Freedom

ALEEN’S father did not live long after Jem disappeared. A man full of anger and hatred and the need for control does not make many friends, and Aleen suspected that the innkeeper had poisoned his drinks. The innkeeper was an old man who would often walk by her house and look for her, not out of curiosity but out of concern, judging by the sharp gaze that softened each time it met hers. She would stand by the window and wave, a prisoner in her own home. She had not fought it this time, though. Her heart had died when Jem left.

So Aleen did not grieve all that much when her father dropped dead one day and she found herself quite unexpectedly free. She could move about as much as she desired. She could lift her face to the sunny sky and smell the wind and touch the trees behind which she and Jem had hidden during their evening meetings so watching eyes would not see the magic they practiced. Someone’s eyes had watched, though. She had never discovered whose.

Aleen had not been free for long before she caught the eye of one of the village men. Perhaps it was her dark, exotic skin, or her even darker eyes. Perhaps it was the stories people told of her, in which she sounded mysterious and a bit frightening. Perhaps he wanted to discover how much of what was said about this woman was true. At any rate, he approached her in the village streets.

“Aleen,” he said.

She had been walking home. She turned and met his eyes, soft green and clear, like the foliage of White Wind’s evergreens. She did not trust many men, after her father. One man had told of her plans with Jem, after all. And another had beaten her and tied her up. A woman who has been through such betrayal does not trust easily.

But Aleen looked into the heart of this man before her, and she saw that it was good.

“Yes,” she said, as if agreeing with what her heart told her.

“I am Milton,” the man said. He stuck out his hand. It was large and hairy. Aleen stuck her own small hand in his. His skin was softer than she had imagined. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance finally.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Aleen said. They bowed to each other. Milton did not let go of her hand.

“I would like to ask your permission to call on you,” Milton said.

Aleen dipped her head. “I should like that very much,” she said.

For weeks he knocked on her door and they would stroll through the village, until one day he asked if she would care to sup with him, and she said yes. They ate a humble dinner of broth and bread down at the innkeeper’s place. He told her that he was not a man of wealth, but he was a man of integrity. He would give her a quiet home and love her well. She could see that already.

“I have watched you for some time,” Milton said. “You are very sad.”

Aleen dropped her eyes. “Not so sad that I can never be happy again,” she said, though she wondered if it was true.

“I would like to try to make you happy again,” Milton said. “I would like you to be my wife.”

Aleen inclined her head toward him. “I would very much like that,” she said.

He was not Jem, of course. But Aleen soon grew to love Milton, in a very different way, like a friend. They married on a sunny winter morning while the townspeople looked on.