The Rose Keep

 

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Introduction

As with many tales of long forgotten lands, this story begins with four little words. It was handed down from parent to child with those four words tacked onto the front that make it seem magical and irresistible. Children beg for the story, but they do not see the truth. They see only the story of a girl and her quest for love.

For many the story goes like this:

Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl who fell in love with a beast. The power of their love cured him and they lived happily ever after.

But that is not how it happened at all. I should know. I was there and this is my story.

 

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Prologue

Once upon a time there was a castle on a hill. It sparkled in the sun and reflected the light into the valley below. The parapets and walkways gleamed with a rose-hued light brought on by the color of the stone. Some swore they could smell roses on the wind on the fairest of days.

Within the castle lived a princess with hair of spun copper, skin like porcelain, and enough kindness to match her beauty tenfold. Her subjects adored her and did not waste any opportunities to praise her virtues to anyone they met.

Her small kingdom enjoyed a peaceful existence, full of plenty from the fields. The woods and river teemed with wildlife. Even on the darkest of nights, her subjects were safe from the harmful creatures of the world. No one lacked for sustenance or shelter. All were happy under the rule of the princess.

Then one day, the village at the base of the hill awoke to a strange darkness. They stumbled out into the streets to discover that where there had once been a castle, there were only dark trees and dense forest. No rose-hued light shone down into the valley, no rose scent carried on the wind.

Those adventurous enough to brave the now darkened woods formed a band and set out. Many of that initial gathering of brave souls never returned from the black depths of the forest. Those that did were forever changed by what they had experienced. Within days, howls announced the arrival of wolves. People started avoiding the woods altogether. Over time, it gained a reputation as a terrible haunted place.

Not only had the woods changed. The people changed as well. No longer were they trusting and happy as they had been. They grew distrustful of each other as the days without the princess went on. The days had grown dark and the nights darker, and that had taken some of their cheerful spirit from them.

Rumors grew. Whispers said that the princess had failed her subjects in the end. Neighbor told neighbor that the princess had become a monster and eaten everyone in the keep before bringing it down on her own head. The butcher swore he had seen a woman’s ghost hovering on the edge of the forest, beckoning him closer.

The tale grew in the telling. The kind Princess became horrifying monster, the beautiful castle a haunted tomb frozen in time, and the lush woods a hunting ground for ghosts and demons. No one could guess how close and yet how far from the truth they were. The outlandish message only expanded and obliterated any of the joy that might have remained.

Over time, the events of the tale were lost to the mists. Truth became legend, and the lands of the princess were quietly absorbed into the neighboring kingdom. No one dared travel deep into the woods, but no one could tell you exactly why. The woods were haunted by the ghost of an evil princess or demons or an undead army and, regardless, better left well enough alone. Only the insane or absurdly brave ventured past the tree line, and they never returned.

The woods remained dark, the Rose Keep forgotten, the princess’s name besmirched, and time continued on.

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Chapter 1

Gwenna rubbed her hands together, shivering, and silently cursed her own existence. The sun had not yet risen above the treetops, and frost still stretched frozen fingers across the ground. The quiver slung across her back seemed to weigh more than usual in the pre-dawn chill. Nothing worth shooting had crossed her line of sight and she was beginning to think that she should have just stayed in bed like a normal, sane individual. Picking her bow back up from where it leaned against a gnarled old tree, she slowly crept along the fringes of the forest, soft leather boots whispering faintly against the icy ground.

While other hunters crossed the river to hunt in the plains beyond, Gwenna was the only one to stalk the edge of the eerie forest that loomed at the outskirts of town. Her father had hunted there, and his father before him, and it was her legacy to hunt this forest. No matter the danger. No matter the danger she whispered to herself as she crept forward again, listening for any unusual sounds. Unnatural sounds in this forest were bad news, and meant you were close to going too deep. Go in too deep and you never ever got out. At least, that’s what the Crone said.

The Crone had lived in Forestside for as long as anyone could remember. She worked in Lady Rhia’s estate by the river, doing who knows what. She was generally regarded as an expert on the history of the village, and her wild tales were accepted as fact by the surrounding countryside. It helped that the occasional adventurer showed up and went into the forest, never to be seen or heard from again. The Crone would dictate their likely fate to any who would listen, their certainly terrible demise becoming a morbid form of entertainment for the bored farmers of the region. Children had grown up listening to her, and now their children sat raptly at her feet. She preached the dangers of the forest and the many tales surrounding its history, and all listened and heeded.

