Chapter 3: The Woman Who Smiles

Nyra's POV

"Sugar, darling? Or does Ashfall drink its tea bitter?"

The Luna Mother of Blackmoor held the silver spoon over my cup and smiled at me like I was a long-lost daughter.

"Bitter is fine, my lady."

"Celine, please. We're family now." She set the spoon down with a soft clink. "Family doesn't stand on ceremony."

I had been in Blackmoor less than a day, and I had already been woken at dawn by a maid who wouldn't meet my eyes, dressed in a plain grey gown that wasn't mine, and marched to a sunny little parlour where the woman who'd had me whipped was now pouring me tea.

She didn't recognise me. I was almost sure of it. Five years ago I'd been a kitchen girl with flour on my face, and women like Celine Thorne didn't look at kitchen girls. They gave orders about them.

"You're very quiet," she said.

"I'm sorry, my lady. Celine."

"Don't apologise. Quiet is a virtue." She stirred her own tea slowly, round and round. "My son needs a quiet wife. He has enough noise in his life."

My son. Lucan wasn't her son. Everyone knew that. But she said it so sweetly that if I hadn't known better, I'd have believed her.

"I hope I can be useful to him," I said.

"Oh, you will be." She smiled wider. "Which brings me to the little matter of your duties."

"Duties?"

"Well, darling, you didn't think you'd simply sit in your room all day, did you?" She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Blackmoor doesn't feed idle mouths. Not even married ones. The kitchens are short a server. You'll wait at the high table from today."

My cup rattled against the saucer. "Serve? At the high table?"

"Is that a problem?"

Yes. In front of the whole pack. In front of him. In front of her.

"No, my lady."

"Celine."

"No, Celine."

"Good girl." She reached across and patted my hand. Her fingers were cold. "You know, we had a kitchen girl once who forgot her place. She told the most terrible lies about the family. It ended very badly for her." Her eyes rested on my face, soft and kind and empty. "I'd hate for history to repeat itself."

My heart stopped.

She knew. Or she suspected. Either way, the warning was clear enough.

"I'll remember my place," I whispered.

"I know you will."

By noon the great hall was full, and I was carrying a tray of roast pheasant that weighed as much as I did.

"Faster, Ashfall," hissed the head server, a sour woman named Greta. "The Alpha doesn't wait."

The high table sat on a raised platform at the end of the hall. Lucan was in the centre chair, broad shoulders back, one hand curled around a goblet. He was listening to a grey-haired warrior talk about border patrols, and his face gave away nothing. He hadn't looked at me once since I came in.

Lyra sat at his right hand in pale blue silk, laughing at something nobody else had said.

"Oh look," she said brightly as I climbed the steps. "The bride is serving lunch. How charming."

A few people at the table chuckled. Lucan didn't.

I set the pheasant down carefully in front of him. My hands were shaking, so I kept my eyes on the plate.

"Wine," Lyra said. "My cup's empty."

I picked up the jug.

"No, no. The hot spiced wine, darling. From the kettle."

Greta pushed a steaming copper pot into my hands. It was heavy and the handle was scalding even through the cloth. I walked it around the back of the chairs to Lyra's side and leaned in to pour.

I didn't see her foot.

I only felt my ankle catch, and the floor tilt, and the pot swing forward out of my hands. Boiling wine sloshed over the rim, across the tablecloth, across my left hand, and onto Lucan's sleeve.

The pain was white and instant. I bit down on a scream so hard I tasted blood.

The whole table went silent.

"Oh!" Lyra pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, how clumsy. Lucan, are you burned? Clumsy, clumsy girl."

"I'm sorry," I gasped, clutching my hand against my stomach. "I'm so sorry, Alpha, I didn't..."

"Get up."

His voice was flat. I stumbled to my feet. The skin on the back of my hand was already turning an angry red.

He stood. Every person in that hall stopped breathing. He looked at the dripping tablecloth, at his wine-soaked sleeve, at me. I braced myself for the shouting.

Then he grabbed my wrist and pulled me down off the platform.

"Lucan?" Lyra called after us. "Where are you going?"

He didn't answer. He dragged me across the hall, through a side door and down a short passage into a cold stone washroom where a pump stood over a trough of well water. He shoved my hand under the spout and worked the pump handle hard.

Freezing water hit my burn. I cried out.

"Hold still."

"It hurts."

"I know it hurts. Hold still."

He was standing right behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his chest through my thin grey dress. One of his arms was caged around me, holding my hand under the water. The other kept pumping. His breath stirred the hair at my temple.

"Who told you to serve?" he said.

"The Luna Mother."

"And who told you to pour the hot wine?"

I didn't answer.

"Nyra." It was the first time he'd said my name. It went through me like a blade. "I asked you a question."

"Lady Lyra asked for it, Alpha."

He was quiet for a moment. The water kept running. His thumb moved, very slightly, over the inside of my wrist. He was stroking the one spot that wasn't burned. I don't think he even knew he was doing it.

"Your hand is shaking," he said.

"It's the cold water."

"No, it isn't."

I turned my head without thinking, and our faces were suddenly inches apart. His grey eyes dropped to my mouth. Mine dropped to his. The washroom was so quiet I could hear the water dripping and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"You keep doing this," he said roughly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that." His jaw tightened. "Like I owe you something."

You do. You owe me five years. You owe me a son who asks about you every night.

"I'm not looking at you like anything, Alpha."

"Liar."

He let go of the pump. The water slowed to a trickle. He didn't move away, and neither did I.

"From today, my wife doesn't serve tables," he said quietly. "If Celine asks, tell her I said so."

I swallowed. "Then may I ask you for something, Alpha?"

His eyes narrowed. "What?"

"A letter. I need to send a letter home to Ashfall. To my aunt. She's old, and she'll worry about me."

For a moment I thought he might actually say yes. Something in his face softened, just slightly, just for a second.

Then it was gone.

"No."

"Please. Just a few lines..."

"No letters leave this pack without my seal." He stepped back at last, and the cold rushed in where his body had been. "And you won't need to write to anyone in Ashfall."

"Why not?"

He wiped his wet hands on his ruined sleeve and looked at me with flat, unreadable eyes.

"Because Silas rode out at dawn," he said. "He'll be knocking on every door in your stepfather's village by tomorrow night. Whoever your aunt is, I'm sure he'll pass along your regards."