Not long after the others returned, Belendin heard someone approach. “Ma?” he called through the crack in the wall.
“Naw, Bele, just me.”
Belendin peeked at his sister, Perdita, in her worship day best, working her way over the tools strung about the patch of dirt that was their yard. Ma had yanked everything from the shed before she had shut him in it, promising he’d clean it up once his punishment was over. Perdi carried something, but Belendin couldn’t see what it was.
She stumbled past the piles of ropes, shovels, and brick supports. “Brought you somthin’ to eat,” she whispered. “Be quiet, though. Ma don’t know.”
“Thanks, Perdi,” he said, grasping the scrap of bread she crammed under the wall. He brushed off the worst of the dirt and shoved it into his mouth, grunting happily.
“Ida brought ye some soup, but cuddn’t figure out howta get it through the wall.”
“That’s okay,” he mumbled around a mouthful of bread. A soft wad of goat cheese shoved through next and he picked it up, looking at it. Unlike the dusting of dirt on the bread, the cheese was coated with grit. Shaking his head, Belendin set it aside on a piece of timberwall framework. He wasn’t hungry enough to eat all that dirt, but hated to waste food. It was too dear, as Pa used to say. Maybe the dog would be interested though.
“Pert near ever one in town came ta Pa’s fun’ral,” Perdita said. “Ever one but Missus Camilo an’ the new baby.”
Belendin nodded his approval and closed his eyes for a moment. Pa was a good man and deserved folks respect. He woulda been proud.
“I gotta get back b’fore I get in trouble,” Perdi said. She hurried away, stumbling over Pa’s tools, and disappeared around the house.
Sighing, Belendin lay on the ground and stared at the rough underside of the shed roof. He wished he had more bread, or even better yet, a drink of cider. He smiled. Everyone in town.
Castle Faldorrah
Dien lumbered into Dubric’s office, Physician Halld’s report clutched in his hand. The inner door stood open and he entered without knocking.
Dubric looked up and forced a smile. He looked worried. Scared. “What do you have?”
Something frigging thing was up, something Dubric didn’t want to admit. “Small knife. Far smaller than a dagger.”
“Not another razor, is it?” Dubric asked, flinching.
“No, sir. Halld thinks it had a textured side of some sort.” Dien handed the report to Dubric. “He said the skin was punctured but the wound was ragged. The knife was rough.”
“Is he sure it was a knife?”
“No, sir, but he thinks so. It was flat and thin but the roughness was on the wide flat side.”
“Strange,” Dubric muttered reading the notes. “I saw nothing like that in the cell.”
“No, sir.”
Dubric looked up. “What about a scrap of steel or tin? A sharpened stick? Almost anything with a point could be used to stab someone.”
“I’ll check with the smithys, sir.” Dien turned to go.
“Dien?”
He turned back. “Yes, sir?”
“Who would murder Jelke?”
“I don’t know, sir.” C’mon! Tell me what the peg is going on! Why do you have to be so damned closed mouthed all the frigging time?
Dubric sighed and rubbed his eyes, glancing to the corners as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Dien ground his teeth. And why the hells do you keep looking in the damned corners?! He turned to go and muttered, “When you decide to tell me what the frigging hell is going on, let me know. Until then, I’ll be with my family.” He left the office, slamming the door behind him.
Sarea held the baby while Dien stood outside the carriage door. A brief tussle rocked the carriage before Alyson peeked out and squeezed through. “Daddy!” she called, leaping into his arms.
Dien held her close, burying his face in the curly golden hair of his six-summers-old daughter as he held her tight. “Missed you punkin. How was gramma?”
She covered his face with kisses. “Gram was fine, Daddy! We made sugar apples and muffins and sweet cakes with honey!”
“You did?” he asked as he set her on her feet. Alyson spied her mother and ran toward her, Dien forgotten for the moment. Grinning, he waited for the next daughter to break free.
Rolling her eyes and shaking her hand after someone stepped on her fingers, Jesscea crawled through the open carriage door and climbed down. “Hey Dad,” she said, smiling.
He held his arms for her and she accepted his hug. No longer a child but not grown either, at not-quite fourteen summers Jesscea was the calmest of his brood. He stroked her nearly-black hair to smooth the curls. “How was the trip, Jess?”
She smiled and pulled away. “Loud. Kia met some boy and didn’t want to come home while Fyn was in a hurry to get back here. They argued the whole way.”
He glanced toward the carriage where his eldest and middle daughters still fought. Both had been boy-crazy their whole lives, and prone to loud outbursts. Aly was more interested in dolls and sweets than anything else, but Jess... some days she confused him. He was about to ask her about her stay with her grandparents when the carriage lurched and the last two girls fell out, grappling on the ground.
Jesscea jumped back, shook her head, and walked away. Fyn broke away from Kia’s grasp, grabbed her leg, and knocked her flat on her back. Straddling her older sister’s chest, Fynbelle snarled, “You take that back!”
“The hells,” Kialyn muttered. “You have no idea what cute is!” She grabbed her sister’s blonde hair and pulled, yanking Fyn forward and to the side, face first into the muddy courtyard.
Dien grabbed Fyn by the waist and lifted her from the ground before she could leap on Kia again. A moon away from her thirteenth birthday, Fyn still had the leggy slenderness of childhood, and the rambunctious energy to go with it. Fyn screeched her aggravation at being held so unceremoniously. “Dad! Let me go!”
“Not this time,” he said. “How many times have I told the two of you not to wrestle in public?” He glanced at the gawkers who had decided to watch.
“Evidently not often enough,” Kia said, coming to her feet. Her backside and shoulders were spattered with mud and she rolled her eyes as she looked at her ruined dress. “Will you look at this? I’m filthy!” Since coming of courting age, Kia had become obsessed with her attire. Part of Dien wished his sixteen-summers-old daughter would pick a suitor and marry him so he could worry about buying her silks and ribbons, but another part didn’t want to see his baby go.
Kia lifted her gaze to her father and smiled sweetly. “Drop her, Daddy. We need to exact a little revenge here.”
“Not this time,” Dien said, turning toward the castle, his middle daughter still squirming in his hands. Sarea stood with the baby and Aly, but Jesscea was nowhere to be seen.
Fyn and Kia argued in their bedroom, occasionally coming to blows judging by the noises they made, Aly sat on the floor before the fireplace having a make-believe conversation with her doll, and Jess sat near the window, reading. Dien grinned and lay his head back on the settee. Sarea sat beside him, wrapped in his outstretched arm, mending. The baby sleaped in a cradle he rocked with his feet. His family was together and although this borrowed suite wasn’t home, it was a fine place to be.