The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [19]
“It is. Well, good morrow, Mistress Raena! Taking a bit of air with your man?”
“I am indeed.” Raena had come up beside him. “And a good morrow to you, Mistress Dera.” She smiled, nearly radiant. “It does gladden my heart to see you well.”
“My thanks,” Dera said. “But I’d best not stay out in this cold, alas.”
“Indeed you shouldn’t,” Verrarc said. “I’ll just be carrying this down for you.”
“I’ll be going back home, then.” Raena glanced his way. “This winter air, it does cut like ice. But Mistress Dera, might I come pay a call on your daughter? Mayhap I could help cheer her.”
“Why, now, that would be most kind of you!”
Dera smiled, Raena smiled, but Verrarc found himself suddenly wondering if Raena would harm the lass. His fear shamed him; it seemed such a foreign thought, dropped into his mind by some other person or perhaps even a spirit. He carried the water bucket down the twisting path to Dera’s rooms behind the public granary and saw her safely inside, then hurried back to the house. By then the sun hung close to the horizon, and the winter night loomed.
When he came in, Raena was sitting in her chair near the roaring fire. He hung his cloak on the peg next to hers and joined her, stretching out grateful hands to the warmth.
“Dera, she be a decent soul indeed,” Raena said.
“She is,” Verrarc said, “and I trust you’ll remember how highly I honor her and hers. No harm to her kin, Rae. I mean it.”
“Of course not! What do you think I might do?”
“I did wonder why you showed such interest in Niffa, naught more.”
They considered each other, and once again Verrarc felt his old suspicion rise. Had Raena somehow murdered Niffa’s husband? She’d been worshipping her wretched Lord Havoc in the ruins when Demet had been slain, after all. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. How could she possibly have harmed a strong young lad such as he? Lord Havoc, now—him he could believe a murderer.
“Oh come now, Verro.” Raena lowered her voice. “Remember you not the omen I did see, that Niffa does have the gifts of the witchroad? ’Twere a grand thing if I did enlist her in our studies.”
“Ah. True spoken.”
Yet the fear returned from its hiding place, somewhere deep in his mind beyond his rational understanding. He felt as if he were remembering some incident, sometime when she’d done something to earn this distrust, but no matter how hard he tried, the memory stayed stubbornly beyond his conscious mind.
A bowl of dried apples preserved in honey made a generous gift, here in winter when food was scarce, but Niffa felt like knocking it out of Raena’s hands. Dera, however, smiled as she took it from their guest. She set it on the table, then bent her knees in an awkward curtsy.
“This be so generous of you, Mistress Raena,” Dera said. “It will do my poor raw throat good.”
If it be that it not poison her, Niffa thought. She wanted to snatch the bowl and hurl it to the floor so badly that her hands shook. She clasped them tightly behind her and wondered if she were going daft, to believe that Verrarc’s woman meant them harm, when she knew with equal certainty that the councilman would never allow anyone to injure Dera.
“My poor child!” Raena said. “You do look so wan. You’d best sit down and close to your hearth too.”
Niffa managed to mumble a pleasantry and sat on the floor, leaving their only chair for the visitor and the bench for her mother. Raena sat down, opened her cloak, and pulled it back, but she left it draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill. Around her neck hung a silver pomander; she raised it to her nose and breathed deeply.
“I do apologize,” Dera said. “The ferrets, they have a strong stench about them in winter. It be too cold, you see, to risk giving them a good wash.”
“Ah well, I mean not to be rude.” Raena sounded a bit faint. She raised the pomander again.
“It be kind of you to visit the likes of us,” Dera said. “It be a long while since we’ve had a treat such as this.”
“Most welcome, I’m sure. Verrarc did think the honey might ease your throat.