Shana Abé - The Smoke Thief

The girls had paused in a soft valley between the hills, clutching their hats as the breeze turned brisker. Sunlight showed honeyed locks flying and flaxen, strawberry blond and ginger red. Four girls, smiling and chattering amid the green. Someone loosed her flowers, and the August wind blew them into bright confusion.

Parrish Grady thumped a fist on the arm of his chair. “The boy's too wild, even for our kind. He needs to be reined in. You know it yourself, my lord.”

Kit stared a little harder at the girls, his eyes narrowed.

“Thank you, Mr. Grady, but I take the responsibility of raising my son as my own.”

“If he is to be Alpha—”

“There is no if, ” hissed the marquess, coming to his feet. “You will do well to understand that right now.”

Silence fell once more across the study. One of the men cleared his throat, nervous, but said nothing. Outside, the flower girls had gone very still. The strawberry blonde turned her face into the breeze—and the other three did the same. Kit recognized them now, Fanny and Suzanne, daughters of the smith, Liza from the mill. And Melanie, their leader. Melanie, of the apple cheeks and soft petal lips. Melanie, with her quick, cunning smile. He stirred in his chair, leaning casually on his elbow to see what they did.

Sky, grass, woods . . . and a shape in the trees. Another girl.

“There is the matter of the runners,” volunteered a new voice, George Winston.

“Aye, the runners,” began the murmurs across the room, and the marquess sat down again.

The woodsgirl realized that she had been discovered. She stood frozen as well, smaller than the other four, pressed up against the trunk of a tree. Kit could make out one pale hand against the bark, fingers splayed. He could not see her face.

Very, very slowly, she began to ease backward.

Melanie had turned to the others. She was speaking. She was taking off her hat.

“. . . precisely as I said. We cannot risk further incidents with outsiders. We were fortunate enough to capture the Williams boy before he had gotten too far, but the next time may be the time that he—or some other hotheaded young fool—manages to evade us. I shudder to think of what might have happened had he made it past the shire. I need to have a word with his parents again. And then the gamekeepers, I think . . .”

The woodsgirl had managed hardly a step. Perhaps she hoped the others were bluffing; Kit, however, knew Melanie better than that. With infinite care the girl slid back another step, and then Kit caught her profile. It was that lass, the scrawny one always ducking from crowds, peering out of shadows . . . what was her name? He frowned, trying in his mind to place her amid the intricate shoots and branches of the tribe families. He'd seen her mostly around the village, brown-haired, white-skinned. Timid. Mousy, even, if such a word could be applied to any member of their kin.

Melanie's group began to walk toward her and the woodsmouse froze again—then lost her nerve. She skipped back. It was all Melanie needed.

The four girls broke into a sprint.

Kit straightened in his chair, forgetting his father's meeting. Four against one was hardly sporting, especially as the prey was so much younger than the hunters. The mouse vanished from view, swiftly followed by the others. He had glimpses of gowns flashing through the trees, and then nothing.

Calm settled back upon the forest, unbroken, silent as winter snow.

Kit uncrossed his ankles, considering. He'd seen the little mouse more and more of late, now that he thought about it. Always quiet, always alone.

If she had any sense, she'd head for the river. They might lose her scent there—

“Christoff? Christoff! Are you listening, boy?”

“Aye,” Kit answered, with just that trace of surliness guaranteed to send color into his father's cheeks.

“The perimeter, the runners. Dire peril to the tribe, et cetera.”

“How gratifying to have your attention.” The marquess thinned his lips. “Perhaps, then, you might have a suggestion for the council?”

For the first time Kit looked around at the gathered faces fixed upon him, tanned and pale and avid eyes.

“Regarding the matter of your bride?” prompted his father softly.

Kit opened his mouth to speak. But just then the woods erupted; the young girl hurtled out of the trees in a flap of skirts and mad streaming hair, her face flushed, cutting a sharp angle across the perfectly manicured rear lawn.

Kit stood, and all the men turned.

“What the—oh—it's—”

“The Hawthorne gel,” said George. “Halfling. Clara, Clareta—”

“Clarissa,” supplied Kit, in a spark of memory. “And Mel,” he added dryly, as the other four emerged at her heels, gaining.

“Ah.” The marquess took his seat again with his back to the window. “Halfling. Well, then, no matter. Gentlemen, shall we continue?”

But Kit remained standing, watching the lass run.

______

She crept into the cottage kitchen on her toes but, as usual, wasn't furtive enough to fool her mother.

“Clarissa? Is that you?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She ought to have known she couldn't slip in and hide; her mother's senses were far too keen for that. Or perhaps it was the draft from the back door that gave her away. Either way, she thought glumly, she was caught now.

“What are you doing, child?”

“Washing up.”

She dipped her hands into the chipped basin on the counter, scrubbing, watching the water turn pink with blood. She found the dishcloth and ran it over her face, wiping off the dirt, more blood.

“Mama, would you like tea?” she called.

“Yes, dear. That would be lovely.”

She set the kettle to boil and scooped the tea leaves from this morning's breakfast, still damp, back into the teapot. She tossed the wash water out over the back steps—sending a quick, nervous look around the garden first—and then refilled it from the cistern.

The kettle began to steam.

By the pot of geraniums on the windowsill was the polished tin oval she had given her mother last Christmas, hung up by a yellow ribbon. It showed the kitchen in dusky gray and always made her face into a long, funny shape that reminded her of a fish, but it was still a better mirror than the windowpanes.

Clarissa examined her reflection critically: her hair was snarled, the white tucker at her collar torn. There was dirt on her elbows and three drops of blood across her bodice. Her lower lip throbbed red and bruised.

“Clarissa, I believe the water's ready.”

“Yes, Mama.”

No time to change gowns. She brushed herself off as best she could, recaptured her hair and twisted it into a haphazard bun. She poured the hot water into the teapot, set it on the tray along with cups and honey and cream, and then bread with the last of the butter.

One final look into the tin oval. Better, but not best. She widened her eyes to round perfect innocence and practiced a smile—wincing at her lip—then picked up the tray and carried it to her mother's room. Antonia Hawthorne was sitting up in bed, her ashen hair in plaits, her hands folded on her lap. It was one of her better days; Clarissa could hardly hear her breathing. Her face was drawn but her eyes ever bright as she surveyed her daughter. Her mouth took on a ruthful slant.

“Oh, dear.”

With great care, Clarissa set the tray upon the bedside table, unable suddenly to look up from the butter pats.

“Tell me,” her mother invited in her soft, gentle voice. She waited as Clarissa fumbled with the spoons, her face still downturned, then said more firmly, “Clarissa Rue.”

“An accident. I tripped over a tree root.”

“Did you?”

Clarissa tried her wide-eyed look upon the teapot, beginning to pour. “Yes. I was clumsy. I tripped, and then I rolled down a hill. You know that one just past Blackstone Fell. It's very steep.”