shining, but a yellow cast to the air suggested that more snow might come.
The archery targets had acquired hats of snow that all tilted to the same side, presumably away from storm wind. He followed footprints through the archery field to a low, ancient building. The lintel was so low that Jeremy had to bend his head to push open the door and enter.
The smell of beer inside the brewery gave the air a thick quality. The odor came to him in a rush of grassy, citrusy hops, with an undernote of malt and a yeasty splash on top.
Betsy was seated at the far side of the room, sitting back from a rough wooden table so that skirts of pale blue brocade could flow out to either side. Her hair was powdered and caught up with butterflies whose wings trembled as she moved. A white fur cloak was thrown over a hogshead to the side.
She was speaking to an old man with an enormous mustache.
“Good afternoon,” Jeremy said, walking toward them.
To his sharp delight, she glowed with pleasure to see him. “Lord Jeremy,” she cried. “Do come meet our marvelous brewmaster, Herr Horn. We are about to try the October ale.”
Jeremy shook hands with Mr. Horn and then sat down opposite Betsy. Mr. Horn went to fetch some ale and a glass for Jeremy.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Betsy said.
Jeremy grinned. “You’ll get used to seeing me follow you about. So this is a brewhouse? I don’t believe I’ve ever been in the one on my father’s estate.”
“We’re very lucky to have Herr Horn,” she told him. “Someone in the family meets with him to discuss the ales three times a year. The October ale waits for two years, plus there’s dark ale, and blond beer. My sisters and I take turns with Aunt Knowe. My older brothers used to do their duty, and the younger children will come along as well.”
“The better to shape future duchesses?”
“How will we respect our food and drink if we don’t respect the making of it?”
“You just quoted Lady Knowe, did you not?”
Betsy laughed. “She’s my mother, for all purposes.”
Mr. Horn returned with three glasses and a pitcher. He poured the pale ale slowly, with reverence, into Betsy’s glass, allowing for just the right amount of bitter, snowy foam. “The ale is well-hopped, as Her Ladyship prefers,” he noted.
“Aunt Knowe thinks that hops have medicinal properties,” Betsy added, as Mr. Horn poured more beer.
“That is as may be,” the brewmaster said. “Hops make an excellent bitter beer, light-bodied and blond, as we call it.”
“Herr Horn, thank you for sharing your creation with us,” Betsy said. She picked up her glass and swirled it, holding it so that light from the lamp struck golden notes through the beer.
“It’s a fair color,” Mr. Horn acknowledged.
Betsy took a delicate sniff from the glass and then a swallow, so Jeremy followed suit. The three of them sat for a moment in silence, letting the bittersweet taste fill their mouths. Betsy licked the foam from her upper lip, and Jeremy had to take a gulp of ale to stop himself from licking it for her.
“You’ve outdone yourself, Herr Horn,” she said, sipping once more.
“We dried the malt with coke,” Mr. Horn said, putting down his mug and looking expectantly at Betsy.
“Is that what gives it a fruity taste, something like black cherries?”
The old man grinned at her. “Ach, but you would have made a rare brewmaster, Lady Boadicea! What you’re tasting there is the effect of using a peck of peas against half a peck of wheat. What do you think of it, Lord Jeremy?”
“It tastes like summer malt,” Jeremy said. He lifted his mug. “You’re a magician and an undoubted master, Herr Horn.”
The brewmaster’s mustache flared up almost to the top of his ruddy cheeks. “I had fine hops to work with.”
“Lady Knowe asked if you would be kind enough to share the first taste with her,” Betsy said. “She would have joined me, but she’s not quite herself today. Perhaps hoppy ale will be healing.”
Lady Knowe seemed perfectly hearty when Jeremy saw her a half hour ago, but mischief hung in the air about Betsy, the reckless pleasure with which she donned boy’s breeches.
“We’re none of us getting any younger,” Mr. Horn acknowledged, hustling over to refill his pitcher from a hogshead to the side. “I’ll bring it to her myself. Will you accompany me, Lady Boadicea?”
“I’ll finish this marvelous brew,” she said. And then,