He’d much rather spend this beautiful autumn day shoveling manure than entertaining some Crested boy.
“Hush!” Mrs. Bright waved him off. “Better comb that hair.”
“Huh,” Venture said indignantly. He turned to the shelf above the water pump, grabbed the wooden comb, and gave his hair a quick run-through. “I don’t stink, do I?”
“No worse than usual,” Connie said under her breath.
“I heard that.”
She flung a handful of suds in his direction and he raised the comb threateningly; his weapon of choice wouldn’t miss its mark as the suds had, nor would it be painless. But her anticipatory flinch, both genuine and comical, was gratifying enough, so he lowered it.
“You smell just fine,” Mrs. Bright said. “They’re in the den. Go on.”
The Crested pair were striking in their dignified manner, their near-matching faces, and their identical tailored jackets and scabbards. Their dark coloring and distinctively handsome features were evidence of the many immigrants who’d risen to prominence back in the Wartimes.
The Crested man’s eyes didn’t seem to register Venture’s silent entrance at all, but then he rose slightly from the couch, briskly removed his deep blue woolen jacket, and sat back down, holding it out in Venture’s direction.
Venture strode over to him and took it without a word, but Grant rose and, ignoring his guest’s annoyance, put a hand on Venture’s shoulder.
“Mr. Wood, this is Venture Delving. And this is Mr. Wood’s son, Iron.”
With the coat draped over one arm, Venture kept the other hand at his side, knowing that neither of them would rise and shake it. Instead he bowed politely and said to each of them, “Sir.”
After Venture had hung up the coat, Grant said, “Venture, perhaps the younger Mr. Wood would like you to show him around outdoors.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy rose, politely thanked Grant Fieldstone, but said nothing to Venture. Still, he followed Venture out of the den, down the hall, and into the banquet room, whose double doors opened onto a patio in the gardens. Venture shut the back patio doors behind them, and he took a good look at his master’s guest and tried to think of what to do with him. He couldn’t help noticing that he was favoring one leg.
“Are you all right, sir?” he dared to ask.
“I twisted my knee fighting. It’s not too bad.”
His words had come out so casually, so much like his friends from Beamer’s, that Venture said, “I’ve done that before—sir.”
“Iron straightened his jacket, then looked at Venture thoughtfully. “You fight?”
“I used to, sir,” Venture said, trying not to appear the way he felt—scrutinized, judged. “Just for sport.” But at the same time he wished he could say he did fight, even now. He wanted it more than ever after that day he’d spent with the elites over a month ago. His combat training was utterly, achingly boring now.
“Oh, you are the one who’s training to be a guard. My cousin Hunter told me about you.”
His cousin Hunter?
Iron smiled. “It’s all right. I cannot stand the Longlakes, and neither can my father. But my mother’s sister married Prowess.” His smile faded. “I heard what he did to Grant Fieldstone.”
“Sir?”
“The deal with the Sunnyside resort. Acting as though he wanted to invest, then pulling out, just to make a point about you. My father is no Longlake, meddling in Uncrested affairs. And he never allows politics to get in the way of his business decisions. He hardly cares what a man decides to do with his own bondsman. And he is serious about the Sunnyside project.”
Venture might have been relieved, if he weren’t so busy trying to come to terms with the news that this thing with Border and the Longlakes wasn’t over and Grant hadn’t said a word about it—as well as trying to suppress the urge to bash the obliviously superior attitude right out of Iron.
“That’s good, sir,” he managed to say.
“Hunter did this for me just the day before yesterday.” Iron held out a crooked, swollen pinky for him to admire.
Regardless of the rules against manipulating fingers, it was a common enough reaction to getting stuck in a good choke—to grab an opponent’s finger and tear it away. Venture’s own finger had been broken the same way. Did the Cresteds have such rules? Perhaps they didn’t even have the option to tap out.
“That’s a nice one, sir. Did you get the choke anyway?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Venture remembered who he was talking to. His question was way out of line for anyone, let alone a bondsman. There was a time when such an inquiry could get a man killed. It was a matter of honor for Cresteds to protect their secrets.