Everyone except for Gwenna’s family. They had hunted in the fringes of the woods for as long as anyone could remember, bringing down the large game that could not be found elsewhere. Her family’s home was full of trophies and mementos that illustrated the pride they took in their job. After all, not everyone had the stomach for the quite frankly bloody work.

Gwenna took a slow, even breath and sat back on her heels, drawing the bowstring tight against her smooth cheek. She sighted down the long arrow at a deer grazing peacefully just beyond the next few trees. Breathe and release she thought, letting the arrow fly. It found its mark and the pained cry of the deer shattered the silence of the icy morning.

Standing up and stretching out her stiff muscles, Gwenna mused wryly that that had been the easy part.  As usual, the deer had bolted, too dumb to know that continuous movement would only hasten its demise. Hunkering back down close to the ground, the girl nocked another arrow and started scanning the frosty earth for a blood trail.

This had been the first thing her father had taught her, well before he had ever placed a bow in her hands. They had spent long hours together, both in the edge of the forest and in the plains beyond the river, learning the behavior patterns of creatures and the little signs that indicated movement. It had been hard at first, but now it came as second nature.

After a few moments, she found the trail and followed it cautiously through the trees. Always aware of how deep into the forest she had wandered, she kept an eye on the browning grass beyond the edge of the trees. Local superstition held that as long as you could see beyond the trees you wouldn’t disappear forever. Ear still tuned to the forest around her, Gwenna heard none of the murmurs that welled up in dangerous areas and so continued on.

A few more minutes passed as she followed the dark trail of blood. It slowly grew spotty, but she was always able to pick it up again if she lost sight of it. Up ahead she saw the dun colored fur of the deer and she abandoned the trail and crept forward, arrow nocked and pulled back slightly. If the deer showed any sign of life, she would have to shoot it again. There was no way getting bit or kicked in the head would end on a pleasant note. However, the deer did not move as she approached, and its eyes were wide and already glossing over in death. Sighing in relief, she replaced the arrow in her quiver and slung her bow across her back. She disliked finishing off animals, it caused occasional complications with the hide and meat.

Relaxing fully for the first time in what was most likely hours, Gwenna gazed down at the animal, judging size and weight. It was smaller than she had hoped, a doe probably around 7 stone. She frowned, animals usually weighed a bit more around this time of year, with the onset of winter. Well she supposed, beggars can’t be choosers.

Kneeling and taking a length of rope from the worn belt around her waist, she hogtied the animal, front legs to back legs. Then with the ease of long practice she hoisted the animal up over her shoulders and settled its legs over her chest. Steadying her burden by gripping the hooves with her left hand and whistling jauntily, she strode out of the forest.

Gwenna lived only a little ways away, in a small cabin just off the road that snaked its way out of town. This cabin had been her family’s home for generations, though she was the only one who lived there now. Her mother had vanished when she was barely walking, and her father had died during the harsh winter the year previous. A lot of people had died that winter; it had followed a poor harvest and so many had been weak already. Not to mention the village doctor often couldn’t make it through the snow to the outlying farms in time.

Fortunately for Forestside, Prince Baldemar in Lanser had heard of their plight and, when poor harvest had threatened once again, sent enough food to see them through another harsh winter. It didn’t solve the doctor problem, but it certainly helped since the frosts had come weeks earlier than they should have. For a village so close to a purportedly haunted forest, that was more than a little bit frightening.

After her short walk with a deer slung across her back, Gwenna finally started to warm up, even in the frosty air. The sun rose slowly above the distant rooftops of the village, dawn light finally streaking across the sky. Laying the deer down by the shed out back of her cabin, Gwenna set her bow and quiver aside and unhooked her wickedly sharp hunting knife from its sheath on her upper thigh. Untying the rope from around the legs of the dead animal, she made quick work of her least favorite task: dressing the animal. It was gross, smelled horrible, and disgusted her in every possible way but it had to be done before the meat spoiled.

Finishing her gruesome task, the girl strung the gutted animal up to hang and cure while she cleared the area of offal. Though almost as disgusting as dressing the animal, it was also just as important. If the area still smelled like deer guts come nightfall, she was likely to have the wolves from the forest rush down upon her cabin and destroy things in their wake. Therefore, she cleared the offal and buried it as far back in the woods she dared to go, before hurrying away, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder.

