Filaria - Brent Hayward [37]
In single file, the girls, their father, and Lady all descended the spiral stairs of the southwest tower to come out blinking in the light that yellowed the gravel lip of the front courtyard. A hard-packed road wound from Elegia’s stately portals and out into the environs via a great black gate. Clusters of distant huts were set against rolling verdant hills.
Far above, the dome of the sky was a clear but faded blue. Deidre looked at the sun once more, but the glare was too much.
Several footmen in red uniforms stood by the gate, brandishing poleaxes. At the sight of their boss, one of them ran forward a few steps, stopped, looked back at his comrades. These men were used to casual days, inaction, games of cards and crude jokes in the guardhouse. Days spent trying to get Voluminia and Estelle to pay them some attention. Now that something real was happening, they were clearly unsure how to proceed.
With a shock, Deidre suddenly realized it was not the gold carriage waiting, as she’d imagined — with its four dun quarter horses, each brushed and dressed and noble; instead, the covered market cart squatted ugly on the gravel, dirty and rickety and as grey as a shadow. She stopped short. From a rent in the chamois cover her mother peeked, managing a tiny wave and a brave face.
The Orchard Keeper heartily returned the wave, as if everything were fine, a mere drive in the country.
Miranda dashed, ungainly, loping across the courtyard towards the cart.
The big hand of her father fell on Deidre’s shoulder. “Come on there, D, hurry up, get in. Your mother’s waiting.”
And the older girls held back.
Deidre turned slowly. Blood had drained from her cheeks. “You’re not coming with us.” This was not a question.
The Orchard Keeper blinked, started to say something, closed his mouth. Now Estelle and Voluminia were walking across the courtyard — Miranda was already inside the cart, her thin wail drifting on the hot afternoon air. Their father crouched down. His eyes searched Deidre’s. They were moist and she saw red veins mapping them like small, sanguine rivers.
“No, sweetie,” he said, quietly. “I’m not coming with you. But I will catch up in a few days.” He waited, perhaps to give Deidre a chance to speak, but Deidre did not say anything so he wiped at his mouth with his hand and fiddled with his Orchard Keeper’s ring. “I, uh . . . Take care of our precious Mir. And take care of your mother, and Voluminia, too, for that matter. And Estelle, of course. You’re the most sensible one of all, D. You’re the voice of reason in our little family.”
Deidre did not smile. “Is it war?” she asked. “Are we going to war again, father? Why won’t you tell me?”
He was shocked, or at least appeared so. “War? When were we ever at war, sweetie? The last war was long before I was even born.”
She repeated her question.
“I don’t know where you get your ideas from, D. You must have your Aunt’s imagination. Now go, Pumpkin, please. Get in with your mother and sisters. Trust me. I will see you again soon.”
To her surprise, Deidre felt a growing anger. More anger inside her than fright or sadness. Her father had not answered at all. He was deserting his family. She stared at the Orchard Keeper — for that was how she thought of him right then, not as father, but as Orchard Keeper — stared for a moment longer, until he was forced to exhale and look away, and then she turned toward the grey market cart. She walked, her back held straight, though the heat on her shoulders was oppressive. The thick fabric of the servant’s clothes was a shroud. She did not want to turn around, did not want to see the Orchard Keeper again. Her cheeks also burned. She kept thinking, this is not fair, this is not fair . . .
But she would not cry.
No stairs on the cart, no lowered ramp, no staff to help her up. Deidre scrambled up over the tailgate and immediately stopped