But Iron just smiled and said, “He is too big for me still.”
Venture found himself hoping that Iron would grow and be able to beat Hunter soon, wishing, even, that he could see it when it finally happened. Too bad he’d never be able to do the job himself. Venture knew he ought to be grateful that he’d never have the opportunity; a bondsman could hang for laying a hand on a Crested.
The two of them were quiet for a moment, walking across the patio, Iron taking the lead. Vent wondered what he was thinking as he silently surveyed the early autumn landscape. What was his home like? Grant had never taken him into a Crested home, because, he supposed, he had no wish to subject him to the strict rules the highest class held regarding servants, especially in their own homes.
“I’m going into the Warforce, to be a commander, like my father,” Iron volunteered. “Better that than politics.”
He was inclined to agree, but struck by the regret he saw in the boy’s eyes about the career options his status limited him to, he just said, “A good choice, sir.”
Figuring just about anything would be preferable to standing in the garden, chatting like a couple of girls, Venture said, “Would you like to come with me to set some traps, sir?”
“What kind?”
“Just some rabbit snares.”
“Sure,” he replied, and they set off, down the well-kept stone garden paths, out the gate, and to the tool shed, where Venture had stowed a bag containing three new snares he’d made, waiting for the opportunity to set them out.
Then they walked across the fields, toward the meadow beyond. Iron had already informed him that he’d never done any trapping, only hunted large game, so he pointed out for him the rabbit trail running through the grass and into the blackberry brambles.
“We’re going to set this thing right in its path. See this twig sticking out here? I’m going to drape this noose over it, nice and loose.” Venture took out a length of cord, which was already tied to an old chain link. He ran the cord from one low blackberry branch to another, then through the iron ring of the chain link and up to a slightly higher, overhanging branch. “I tie it here, like this,” he said, “and then I tie it to a stake.” He fastened the other end of the string to a wooden stake, which he’d whittled to a point. “Now I need a flat rock.” This, he retrieved from the bag, positioning the stake carefully on it.
“So that’s the trigger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the bait?”
“I don’t really need any, sir. Rabbits aren’t the smartest creatures. They’ll run right along their paths just like they always do, right into a snare like this. Not as exciting as taking down great gray bear,” he said, rising and taking up his bag, “but it works.”
“Were you there when Fieldstone took down that giant in the entry hall?”
Vent grinned at the memories behind the enormous pelt displayed on the entry hall wall. Grant Fieldstone was proud of that one, for good reason. They hadn’t been equipped to hunt bear that day, two years ago; they’d been tracking elk when the great gray found them.
“Yes, sir. That one was a monster. He was after us, not the other way around. Master Fieldstone clubbed him right on the nose when he charged. Then the dogs rushed in and Master Fieldstone ran back, grabbed his bow, and he and the other bowmen finished the job.” He left out the fact that he had been one of those bowmen, that Grant never expected him to accompany him into the wilderness unarmed.
After young Mr. Wood had set the last snare himself, they headed back toward the Big House. On the way they spotted a lone rider, galloping across the fields, away from them.
Iron stopped to watch. “Who is that?”
Venture could recognize the combined posture of Sunrise and her rider a mile away. “That’s the young Mistress Fieldstone.”
“Ah. Jade. I was wondering where she was. Hunter has his eye on her.” Iron turned to him with an eager gleam in his eye. “Get me a horse so I can catch her. I’ve never seen her.”
Venture stood there and blinked at him. Heat rose in his chest and all the way up to his ears. No matter that for all her fine new gowns, Jade still behaved more like a rustic than a lady of Society. Her elusiveness only seemed to add to her appeal for this Crested boy—and apparently for Hunter Longlake, a grown man just over twenty.
Iron raised his eyebrows at him. Venture’s stupidity was about to get him in trouble if he wasn’t careful, and not for just failing to respond promptly to the wishes of his master’s guest, and a Crested at that.
He was going to make some ridiculous excuse about the horses when Able called out, “Venture! Master Wood’s father’s wanting him!”
He let out a breath of relief and called back, “Be right there!”