Back at her cabin, she finished butchering the carcass, tossing bones into a nearby empty caldron and draping the hide over a wooden frame. Soon she had several sizable chunks of venison packed into clean sacks and piled into a small hand cart.

Nodding to herself, she stepped into her cabin to fetch the pot of water she had set to boil over the glowing fire before she had left so early in the morning, the bar of lye soap sitting next to the door, and a clean rag. Squatting by the shed, she stripped off her filthy top tunic, stained with blood that never quite washed out right, and shivered as the cold air hit her exposed arms and throat. Dipping the rag into the steaming water and then rubbing the harsh lye bar onto it, she scrubbed her arms up past the elbows, the rag growing red and the water gaining a sickly pink-brown tint. Once her arms were clean, she wrung out the rag and wiped down the blade of her knife before drying it on her pants and sheathing it. Still shivering, she dumped the water out behind the shed and took the pot back inside, reveling in the warmth as soon as she stepped through the door.

As mentioned before, the cabin was small. It had only two rooms, plus a loft in the rafters and a root cellar below. The front room functioned as a living space and cooking area, containing a large fireplace, a rough-hewn table, and, a luxury, two cushioned chairs. These chairs had belonged to Gwenna’s mother before she had moved out of the village to live with her husband. Gwenna smiled at the chairs out of habit whenever she entered the room, still half-expecting to see her father sitting in one, glasses perched on his nose and a worn almanac in his hand. He always said that was the only book worth the paper it was printed on, though her mother had left several on a small bookshelf in the back room, where they had gathered dust for fifteen years. Gwenna had never read them, adhering to her father’s opinion on books.

Though the warm air of the cabin was certainly welcome after the nippy outside air, Gwenna did not want to loiter about in her flannel under tunic and breeches. She had places to go that required more conventional clothing. Stripping off as she went, having been raised by a man she had… unique housekeeping habits, she wandered into the bedroom. When her father had still been living, the bedroom had been his and Gwenna had slept in the loft. However, the loft became sweltering in the summer and frigid in the winter, so she had moved into the bedroom soon after her father’s death. Now the loft was merely storage space.

The bedroom had a small fireplace all its own and a large bedframe with curtains, another one of her mother’s old possessions. It was a blessing in the dead of winter to be able to shut out the cold. Along the back wall, under a wide window of real glass, a row of shelves held the books that had belonged to Gwenna’s mother, as well as her father’s rather large collection of almanacs. A rocking chair and a sewing basket sat in the corner by the fireplace, and a large carved chest rested at the foot of the bed.

Gwenna made a beeline for this chest and flung it open, pulling out a thick wool dress and stockings. She slipped the dress over her head, shaking it down over her hips and letting it fall down until it nearly reached the floor. Standing balanced on one leg she snatched one of the stockings off the foot of the bed and yanked it onto her foot, jumping around a little to keep from falling before giving up and sitting down to pull the second stocking on with far more force than required. After shoving her feet into the boots hiding just far enough under the bed that she had to almost crawl under to fetch them, she straightened and looked into the tarnished, warping mirror on the back of the door.

The face that gazed back at her was still pink from the chill outside. Her skin was tanned dark from near continual sun exposure, with even darker freckles dotting her cheeks under her brown eyes. She sighed and ran a hand through her inky hair, ragged and short from where she had finally chopped it all off in a fit of pique. There was nothing she could do to remedy the fact now, she had not been thinking entirely straight when she had caught her wrist-thick braid on a branch for what seemed like the fiftieth time. She had just hacked the offending thing off with her hunting knife and tacked it to the wall of her back shed like some sort of bizarre trophy. The housewives in the village were going to have a collective fit.

Smoothing her skirts, she made a disgusted face. She would rather march into town in her hand-me-downs from her father – warm breeches and wool tunics suitable for movement– and her trusty hunting knife strapped to her thigh. She wanted to tear the dress off and do just that, go whole hog with the hooligan look, but she felt like she should make some concessions for the poor sheltered village people. Making another face at herself, she grabbed a crisp, clean apron from a hook on the wall and tied it tightly around her waist. Then she thought for a moment and, stooping down, picked her belt up off the floor and deliberately buckled it over her apron strings. I chopped all my hair off and I’m wearing a dress, they shouldn’t find fault with me for this she thought defiantly.

