Could she have misunderstood? Could she have been so terribly wrong?
And . . . from now on. Might Emory be implying that she could keep her lynx, after all, to the wedding and beyond?
Emory was waiting for her to speak. Ama moistened her lips with a sip from her own mug. It was foamy and bitter and cool, the beverage inside, and Ama swallowed a large mouthful before answering. At last she said, “I am sorry, my king. I did not yet thank you. Indeed, you have saved me yet again, this time from heartbreak. Thank you for finding my Sorrow and returning her to me.”
Emory smiled. “All is well, Ama,” he said, taking another gulp of his drink. “All is well.”
Was this the right time? Should she push him now? “Emory,” she said, a quiver in her voice, “the queen mother suggested that perhaps you should give me a gift.”
Emory laughed softly. “Girls, always wanting more,” he said. “What is it you want, Ama? Jewels? Furs? A new gown?”
“Your word,” Ama answered, “that I can keep my Sorrow past the wedding, if I can manage to tame her.”
“Tame a beast like that,” Emory said, shaking his head. “A girl like you.”
“Perhaps Pawlin could help me,” Ama blurted. She turned to him. “You can tame any beast, I am sure of it, can you not?”
“Can and should are very different things, my lady,” Pawlin answered, but that was not a no.
“At least let me try,” Ama said, to Emory. She was begging now.
A moment passed as Emory regarded Ama, as Ama tried her best to arrange her face, her hands, her posture, in the best possible manner, the manner that might convince Emory to give her this gift, the one thing she wanted.
At last, Emory spoke. “You may try,” he said. “Most likely you shall fail, even with Pawlin’s aid, but I shall not interfere. And if you manage to tame the cat to my satisfaction—then your Sorrow shall stay. You have my word.”
“Oh, thank you, my king,” Ama gasped. “Thank you.”
The return to the castle was as easy and dry as the leave-taking had been frightening and wet. From the pub—where Emory insisted on leaving gold coins, though the barkeep had bowed and pledged that the honor was his to serve the king, no money necessary—to the warm, enclosed carriage, to the castle door, the trip was full of ease and comfort.
In the carriage, Emory himself bent down to slip off Ama’s ruined slippers, his large, callused hands cradling her feet to warm them.
At the castle, the carriage took them nearly right to the entrance, and Emory took Ama up in his arms, Sorrow asleep now on her chest, and carried her easily across the threshold.
Ama found she had no desire to walk—oh, she was tired—and she let her head rest against Emory’s chest as he took her through the castle and toward her room, the servants bowing and curtsying and then whispering behind them, their quiet voices so clearly full of admiration for Emory’s strength and his rescue, yet again, of his damsel.
Not until they reached the door to Ama’s chamber did Emory set her down, and then he did so almost with regret, as if he was sorry to be relieved of the burden of carrying her.
Tillie emerged through the doorway, curtsied to the king, and took Sorrow, who yawned and stretched upon transfer, into Ama’s room.
Emory brushed Ama’s hair back from her temple, took up her hands in his, and kissed them, knuckle by knuckle, ten soft sweet kisses.
“You must rest and recover from your trauma,” he said, and his blue eyes held real concern when he looked up from her hands. “Exposure to weather like this is dangerous. You could catch cold and be carried off from me, and then where would I be? A king without a queen, dear one, is not much of a king at all, for a queen is both helpmeet and legacy bearer.”
“I am grateful to be safe, and to have my Sorrow back,” Ama said. She tried to make herself as soft and small as Emory seemed to like.
“Rest, Ama, and bring that pretty pink back to your cheeks,” Emory said, smiling. “You may take supper in your room tonight, if you wish; I will give Mother your regrets.”
“That is kind of you, my king,” Ama said.
Then Emory came in close, very close, so that his breath warmed Ama’s cheek. His left hand wound around her waist, his right took up a gentle handful of still-damp hair at the nape of Ama’s neck, and he brought his mouth down to slant across Ama’s.
His kiss was soft and lingering, tender as if he feared that he might break her under the weight of his caress, and Ama held herself very still, accepting his mouth and his hands.
Emory broke the kiss reluctantly, and he smiled a wide earnest smile, and then he released her. “As many times as you need my aid, dear Ama, I shall provide it.”
Ama dropped her best curtsy, and she dipped her head prettily. She held the posture as long as would any suppliant, until Emory gestured for her to straighten, and then dropped another kiss, this one on her forehead. At last Emory turned to leave, well pleased, and then a thought flashed through Ama’s mind, a realization that chilled her even more deeply than the rain—
This is how he likes me best . . . when I am in need of rescue.
Six
Sorrow’s Lesson
It was Emory’s use of that one tiny word—if—that compelled Ama to hope.
That word, that if, inspired Ama not only to hope that her Sorrow might remain at her side, but also that perhaps her future might still unfurl into something beautiful.
If, she thought as she wandered the gardens on Emory’s arm.
If, she thought as Emory tried to teach her how to shoot an arrow, as he laughed at how it wavered and fell short of the target.
If, she thought each night at supper with Emory and the queen mother, and sometimes with the hall deafeningly full of guests.
If, she thought as she endured the clucking and questions of the guests and the housemaids and even her own Tillie, who all wanted to know if she was getting enough sleep, if she was eating enough, if she knew why she was losing her color and her curves and the sheen to her hair, in spite of the good care she was getting, the good meat she was eating.
If, she thought at the end of each night, as Emory walked her to the door of her chamber, as he kissed her face and her mouth and her throat, as he kneaded the mounds of her breasts through the velvet and satin of her gowns (not troubled, it seemed, by her waning figure), as he pushed her up against the door, grinding his yard into her stomach.
If she could keep her Sorrow, Ama thought, latching the door to her chamber when at last Emory released her, bringing her fingertips to her swollen lips, if only, then this, then that, then everything, would be worth it.
“Submitting a creature to your will,” Pawlin began. It was a fine, blue-skied afternoon one week after Sorrow’s disappearance and reappearance; Pawlin and Isolda met Ama and Sorrow in the garden to train, his gloves and a leather switch discarded on a bench nearby. “The key to this is to strike the right balance of trust and fear. That, and timing. The best-trained beasts are those who are broken before they have tasted their own power. An adult hawk trapped in a net can make a fine hunter, ’tis true, but never as good as an eyas, taken from its aerie. Away from its mother, the fledgling cleaves to its master—or mistress, such as it were—and can be bent like heated metal into whatever shape the master desires.”