Iron groaned. “Must be supper. I hate business suppers. Actually, I hate business.” But he strode briskly back toward the house, resigned.
Venture followed, his own thoughts turned to supper.
Then Iron paused and looked over his shoulder, right at him. “Is she as pretty as they say?”
He was too late in checking the mortified expression on his face. Iron had caught him completely off guard. “Who, sir?” he said, fumbling over the words.
“Jade Fieldstone, of course. She is, isn’t she?” Iron of the Wood laughed. “Her father is a sensible man. He will marry her up.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rid of young Iron of the Wood, Venture meandered home, enjoying the perfectness of the cool, clear evening, glad to have the heat of summer behind him and trying not to think about the frosty months ahead. He tried not to think about looking like a fool in front of Iron of the Wood. He tried not to think about Jade at all. But at the edge of the field, tied to a young maple tree, he spotted Jade’s horse, Sunrise.
The Treslarian’s ancestors had been bred in that country of vast plains across the Western Sea for speed, agility, and good temper. Her black tail swished and spots of sunlight made their way through the green and golden leaves and danced across her amber back. His chest ached at the sight, at the thought of Jade nearby, alone. She’d perfected the art of avoiding him over the past month, but he could still feel her fingers in his hand like it was yesterday.
Sunrise whinnied her welcome as he approached.
“Where’s Jade? Where’s she gone to?” He ran his palm along Sunrise’s neck and pictured that Crested boy riding after Jade. Worse, Hunter. Impulsively, he called out, “Miss Jade?”
Only the slightest breeze answered as it ruffled the tops of the trees. His eyes rested on a great weeping willow nearby, a favorite hiding place for him and Jade when they were children. He gave Sunrise a parting pat and strode closer to the tree. He squinted through its drooping branches, which hung down nearly to the ground like a mane of tangled hair. Was that movement he saw behind them?
“Miss Jade?” he called again, this time not so loud.
“Go away.” Her voice, fine, familiar yet uncommon, like Illesian silk, came from beneath the tree.
“Jade.” He pronounced her first name alone, feeling like a reckless kid again—filled with the exhilaration and dread of rebellion. “Do you really want me to go away?”
She didn’t answer. Hesitantly, he parted the willow branches and stepped into the hollow under the tree. He blinked, adjusting to the shadows and dappled light. Jade leaned against the trunk, her hair falling in a mess of waves over her shoulders, as doubtless she’d let the wind blow it while riding.
Barely fourteen, she was still small and thin, especially compared with him, yet her figure was taking shape. That was as clear to him now as it was to the young men who felt privileged enough to comment on it. She blinked uncertainly at him. He there stood for a long moment, watching the struggle take place behind those eyes. Something he saw there spurred him on. He offered her a nervous smile, and she returned it.
He took a step closer, close enough to pick up her left hand with his right.
“You’re so beautiful, Jade. I’m sorry I never told you before. I’m sorry about everything.”
He didn’t know what had possessed him to say it, and had just begun to feel like a fool, when her face melted into a smile. A real smile that brightened all of her. Venture nearly laughed with delight, seeing her glow like that. And that little-boy reckless streak that had brought him this far matured into something else, which roared through him, broad and strong and dangerous.
“Have you missed me?” he said playfully.
She reached for his other hand and drew him closer. “I’ve missed my friend. Are you him?”
Her eyes revealed layers of sweetness over pain. Inside he flinched that he’d caused that pain. “I am,” he said.
She let his hands go and threw her arms around his neck. With her face on his chest, the top of her head barely reached his chin. Her hair smelled of the last roses of the year and hay and the early autumn breeze. He smoothed it down with his hand and kissed it. Jade looked up at him that same way she had on the bench in the rose garden, and he felt the same pang in his heart, but this time he smiled. So what if she looked at him differently now? So what if he liked it? He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and kissed the smooth spot where it had lain.
“Do you think that was wise?” she said, only half teasing.
“Of course not. It’s foolishness. This,” he whispered, “is pure foolishness.” And he kissed her lightly on the cheek.
She laughed softly, but then let go of him and took a step away. “Vent,” she said, “sit down and talk to me before you get too foolish.”