It took four days for Ferdinand to recover enough to be able to have a conversation. He’d stumbled through the portal, and it had been immediately obvious that he’d been caught in some snap of magical backlash. Lucas - who had better French - had gone off to find somewhere for them to be, and they’d ended up in a small magical enclave a mile or so away.
They’d been lucky, because the enclave had been remarkably kind to foreign strangers. Lucas had brought a man with a cart and an ox and a willingness to put the lot of them up in exchange for a modest sum of money. Rathna had made a show of counting out the coins from the purse tucked under her skirt, not letting on that there were more coins locked away in her trunk. She was glad she was wearing her engagement ring on a sturdy chain under her clothing, too, rather than having it show in a way that might tempt too much. That wasn’t either kind or sensible.
The enclave wasn’t really a village, more a farm and a collection of crafting buildings, along with homes for half a dozen closely connected families. All apparently named Royer, so Rathna just applied “M’sieur” and “Madame” and “Mademoiselle” with the surname to everyone, based on age and how they wore their hair.
The five of them had been bustled up into two rooms above the stables, currently otherwise unoccupied. They were fitted out with narrow beds better suited for young men and women who had fewer aches and pains. There was at least indoor plumbing, though getting hot water was apparently a production. She was still getting used to the accent. Her French was competent for some things but nowhere near fluent. She gathered the stable rooms were kept for people coming in for festivals and for the harvest, extra labour.
This was the sort of situation Rathna had dreaded. Not quite as much as the more dangerous ones, but their place was tenuous, and she knew it. She was London’s child. She knew a bit about horses, because of Gabe and his parents, but she knew very little about farming except that she respected the sheer amount of work it involved. More about the hops harvest, admittedly, but that was hard to escape in their bit of Kent. This was not in the best known wine-regions, but there were rows of grapes and fields of grain nearby.
Rathna certainly wasn’t competent with most of the household tasks needed. She couldn’t milk a cow or a goat, or get them to go anywhere useful. She was more or less able to feed chickens and gather eggs, but she also was not much good in a kitchen. Ordinary domestic matters for someone older than a child were not parts of her education anyone had thought should have a lot of time, one way and another. She was able to do darning and simple needlework. Morah Avigail had considered that a necessary thing for any woman. But the Royers made intricate lace and wickerwork, far beyond the skills of her own fingers.
And, of course, they weren’t about to trust her with the children. Rathna had skill and experience there, but they were strangers. And more to the point, strangers with unknown magical abilities. She’d seen more than a few gestures she was sure were wards against enchantment, curses, or raw bad luck. She’d ignored them; it was the only civil solution. No one had asked much about her background, once Lucas and Grietje had explained that the four of them were from Albion, and Grietje herself had connections there.
It had left Rathna to sit out on the terrace with a basket, sorting out the bean from the stones. As she was finishing up, Lucas came and waited for her to look up. “I think Ferdinand is waking properly. Will you come?”
In four days, he had only come awake for long enough for Lucas to get him to a chamberpot or for one of them to pour broth down him. He’d been muzzy, the kind of thing that would be taken for too much drink and a hangover if they hadn’t known better. Certainly, he’d not been coherent enough for anything like a conversation. Rathna had kept watch over him, along with the others, paying attention to how he winced at any noise. A blinding headache, for certain. But the Royers had a well enough trained healer among them, who had determined there was nothing worse, at least nothing obvious.
By the time Rathna got upstairs in the stables, Ferdinand was bracing himself on one elbow, grimacing. The shutters were closed against the afternoon light, only a gentle charmlight in one of the hooded lanterns they’d brought along. “Lucas is getting you some coffee.”
Ferdinand rubbed his face, tried to sit up more, and then toppled back onto one elbow. “Mistress, I.”
“Don’t be like that.” Her voice cut through his visible uncertainty, but she kept it even and patient. “We’re safe for the moment. You take the time you need to recover.” She wasn’t going to tut over him like one of her children, but he still deserved every bit of care she could offer. Not just because he’d taken a tremendous risk, but because she was responsible for him in that particular way. “Are you up for talking a little?”
Ferdinand started to nod and thought better of it. “I think so.”
“How do you feel? As much of a proper report as you can manage.” Rathna considered and then settled down on the chair beside his bed.
“A blinding headache. Better than it was. Is there a pain potion?” He went on before she could answer. “Aches everywhere. I don’t want to think about magic, even something simple. But I don’t feel as if anything’s a problem there, specifically. I can feel it still, still there. Backlash?”
“Backlash. And you can have a pain potion once you have a little food or at least more broth. We’re in a cluster of houses, a little magical community. We’re up above their stables, a mile or so from the Dax portal.” Well-managed stables, thankfully, and in this season the horses were mostly out in the near field, besides.
“The portal here.” He grimaced, rubbing his nose, then adding too quickly. “Let me talk, please, Mistress Rathna.”
She settled back in her chair. “As you wish.”