She swished her way back into the living area and paused by the table to grab her hunting knife. Moving as if to hang it on its hook by the door, she stopped and deliberately fastened it onto her belt. If she was going to be odd about one thing, she might as well go the whole way. Snatching up a large basket of winter berries and a bundle of cured hides from beside the door and swinging a heavy cloak over her shoulders, Gwenna stepped back out into the crisp morning.

It took the better part of an hour to walk down the road into the village. Gwenna pulled the cart of meat and hides, the basket of berries hanging off one of the handles, since she didn’t own a horse. She did not have space or grazing land for one and, besides, she trusted her own legs more. She welcomed the stretch as well, having spent her pre-dawn hours crouched in the cold, stalking game. Humming to herself as she walked, she barely noticed the rumble of a wagon coming up behind her.

She felt the rumble through her supple leather boots though, and quickly pulled her small cart out of the middle of the road as the horse and wagon passed her by. Yelling a nasty curse at the driver for not alerting her, she yanked her cart back into the road, picking up her pace so she could catch the driver in Forestside and give him what for. Glaring at the wagon, she noted that there were two very bundled up figures sitting in the back. She raised a dark eyebrow. Why would anyone want to visit an old, cold, hungry village next to a haunted forest in the middle of nowhere? Adventurers were the only visitors they ever got, and they were too proud to be ferried in by wagon.

Thankfully, no one else passed Gwenna on the road and, as she approached the village, a lithe figure ran up to greet her. Gwenna carefully set down the handles of her cart and braced herself for the impact of an airborne hug.

“Gwenna! I haven’t seen you in practically ages! How have you been?” The newcomer was the polar opposite of Gwenna. She was pale, fair and willowy, whereas Gwenna was wind-roughened, dark and muscled. Gwenna smiled at the sight of her though.

“It’s only been two days, Annaliese,” she laughed. “I saved the last deer for myself, but brought this one into town, since even I can’t eat two deer all alone.”

“I dunno, I’ve seen how much you can tuck away in one sitting.” Annaliese snickered, and then turned back towards the village. “Did you see the wagon come in?”

“I did, near about ran me down too. Why?” Gwenna frowned at her friend.

“I thought at first it might be more supplies from the Prince, which is why I ran out here in the first place. But it was a couple of townie muckity-mucks from the mountains.”

“That’s really weird. Why would they come down to this forsaken place? There’s nothing here but ghosts and wolves. Unless they want to try their hand at adventuring… which I highly doubt.”

Her friend snickered, “I don’t think they would make it very far. Come on, after you sell your goods we can go investigate.” She walked back through the village gate and motioned for Gwenna to follow her.

Despite their rather different upbringings, Annaliese and Gwenna had been friends since very early childhood. When Gwenna’s mother had still been around, she would take her daughter with her whenever she went into the village, and it was there that the two girls had met. They had been inseparable whenever around each other ever since. Gwenna dragged “‘lies” around on all sorts of ill-advised adventures, and Annaliese played the innocent and got the both of them out of trouble more times than anyone in the village could recall. When they were young, it was inevitable that one or both of the girls would trundle home sporting mud, mysterious bruises, and a smile like a demented Cheshire cat.

However, with Gwenna, such behavior was encouraged by her father. He was a hunter, his daughter was a hunter, hunting and getting grimy was in their blood. Breeches and tunics stained with years of use were good enough for her and a little bit of mud never hurt anyone.

Annaliese was a different case entirely. Her father owned the local inn and was the closest thing the town had to a mayor. Such behavior was tolerated to a point, but when she got old enough it was frowned upon. Reluctantly, she had minimized her escapades to save face for her family. Now she wore clean dresses and braided her hair into some complicated mass on her head and looked for all the world like a high-born lady. It would have greatly distressed Gwenna, except for the fact that her friend still enjoyed hijinks and had no qualms about sneaking out for some adventure or another. Not to mention Annaliese’s support kept the shopkeepers friendly in the face of her rather mannish oddities.

The girls’ first stop was the butcher’s shop, a rather small building about halfway down the main road through town. With the poor harvest and Gwenna being the only large game hunter in town, the butcher mostly dealt in small animals like chickens and rabbits. He more than welcomed Gwenna’s contributions though and, in fact, was standing in the doorway of his shop, a broad grin splitting his face, when the girls approached. His eyes traveled up to Gwenna’s hair and he raised an eyebrow, grin becoming a knowing smirk.

