the large one he’d sent previously and handed Tilim a small archery bow. He passed Percia a box; she held on to her gift as long as she could, watching other people open their packages, savoring the expectation. When she finally opened the box she found two bracelet cuffs of hammered gold nestled in silk, perfect accents for a dancer’s arms.
Percia looked at the glittering bracelets. The library, so full of chatter a moment ago, fell awkwardly silent. Such jewelry was too costly a gift for a friend or an acquaintance. (He had given each of the duchettes a fox fur hand warmer—a nice gift, but impersonal.) By giving her golden jewelry, in the duke’s house, no less, Marcot had publicly announced his intention to court her.
“Mother,” Percia asked quietly, “may I accept these?”
All eyes turned to Stahlia. She kept her face neutral when she answered, “That’s for you to say, my daughter.”
“If the choice is mine,” said Percia, carefully looking down, “then I am grateful for such a lovely gift.” She slipped her hands through each cuff and held her arms out.
One of the young duchettes squealed and clapped.
“The bracelets are not half as fair as she who wears them,” said Marcot.
The day guests had their coaches brought out to ferry them home, and much fuss ensued about blankets and foot warmers, and many cautions about snow-covered roads. In the bustle, Marcot grabbed Percia’s hand and pulled her into a servants’ stairwell and up half a dozen steps.
“Do you like your present?” he asked.
“You know I do,” Percia answered, cheeks growing hot.
“Percia, may I speak to your mother about courting you?” He kept his court poise, but his eyes danced.
“Oh, is that what you’ve been doing?”
“Vixen!” He bent to kiss her.
In a moment she pulled back. She looked at him seriously a moment and brushed his amber top curls back from his forehead. “Scoundrel!” she chided, and kissed him back.
“Well, may I?” he asked, shaking her arms just a little.
“You’d better,” Percia answered, “because by now I’m sure everybody has noticed our absence.”
A quiet rap sounded on the door to the staircase and the lovers sprang apart, anxiously looking down. After a beat the door was pulled open and Tilim poked his head in. “I’ve been watching the door,” he said, “but you’d better come out now. Mama is looking for both of you.”
Percia patted her hair and tried to smooth her cheeks.
“Not to worry, Percie, you look fine—or you would if you’d stop grinning like a lackwit,” said her little brother with a judicious air. “You come first, Lordling. I’ll come back for you in a tick, Percie.”
Mother shot her a stern glance when their paths crossed, but she wasn’t actually angry. When they went up to bed, Percia twirled around the room with her skirt flaring and her golden bracelets twinkling high above her head and then threw herself on the feather mattress to make it bounce. Her mother, seated on a chair rubbing her stiff neck, smiled wistfully and did not chide.