Page 31 of Never the Roses

She woke in the morning to silence, clear-dawn skies beyond her crystal dome, and a triad of animals looking at her. They didn’tsay anything, of course, and Oneira told herself she imagined the accusation in their eyes. What could they possibly castigate her for? Perhaps they didn’t care to havetheirsolitude interrupted.

Well, they didn’t have to put up with Tristan, if they didn’t want to. This was her house and she hadn’t asked any of them to come live with her. Feeling cranky and realizing that overindulging in the wine had left her with a dull headache and foul taste in her mouth, she groggily crawled out of her pillow nest and went down a level to refresh herself and dress. To her annoyance, she discovered that her menses had chosen that opportunity to present itself, soaking through her undergarments in bloody glee. Just as well she hadn’t shared a bed with the tempting Tristan. Living alone, she hadn’t much bothered to keep track of her menstrual cycle. It came and went regularly—she’d never been one to suffer much pain with it—and it didn’t really matter either way.

The appearance of it now provided a salient reminder, however, that she hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of conceiving a child with Tristan, had she succumbed to temptation the night before. Always in the past, she’d been in the courts of men, and men at court were eternally concerned about not being saddled with children to support, even gotten on a sorceress worth more coin than they would ever see. Perhaps Tristan had thought of it, but it didn’t speak well of her own state of mind that she hadn’t.

For a moment, as she brushed out her hair, watching herself thoughtfully in the one mirror in the house, she considered that shecouldhave a baby at this juncture in her life. Her body was clearly still capable and she had nothing but free time to devote to raising a child. Or children. She didn’t delude herself that the itinerant Tristan would stay forever. In truth, she caught herself frowning at the prospect of him staying forever. That would require her to confess her actual identity, at which point everything between them would inevitably change.

But there was no reason she couldn’t keep his child. She doubted he would care. Men didn’t, so long as they were absolved of responsibility, and Tristan struck her as the type happy to be absolved of any and all responsibilities. It was part of his charm. Setting the brush down and turning her face side to side, she imagined herself as a mother. Not an idea she’d tried on before, but why had she retired if not for something like this? Perhapsthiswas the question she’d been looking to answer. Having a child would certainly stave off boredom.

Turning her body profile, she smoothed her hands over her flat belly. Never voluptuous by any stretch, she’d lost weight during her exile, eating nothing but bread, soup, and roasted vegetables. Tristan had asked about dessert the night before and she’d been nearly startled by the concept. She’d had to tell him she had none, with no opportunity to seek some out in the Dream for him. Just as well—if dreamers dreamed wine accurately, they tended to dream sweets all wrong, making them all appearance and lacking substance, not unlike books. Perhaps she could learn to bake cookies. Children liked cookies, didn’t they?

Plucking the loose folds of her gown, she held it out, mimicking a pregnant belly, then huffed a disgusted breath. She knew nothing about babies and children; she knew only dealing death, not creating life. Maybe if she could keep her roses alive…

As she descended from her tower, a song made its way through the silent house. Tristan, singing in an off-key tenor. It made her smile and she picked up her pace, eager to see him. She found him in the kitchen, the place entirely in disarray with all the things he’d pulled out and heaped on the counters. She’d left the kitchen clean and orderly the night before. It irritated her unreasonably to see it in chaos.

Seeing her come in, Tristan gave her an abashed grin, shrugging boyishly. “I was looking for eggs. Maybe some bacon? Or ham.”

“I don’t have any meat,” she told him. “There’s bread and honey. Or I can make a porridge of grains.”

He made a face. “I had my heart set on bacon and eggs.”

“Your heart will have to set on something else.” Not even to please him would she bring death inside her white walls. Too much of it hung about her shoulders, invisible and reeking like a charnel pit, for her to add to it.

“I apologize,” Tristan said, wincing and coming around to set his hands on her hips, giving her a winning smile. “I woke up ferociously hungry and I thought I’d make you breakfast, that it would be romantic. Let me start over. Good morning, lovely Lady Lira. You are as beautiful as the dawn over the ocean.”

He did have a knack for being pleasing. She relented, aware of her own crankiness. She’d lived alone so long that she’d grown used to the simple pleasure of things remaining exactly where she’d left them. “Thank you, and no apologies necessary. I have a bit of a wine headache myself. Let me make us some tea.”

“No coffee?” he inquired hopefully, hitching himself onto one of the stools at the overburdened counter.

She shook her head, then regretted it as a bit of dizziness swirled up. “Tea,” she repeated, filling the kettle on the stove from the jug she kept there. She’d have to fetch more water from the stream. She lit the fire under the silver kettle with matches, then surveyed her dried herbs. “I have thyme, bergamot, chamomile, or tansy.” Deciding on a soothing combination of bergamot and chamomile for her uneasy constitution, she drew those bunches down.

Tristan was watching in consternation. “I don’t know what those are.”

“And you call yourself a scholar.”

“Mostly a poet,” he clarified.

“Herbs. I grew them myself.”

“I’ll have what you’re having then.” He didn’t sound thrilled, but so it went. No more pulling edibles from the Dream. That could explain the effects of the wine. Though Tristan seemed untouched, so probably it was simply that she hadn’t drunk any in so long. And being off-balance from her menses beginning, too. “You live in an odd mix of magical conveniences and manual labor,” Tristan commented, breaking into her thoughts.

“Hmm.” She made the sound noncommittal to discourage further discussion, opening the windows and glass-paned doors to the lovely morning, allowing in the rain-washed air and the purring of the surf, quiet now, having spent the storm’s energy. She put away the food and pans Tristan had gotten out. Restoring order soothed her, calming her irritation, making her wonder if Stearanos had developed or indulged his own obsessiveness for this reason. The two of them might be a horrible mess inside their heads, but at least their surroundings could be peaceful.

“You have those extraordinary wards,” Tristan continued blithely. “And the bathing chamber—one of the fanciest magical conveniences I’ve encountered. But then you live without servants, growing your own food, baking your own bread.”

She nearly asked if there was a question in there somewhere, but that would be aggressive and she didn’t want to be unkind. His curiosity about her was natural. She’d have been surprised if he hadn’t wondered. It would be paranoid to interpret the remarks as him digging for information. “Thermal pools,” she reminded him, sticking to her previous lie. “The wards were expensive, yes, but I am a woman alone.”

“True,” he said, though his gaze lingered on her as if he thought to say something else.

The tea kettle whistled at that point—a sound like a cardinal’s fluting call, the entire reason she’d acquired that particular one from a vivid dream—and she poured the steaming water intotheir cups, setting one before him where he sat. “Let it steep a few minutes,” she advised, following her own advice and finishing putting everything away while she waited.

Deciding upon porridge, she set the grains soaking with the remaining water in the jug, then sliced the last of the bread for toasting, to tide them over while they waited. Thinking ahead, she started dough for more loaves. Tristan was chattering on, talking about various magical conveniences he’d encountered, detailing how they worked. She listened with half an ear, as he was explaining things she already knew, and far better than he did, though he couldn’t know that about her. He was harmless and her tea tasted good, calming her unsettled system as she’d hoped.

“Bread and honey?” she asked when he paused for breath.

“Sure.” He sipped his tea finally, wrinkling his nose a little.

“Not to your taste?” she inquired, smearing a generous portion of honey onto the toasted bread. If she got the bread at the right temperature, the honey warmed and formed a lightly crunchy border where it met the bread. A quiet delight she never failed to enjoy.

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