Summer, 1505
Valley of Maury, France
Mira
The clop of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed, dusty road rang out in a crisp rhythm. A breeze blew softly from the south, where the undulating waters of the Mediterranean glittered in the sunlight. Rose was nestled on a pile of cushions on the floor of the wagon, and Mira and Arnaud sat on a bench behind her. Lady de Moncada had been true to her word: they rode in style, with two footmen accompanying them.
The childish dream that had guided Mira’s desire to visit the crashing waves of the sea and witness the rivers pouring off the ends of the earth—it no longer propelled her forward. It had been diverted, she realized, twisted up with the threads of other peoples’ stories, with mishaps and illnesses and death. Her eyes fell upon Rose’s tiny hands clutching Arnaud’s arm. And with love, she thought. Mostly with love.
“What are your thoughts?” Arnaud asked, glancing at her.
“The sea. Remember how I yearned to see it? Now I have, and it is not at all what I imagined.”
She shaded her eyes and peered between the flapping canvas curtains of the wagon at the shimmering blue horizon.
“This isn’t the same,” Arnaud said. “The sea near Bayonne is what Brother Arros described to you. It crashes and rages and flings creatures up on the sand.”
“And the sea monsters he spoke of?”
He nodded seriously. “The prows of ships are plastered over with monster bits from all the collisions.”
She doubled over laughing, relieved that his bitterness was gone, replaced by a lightness she had not seen in him for months. At the sound of laughter, Rose began to giggle. Even Arnaud allowed a smile at his own joke.
The house of Lord and Lady de Berral stood near a village, looking out over a valley planted with crops. A great field of lavender spread out before it, and in the distance, on the crown of a low hill, was a ruined castle.
Inside, a servant girl ushered the three travelers to their new quarters, a modest suite not far from the kitchens. The main room held a bed much bigger than any they had ever slept in before, a carved oak chest, a table, and two chairs. The adjoining room was much smaller, but had a bank of windows overlooking a courtyard planted in roses and lavender, the shutters flung open to allow fresh air and sunlight inside. A tiny bed had been made up there for Rose, and a wooden cart and horse sat upon it.
Rose’s eyes lit up when she spied the toys. She toddled to the little bed and took the cart and horse in her hands. Turning back to Mira and Arnaud, she hugged the toys to her chest, a look of wonderment on her face.
The servant girl smiled. “She can play in the courtyard. And if she gets hungry, go to the kitchens as it pleases you. The cooks’ll give her biscuits and plums. Or porridge if you’d rather. A tub and bathwater are coming. You’ll hear a bell ring later when it’s time to eat.”
She curtsied and left the room.
Arnaud let out a low whistle. “What are the likes of us doing here?”
“I’ll remind you of my noble origins.” Mira tossed her head and scooped up the hem of her skirt, miming the walk of a fine lady.
“Ha!”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Any woman who can hunt for her own supper, swim in a mountain stream, and wield a blade the way you do has no right to call herself a lady.”
“Any man who can read Latin, work figures like a Moorish scholar, and craft furniture much finer than anything in this place is nothing less than a gentleman.”
Arnaud offered her his arm.
“Shall we take a turn around our chambers, then?”
“Why yes, m’lord, I would be honored.”
Mira laid her fingertips delicately upon his dust-streaked sleeve. They sashayed here and there, Rose following behind dragging the cart and horse, until they both collapsed laughing on the chairs.
Rose regarded them in amazement for a moment. Then, waving the wooden horse in the air, she let out a scream of laughter herself.
“Mama!” she cried, her sparkling eyes fixed on Mira.
Mira swooped down and picked up the girl, swinging her around in a circle.
“She called me Mama!”
“I heard,” Arnaud said wryly.
Mira’s chest felt delightfully loose. The dread she carried in her abdomen like a clenched fist had vanished. In its place was something she had not felt for a long, long time. She scooped up Rose in one arm; with the other she reached out for Arnaud. The three of them stood swaying, breathing the lavender-scented air.
Rose repeated her new word in a soft, insistent voice. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”
Arnaud grinned. “You’re the favorite.”
Mira kissed Rose’s soft cheek. Her eyes stung with tears.
“Arnaud,” she whispered. “I almost forgot what joy feels like. I have not felt this way since...”
“...Since Deedit died?”
She nodded.
“Seize your joy,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t let it go.”
Mira took his hand and pulled it to her heart.