Part 2 (2/2)

The s.h.i.+ver became a cold chill down Senna's spine. 'Dye-witch,' people had said for a thousand years, as a way to insult. Or, depending on the whims of the local parish or lord, as a way to get a person killed. But, for those who knew such things, 'dye-witch' was a term of respect bordering on awe.

Senna so desperately wished she was not one of the ones who 'knew such things.'

”Oh, dear, my lord,” she said briskly, ”I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I am here about the wool.” She extended the account ledger in her arm.

His gaze lowered briefly, then came back up. ”There is no misunderstanding, Mistress de Valery. I have the Wishme mollusks. I need the dye they create.”

”Oh, my lord, the Wishmes are legend. Only legends.” Ones she recalled her mother telling her by firelight. ”Nothing about them is true-”

”They are real, Senna. Your mother's treatise clearly outlines that.”

She practically recoiled. ”My mother's treatise? treatise?”

Her mother? What did Rardove know of her mother? And what did her mother know of treatises? treatises? She'd known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Pa.s.sion. She left the family because of it, ran away when Senna was five. Left Senna in charge of a one-year-old brother and a father descending into the vortex of heartbreak and gambling that had been slowly killing him all the years since. She'd known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Pa.s.sion. She left the family because of it, ran away when Senna was five. Left Senna in charge of a one-year-old brother and a father descending into the vortex of heartbreak and gambling that had been slowly killing him all the years since.

She'd left it all to Senna and never come back.

Her mother knew nothing of doc.u.ments, nothing about managing things. Corraling and harnessing the frightening forces of the world. She knew only about running away. And she certainly certainly knew nothing about knew nothing about doc.u.ments doc.u.ments.

That was Senna's realm.

”And Senna?”

She jerked her attention back.

”The Wishmes are real. They are valuable. And I need you to make them into a dye for me.”

She clutched the account ledger to her chest, feeble armor. She could not make dyes. They could offer her chests chests of gold that would save the business forty times over, and she would still not be able to dye. She'd spent her life avoiding it. of gold that would save the business forty times over, and she would still not be able to dye. She'd spent her life avoiding it.

The question was: what would the stranger before her do when he understood that?

At the moment, he was simply watching her, but with a hawklike intensity that did not bode well for creatures smaller than he. Senna figured she would come to his chin. In slippers.

”Have you a suggestion on how to proceed, Senna?” His voice was calm, as if they were discussing the menu for the evening meal. Perhaps...her.

She wiped her free hand on her skirt. 'Twas time to prove herself reasonable enough not to be splayed and boiled as a first course.

”Have you attempted dog whelk? Or mayhap woad. Its colors are deep and rich, well suited to the fibers. Surely it can produce what you are looking for.”

By the look on his face, Rardove did not agree.

”Sir, 'tisn't possible for any person with a will to craft the Wishme dyes. Only a very certain few can-according to legend,” she added hurriedly, then tacked on, even more hurriedly, ”which I know only as a result of being in an a.s.sociated business, you understand, and hearing such things. But even if I wished to dye, I could not do it, just so.” She snapped her fingers. ”Such craftsmans.h.i.+p takes years of study. I cannot fathom why you think I can make them-”

He snapped his fingers back, right in front of her nose, then grabbed her hand, overturned it, and pressed his thumb against her inner wrist, over the blue veins that ran beneath her skin.

”Your blood makes me think it, Senna,” he said in a low voice. ”They say 'tis in the blood.”

Her mouth fell open. Terrified, she yanked on her hand. He released her.

Continuing to back up, she put her hand on the edge of the dais table for support, ledger clutched to her chest. Fast, frantic chills shot through her, like small, darting arrows, poking holes in her composure.

”Sir.” She swallowed. ”Sir.” She was repeating herself. That could not be good. She never even quoted prices more than once. ”Sir, you must understand-”

”I understand. You do not.” He turned so his back was to the hall, reached into his tunic, and pulled something out. ”This is what the Wishmes can do.”

That was all he said, all he needed to say. Everything else came from the sc.r.a.p of dyed fabric in his hand. Slowly, she set the ledger down and reached for it.

It was...stunning. Luminous, a kind of deep blue she'd never seen before, so brilliant she almost had to s.h.i.+eld her eyes, as if it were emitting light.

Dog whelk could not create this. Neither could moss, or madder, or woad, or anything on Earth. This was straight from G.o.d.

”'Tis beautiful,” she murmured, running her fingers almost reverently over the edge of the dyed weave. ”On my wool, it would be something the world has never seen.”

An odd look crossed his face. ”Where will you start?” he asked, his voice hoa.r.s.e.

She moved her hands in a helpless gesture. ”I do not know.”

But she did. A churning hot spot in the center of her chest seemed to be actually pulling her back to the dye hut, to the room with mortars and pestles, the lichen and bark that could be magicked into things of such beauty.

Just like her mother. Shame sizzled thin, hot rivers of self-loathing down her throat.

He pulled at the fabric in her fingertips. She let it go and pushed back her shoulders. ”Lord Rardove, I deal in wool. That is what we discussed in our correspondence.”

”Indeed. Just so.”

”Just so, then. I am here to strike a bargain that will be lucrative for us both. Perhaps if I show you some of the accounts I brought with me, you will see the benefits. Or,” she added, not liking the way he was looking at her and not the ledgers, ”perhaps you would prefer to simply reconsider the arrangement, and I can hie myself back to the s.h.i.+p.”

”Or perhaps we ought to take care of this other little matter straight away.” Rardove gestured toward the shadows.

Pentony emerged from within them somewhere-He is a wraith, Senna decided-with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward's cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess. Senna decided-with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward's cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess.

She looked back to Rardove. ”Other matter, my lord?”

He gestured impatiently to Pentony, who scanned the doc.u.ment in his hands, then began reading parts of it aloud.

”Senna de Valery, merchant of wool...Lambert, lord of Rardove, on the Irish marches...union in wedlock...banns posted...”

Senna's mouth dropped open and she almost fell to her knees.

Chapter 5.

<script>