catch the new moonlight.
(That scalpel moon had just risen.)
HOTSPUR
Dondubhan, early winter
SNOW FELL IN the second week of Prince Hal’s attendance at Dondubhan, piling in the yards, filling in the crenellations, lifting the tops of turrets a foot beyond their means. Icy wind gusted the snow into uneven drifts, shoved higher against west-facing walls. For miles all visible landscape glittered like the surface of the moon. Except the unfreezing Tarinnish, black as ever and rippling under the onslaught of winter. Sheets of gray-white clouds engulfed the sky, even once the storm was past, putting earth and heaven on the same level, one lost in the other.
The great hall burned with torches, packed with the majority of Dondubhan’s residents. Though some made warm homes in the kitchen, and others in the barracks, for anyone not a servant or retainer, the great hall was the best place to gather.
Hotspur had known the bad weather was coming (everyone had), but not realized it would result in sharing space. She’d been having trouble enough pretending all was as it should be, with Hal everywhere she turned, but now she could not avoid the prince.
During the storm itself, Hotspur huddled in her room with her husband under wolfskin and wool, feeding their small fire and twisting her tongue around the language of trees. Connley was not restless, only Hotspur, for Connley had spent his recent winters hibernating in the White Forest with only a pair of deer and six crows for company. “What kind of company are deer?” Hotspur had demanded; Connley answered that they were warm company, and the crows plentiful entertainment. He did admit, though, that by the end of winter his tiny cottage had stunk so badly he’d set fire to the thatched roof and rebuilt everything after the spring. She stared at him, trying to imagine her tender Connley burning anything down. As she goggled, his mouth slowly crept into a smile and she realized he was teasing her, so she jumped him, throwing him hard onto his back—though it was cushioned by the thick mattress and blankets, so he was fine—and Connley laughed so hard tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
She kissed him, because she liked him, and because she was his wife, and sex should strengthen their ties. Connley allowed it, allowed her wandering hands against his ribs and hips, and even stirred slightly toward desire, but Hotspur sensed his willingness stemmed from service, not want. She stopped and sat back on her heels.
“It would be better if there were desire between us,” she said.
“What would be better?”
Hotspur frowned. “Our marriage.”
“Then why did you stop kissing me?”
Exasperated, Hotspur pursed her lips and said nothing.
“If it’s what you want, take it,” he said.
“I don’t want to take anything from you. I want you to give it to me. I want …” She shivered and shut her eyes, thinking of Hal two afternoons ago, laughing at the high table so brightly it was like nothing bad had ever happened in the entire world.
Connley touched her lips. “Consider it a gift, then, Isarna.”
Hotspur jerked away. “Maybe later. Maybe … someday. We’ll … be more natural about it.”
When the snow finally stopped and wind gusted haphazardly rather than with constant scrutiny, there came a scratching on the shutter latched tight over their narrow tower window. Help, she thought she heard in the noise—not wind, but something else. She dragged open the wooden shutter: a crow blasted inside, slapping her face with its damp black feathers, and another, and another followed, croaking and slipping on the suddenly snow-splattered table and chairs. They woke Connley from dreams, and he spent several naked minutes calming them with careful, urgent songs in the language of trees. Settled finally, Connley curled beside the hearth with the three bedraggled young crows snuggled against him: two in his lap, one at his shoulder, tucked half under his curls. He slept, too, and Hotspur’s complicated heart did not know what to do with the uncertain swelling there.
They brought the crows with them to the great hall when the snow had stopped and the gray glow through shutter cracks indicated that somewhere the sun had risen. All three birds fit into a wide basket warmed by a blanket Connley had held to the embers in the hearth. They ruffled feathers and cocked their heads at Hotspur, little brown eyes gleaming. She said, are you hungry? what happened to you? and they squawked, flapping their wings recklessly. Connley talked nonsense to them,