“What ‘ave ye got for me today?” he called out to Gwenna as she pulled a couple of the large sacks from the cart.

“I got a doe this morning, Jefferson. Small, but should have the housewives fighting at your doorstep in no time at all.” She tossed one of the sacks to him and he caught it with one hand. Though a rather trim man, his arms were strong from butchering and he could easily beat any man in Forestside at contests of brute force. He slung it over his back and held out he free hand for another sack. Gwenna rolled her eyes and handed it to him instead of tossing it. Sticking out his bottom lip, he mock pouted at her, so she ruffled his hair before turning back to the cart and grabbing the last of the sacks.

They stepped inside the shop and Gwenna helped Jefferson arrange the cuts of meat on the cold-slab in the window. This was a large, smooth block of stone that stayed icy even through the hottest days of summer. It had sat in the butcher shop window for more than a hundred years, and the Crone said it had been a gift from the fairies of old. Naturally, everyone believed the Crone. Regardless, no one in the village knew exactly how it worked, but it was a boon to the butcher’s shop and kept the meat fresh for an impressive length of time. So no one particularly cared.

Soon the meat was arranged to Jefferson’s liking and he tossed her a bag of coins that she deftly caught and looped over her belt. She ventured back outside, waving over her shoulder and telling the butcher that she would be back in a bit. Parking her cart next to the butcher’s shop, since there was no reason to haul the thing around town and Jefferson would keep an eye on it, she grabbed the basket and last sack and headed to her next destination. Annaliese fell in beside her, trotting to keep up with the long legs of her friend.

“I meant to ask you earlier, but what happened to your hair?” she ventured, somewhat quietly.

Gwenna sighed. “I chopped it all off, obviously.”

Her friend snorted a rather unladylike snort. “Well, yes, obviously. But whatever did it do to you to deserve such an uneven fate.”

A deep blush stole its way across Gwenna’s cheeks. “I cut it with my hunting knife in the middle of the woods. I wasn’t exactly using a mirror,” she muttered. “It was getting in my way and I can hunt better without it.”

Annaliese pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, I can make it look decent. If you want.”

“If that’s what lets you sleep at night, I won’t stop you.”

“You wound me! I’m looking out for you and you mock me, you coldhearted woman!” Annaliese pulled an offended face, eyes wide, and playfully swatted Gwenna on the arm. Gwenna grinned and stuck out her tongue.

The next stop wasn’t a shop at all, but rather a small stall in the wide market square. A peeling sign proclaimed “Andras’s Quality Leather Goods”, but the distinct lack of any goods in the stall was a testament to the lack of available materials. A large man wrapped in a cloak sat tilted back on a stool, hood pulled up over his eyes. He was snoring loudly as Gwenna approached and started badly when she called to him, falling off his stool in a rather comical fashion.

Gwenna dropped the bundle of hides in front of him as he struggled to disentangle himself from his cloak. He grinned up at her wolfishly and she wrinkled her upper lip in disgust. “I’m only doing this for your poor wife’s sake, so don’t say anything. Just give me my money and leave me be.”

The man’s face fell and he sullenly dragged himself off the ground and jerked a thumb at the stall. “It’s on the top shelf, you frigid…” The hilt of a knife pressed to his throat cut off what he was about to say.

“You finish that sentence and I’ll tell your wife’s parents exactly why I hate you,” Gwenna hissed. The man’s eyes went wide and he nodded franticly. Gwenna sheathed her knife, took her money, and stalked off back down the street, the good mood that had been growing suddenly gone. Annaliese followed silently for a moment as the two made their way to the courtyard of the local watering hole, The Shining Roof Inn. When they reached the door, she reached out and put a hand on Gwenna’s arm.

“You know,” she started hesitantly, “No one would blame you if you told them anyway. In fact they’d probably erect a statue in your honor or something. Nobody likes him.”

Gwenna turned and shrugged. “He’s a sleezebag, sure, and he creeps me out. But if I can keep him afraid of me, I protect a lot of other weaker people he might attempt to try his ‘charms’ on otherwise. I don’t know how Melody stands him.” Her eyes glinted with anger.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of standing him. Her parents made a deal with his parents and that was that. How were they to know Andras would turn out to be womanizing scum? You can’t predict that at birth.”

