“Nay, you must wear it. The stone will protect you from evil.”
“Alain,” she began, hesitant, almost choked, “there’s something I must tell you.” She stopped, looking past him with a sudden expression of relief. “Mother Weiwara!”
“I thought you might like help, Hallowed One. I can gather up the herbs and petals you spilled. I know you would like to finish the purification, so you can be alone with your husband sooner.” With a smile for Alain, Weiwara crossed the fence and the two women walked away, Adica leaning toward her friend, whispering urgently.
Surely it was not his fault that the wind lifted their murmuring voices and brought them to his ears.
“What must I do? He doesn’t know.”
“Haven’t you told him?”
“I can’t bear to. What if it frightens him away from me?”
“Nay, Hallowed One, do not say so. You know that isn’t true. The Holy One sent him. He won’t desert you.”
Adica’s answer was lost as the two women ducked inside the birthing house. A moment later Weiwara emerged and, with a dismissive wave at Alain, started picking up the pouches and petals scattered on the ground.
Alain knew a command when he saw one. He retreated to the less complicated companionship of the men, who were engaged at this time of year in various projects preparing the village for winter. Urtan set him to work with Kel and Tosti binding thatch for the roof of the men’s house, which had developed several leaks during the heavy spring rains. From the roof he could look out over the village and up to the tumulus. Most of the older children had been set to making torches, stuffing and binding wood chips with tow flax or hemp and soaking these flambeaux in beeswax or resin. Women sat in the doors of their houses, weaving baskets. Crab apples had been piled up in heaps to sweat. Now and again he saw men walking along the embankment or hauling water or firewood up through the cleft where two ramparts met and overlapped.
But the best part of being up on the roof, besides listening to his companions as they discussed the girls they wanted to marry or just to kiss, was that he could keep an eye on the distant birthing house and then, later, on Adica as her tasks took her around the village. Everyone could tell his mind wasn’t on his work. His friends had a good time joking with Alain about just what exactly it was he might do in the evening: guard duty in the tower, wash the geese, scrape skins, sleep.
Their good-natured conversation and cheerful company made the time pass swiftly, because in truth he was waiting for the afternoon’s feast. Because in truth, even the feast, feting the centaurs, welcoming him and Adica home, passed with agonizing slowness. Night came quickly at this time of year, and Mother Weiwara made sure to chase them off to bed at dusk even if she could not restrain his friends from singing lewd songs as he tried to slip away, leading Adica by the hand.
Laughing, they ran through the dark village to their house. They needed no lamp to light their way. They needed nothing more than each other as they fumbled with clothing and fell backward onto the bed, the feather mattress giving way beneath them as they pressed together under furs.
What things he said then to her he could not remember nor was even really aware of. Just to touch her was like a delirium, a drowning. Maybe they had drowned twice or even three times before they exhausted themselves enough simply to lie side by side in the darkness, her shoulder fitted under the curve of his arm and her head resting on his shoulder. She had thrown a leg over his hips, and they rested this way for a time as she nuzzled his neck, planting butterfly kisses along his throat and occasionally on his lips. Outside, he heard one of the dogs get up and pad restlessly all the way around the house before settling back in at the threshold. He found the ring on her finger and twisted it around, teasing it off over her knuckle and sliding it back on.
“What didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “There’s something you’re keeping from me.”
Her kisses ceased, and she sucked in a breath as if she had been slugged in the gut.
“I overheard you and Weiwara speaking today. I know other people have said.… things. Whispers. Comments. What is it that you fear to tell me?” His voice cracked a little. Now that he had found a home, he hoped for all those things any person wishes for: a mate, shelter and food, a community to live in, and children to follow after him. But perhaps it wasn’t to be. “I know maybe you tried to tell me before, but I didn’t want to hear it. If it’s about a child, Adica. You know that no matter what, I will never leave you.”
She let all her breath out in a rush. “It’s true,” she said in a low voice, face pressed against his hair as he shifted to try to hear her. “I’ll never have a child. It’s—it’s part of the fate laid on me as Hallowed One.”
No need to pretend it didn’t hurt to have it spoken plainly. He had begged God to soften Tallia’s heart so that they might make a child together. He had prayed for hours, hoping against hope to give Lavastine the grandchild the dying count longed for. But in the end, God were wiser than the human heart.
He knew now that Adica’s soul was as bright as treasure, and that he’d been deceived in Tallia all along, small and crabbed as her soul had been, frightened and selfish and hollow. He pitied Tallia now, seeing how trapped she had become in her own lies. Yet it seemed cruel for God to deny Adica what she deserved.
He could not argue with fate. Nor would he deepen Adica’s sorrow by trying to protest what he had no control over.
“It’s true we’ll be sad that we can’t make a child between us. But surely, beloved, we need not turn away from raising children. God know that there are orphans enough needing shelter. Wasn’t I one of them? Didn’t a kind man take me in?”
He wept then, a little. It had been so long since he had thought of Aunt Bel and his foster father, Henri. Had they ever shown him anything but the same kindness they’d given to their own kin? Whatever the truth of his birth, they had raised him with their own. They had opened their hearts. Maybe it was up to him to do the same for another child, now that he had found his true home.
“Did he?” She held him as if she meant to crush his ribs. She was so tense. “Did kind folk take you in?”
“So they did. I told you the story. We’ll find a child, Adica. Or two children. Or five. Whatever you want. That’s how we can serve God, by giving a home to a child who needs one. That’s good enough. But just in case—”
“Just in case?”
He rolled over on top of her, pinning her beneath him. “God help those who help themselves. Urtan says something like, but I can’t recall how he says it.”
“’Prayers can’t make a field grow unless seeds are thrown in with them.’ Oof ! You’re crushing me. What does that have to do with—” She gasped as his fingers tweaked a nipple.
“Just so,” he agreed. “Maybe a child won’t come from your womb, but there’s a certain ritual a man and woman must go through to get a child for themselves, and I don’t think we ought to neglect it.”
“Again?” She laughed.