“The one at Groningen collapsed behind me. This one, it was, it has not been tended well. Raw. Jagged. By the time I came through.”
Rathna considered her own trip. “It’s hard to tell with the older Fatae portals. They’re not maintained the same way here. By rote, with the rituals, not by touch.” Not by the intimacy of the magic that Rathna knew and that Ferdinand was learning. Specifically, how the tending meant coming to the portal near enough as to a lover or an intimate friend, if it was done right. Or at least so Morah Avigail had taught, if not remotely in those sorts of terms.
Something of it must have shown on her face, because Ferdinand blinked at her owlishly in the dim light. “Mistress?”
“I was thinking about how I was trained. To touch the portal as a friend. Having a relationship with it, even if often that’s borrowing the relationship we have with another portal. You know, you meet someone at a party, and then you compare who you were in school with, or who you’re related to. You make a connection, and everyone’s happier, knowing their place in the dance.”
It made Ferdinand laugh, abruptly, before he winced and lowered himself carefully back onto the pillows.
“Pardon, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Rathna watched him closely now.
He lifted one hand and let it drop. “Rather laugh than not.” It reminded Rathna, in the moment, very much of both Alysoun and Gabe. She nodded, and at that point Lucas came in with a flask.
“Coffee. Milky, hope that’s all right.”
Ferdinand reached for it rather eagerly. “I’m sure it’s grand. Thank them for me, please?” He took a long drink, sighing, then getting himself more upright against the headboard. “Who am I thanking?”
“An extended family, the Royers. There’s a lot of agriculture, wine, grains, a lot of domestic livestock, mostly for their own food. You have missed me learning how to feed chickens.” Rathna said the last with good humour.
“I am sure you are a quick learner, Mistress. I do, in fact, know what to do with a chicken, if it’s helpful.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh?”
“The home farm, when I was little. Mutti - Mama - thought it was good for me to have the fresh air. I can pluck a bird, too, that’s from being at shoots.” He glanced away. “What do they know about us?”
“That we’re from Albion, our names, that we are trying to figure out what to do next. They have been kind, we have paid for our room and board, and can continue to do so.” Rathna laid it out evenly, though there were a number of things she was not saying, and would not unless she was certain they were private. The kind of private that involved a large field with a clear view in all directions and a good few charms, to boot.
“Are you recovered, Mistress?”
It was thoughtful of him to ask, though also relevant. “A little drained, still, but doing better. If you need vitality, we can manage that.”
He didn’t quite shake his head, just the first hint of it, before he thought better of it. “Not yet, please. I don’t think it would help much. I still feel raw, like perhaps a sunburn?” Not something he’d have had overmuch experience with, and not something Rathna worried much about.
“Which brings us back to the portal. Do you think this one’s damaged permanently?” She hadn’t gone to inspect it further. She hadn’t wanted so much time away from Ferdinand or the others.
“Strained, certainly. Possibly strained through a sieve, like I feel.” He was recovering a bit, to make a joke, if a weak one.
Rathna nodded. “Drink more of your coffee. It’s helping. And then you can have some bread and broth and a potion.” She considered. “When you’re up to the walk or the cart, we’ll go have a look. You needn’t touch it, not yet, but I’d like your thoughts as I have a feel. If they’ll let me.”
“Let you, mistress?”
“Different country, different laws. And there’s nothing like us on the Continent, you know that.” It was part of why they’d got away with the plan for so long in the first place. The Dutch and French barely understood that there were people in Albion who tended the portals. Fewer actually believed that they made them, from time to time. “I think I can probably be convincing enough. It’s more like a lighthouse, here, a public good, but normally they’d have to petition to the Fatae to tend it, and we’re out of season for that. Not yet Solstice.”
“And - and...” His voice trailed off. “Where are we going from here?”
“That, well. That is a very excellent question.” Rathna settled back in her chair. At that point, Lucas knocked, bringing in a small tray with a bowl of broth with some thoroughly cooked vegetables, a soft roll, and some spreadable cheese. A reasonable meal for recovery. “Try that, a little at a time. Stop if it’s too much. I’ll fetch a potion, if you can keep handy for a minute, Lucas?”
He nodded, and she went across to her trunk in the other room, brushing her fingers to release a series of locks. First the obvious ones, then the blood lock, and finally the most obscure, one of Gabe’s little tricks. She drew out the vial of potion, one of only a half-dozen they had of that strength, and was grateful they hadn’t needed them in the Netherlands.
By the time she brought it back, Ferdinand had had about half his food, and he was leaning back on the pillows again. “Try this, see if you can get better rest. If you feel up to it, you can come to supper on the terrace. Late supper. We are in France, after all.”
That, as she’d hoped, got her a light chuckle. He drained the potion in two swallows, handed it back, and she could see when it took effect. His face relaxed, the way Gabe’s sometimes did in such moments, as if it were a great wall of water, finally settling into its proper place without restraint.
She nodded at Lucas. “I’ll see if I can make myself helpful. Back in a few hours.”