Gwenna merely grunted something that sounded a bit like “right” and shoved the inn door open with her shoulder. The warm blast of air was welcome after the cool morning, and she padded her way across the straw-strewn floor to the counter at the back. Perching herself on one of the high stools and setting her basket on the counter, she waved to the heavy-set, balding man stacking tankards in the back.

“Good to see you, child,” he called as he made his way over to where she sat. “How are the woods? Here, have a mystery ale.” This was the iconic drink of the inn, though few actually tried it. It was a secret recipe passed from owner to owner and could only be made in small batches. It was also Gwenna’s favorite. He poured two small mugs from a small barrel behind the counter and slid one across to her and set the other in front of Annaliese, reaching across to tweak her nose.

She squeaked, with an embarrassed, “Daaaa, stoooop.”

Gwinna smirked at her friend’s discomfort and took a long sip of her ale. “Ah you know me so well, Henry. Thank you. I’ve been dealing with the local good-for-nothing.”

Henry’s face darkened and he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Andras is bad news, but he’s the only leatherworker we have. I hope he paid you what those hides were worth.”

Gwenna set her ale down, “He knows what will happen if he doesn’t pay me right. I’ve got it under control.” She pushed the berries across to him. “Here, I picked these yesterday. Figured you and the missus could make something with them.”

“We certainly can.” Henry whisked the basket off the counter and into the kitchen before Gwenna could even blink, yelling as he went. “Darling wife! The hooligan has brought us bounty from the forest!” Peals of laughter echoed out of the kitchen and Annaliese buried her face in her hands, groaning in embarrassment.

Picking her mug back up, Gwenna spun around on the low stool and leaned back against the counter, surveying the room. A cheerful fire was already burning in the huge fireplace, but the room was empty of people. Not unusual for this time of day, most people woudn’t start wandering in until the sun shone high in the sky. The Crone came in then, and sat in the corner with her knitting, spinning tales of the village and the forest beyond. She drew a crowd that would remain until the stars twinkled in the inky sky and the older villagers started heading for bed.

But for now, at least, the cultural hub of the village was quiet. No one was there petitioning Mayor Henry or drinking away the sorrows of another failed fall harvest. Gwenna had quite forgotten the new arrivals in town by this time, what with the incident with Andras. So she started violently, slopping ale onto her clean dress, when slow footsteps creaked down the stairs in the back of the room.

Cursing loudly, she wiped ineffectually at the spill with her hand, and looked up to meet the wide eyes of a stout older woman and the even wider eyes of the young man at her side. She froze, guiltily, before recalling her hair and stature and flushing crimson.

“I’m not a man, just so you know,” she muttered and spun back to the counter, her face flaming. Why did I say that, I don’t care what the city slicks think… she thought.

Beside her, Annaliese rolled her eyes and turned to the woman. “Excuse my friend, she’s the local hunter and we don’t require social graces from her on a regular basis. I’m Annaliese, Henry’s daughter.”

“Oh, well it’s nice to meet you, Annaliese. I’m Madeline and this is my son Beauregard. I think we passed your friend on the road on our way into town.”

“Near about ran me over,” groused Gwenna, and Annaliese smacked the back of her head. Gwenna turned to her friend, about to say something nasty, but then the newcomers caught her eye. In her earlier embarrassment, she hadn’t actually paid attention to anything except their initial expressions. Madeline was a short, stout woman whose grey hair had frizzed into a halo about her head. She was dressed in a sturdy brown dress and a thick crimson cloak. Her son, Beauregard, towered over her. He was a sight to behold, tall and thin, with a handsome face and golden hair that spilled over his shoulders. His tailored wool coat only served to accent his stunning appearance. In short, he looked like a god from the old tales and Gwenna near about dropped her mug, again.

Madeline continued on, saying something about coming into a bit of land upriver and getting out of the city for a while, but Gwenna missed most of whatever she said. When the mother and son duo finally turned and left the inn, Annaliese tapped her on the shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She grinned at her friend. “Close your mouth or you’re going to attract flies.”

After a moment, Gwenna snapped out of her daze. “That’s him,” she breathed, eyes wide.

Annaliese raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean, ‘That’s him’? Sure he’s pretty, but I don’t think you’ve seen him before.”

Gwenna gripped her friend’s upper arms and looked her full in the eyes. “That’s him,” she repeated. “That’s the boy I’m going to marry.”

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