A Wilderness of Glass - Grace Draven Page 0,17
grass nearby. Brida paused, pondering whether to continue or turn around and go home.
“No reeking nobleman with his nose high in the wind is going to chase me away,” she grumbled under her breath and continued toward the ledge. She had her spare flute with her instead of the one her father had made for her, and if Ospodine tried to take it from her, she’d willingly surrender it to him and wish him good luck and good riddance.
That pale, cool stare didn’t waver as she drew closer, and the thin smile playing across his mouth was as insincere as the cheery tone of his greeting. “A pleasure to see you here again, Madam Gazi. It seems we both like to stroll the shore this time of evening.”
Brida considered herself a mild-mannered woman with a wealth of patience. This man, however, made her hackles rise. He wore an air of contempt about him that belied his surface manners. She hadn’t forgotten he’d entered her house to pry while she and the rest of the village harvested seaweed. She’d been startled and then dismayed to see him at Ancilar’s market day a few days after Lord Frantisek’s party, a guest who had not yet worn out his welcome at the castle or didn’t have the sense to know when he actually had done so.
“Syr Ospodine,” she said shortly, not bothering to smile in return. This was no one she wanted to befriend, even under different circumstances. He reminded her too much of a cat that played with its prey before killing it.
He unfolded his tall frame from the perch and gestured to the space. “Please, take my seat. I believe this is your favored spot, isn’t it?”
An oily shiver eeled down her back. How often had he seen her sitting here this past fortnight, watching the Gray and playing her flute? Once? Twice? Every night?
“You’re welcome to your privacy, syr,” she said and pivoted to trek back the way she came.
The slap of footsteps in wet sand echoed behind her as Ospodine caught up with her. She jerked away when he touched her elbow, and he dropped his hand as if scalded. His expression held a mix of mutual dislike and revulsion.
She didn’t stop walking until he strode ahead and stopped in front of her, blocking her path. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Please. I mean you no harm. I only want to ask you something.”
Wary, Brida tucked her hands into her shawl, using one to grasp the scissors on the chatelaine tied at her waist. “And what is that?”
“Would you play the tune I heard at Lord Frantisek’s?”
“Now?” Brida stared at the nobleman, very glad for several reasons that she’d brought her spare flute with her this evening.
He nodded, an avid gleam entering his eyes. “Yes! Here. Now.”
He knew. Knew just as she did that the four-note tune was something other than varied breaths blown through a musical instrument during warm-up exercises. The man vibrated with a suppressed eagerness verging on hysteria. The flatness of his mouth against his teeth and the narrow gaze he cast on her warned Brida that she might well compromise her safety if she refused.
She adopted a bored expression, matching it with an equally casual shrug. “All right. If it means that much to you. Though I can play a ballad or a plaint for you that’s more entertaining.”
“No,” he almost snarled before remembering himself. The false smile grew ever more strained. “Just the tune, and play it more than once.”
Brida didn’t dare mention that only the flute her father had made could replicate the merwoman’s whistles perfectly. This flute, no matter how hard or how often she played it, had never accomplished the same.
She fished the flute out of the folds of her shawl, warmed it up with a few experimental scales, and played the merwoman’s short song, never taking her eyes off her audience who loomed over her like a vulture.
He flinched as if the sounds grated on his ears. “That isn’t right,” he complained. “Play it again. As you did at his lordship’s celebration.”
Brida did as he commanded, playing and replaying the notes until Ospodine cursed her and snatched the flute out of her hands. “Stupid woman,” he snapped. “Like this.” Instead of putting the flute to his mouth, he whistled the notes himself, and this time it was her turn to wince at the discordant sound.
She barely dodged out of the way in time when the nobleman flung