Delia Prance's Arc

Chapter 15 of 59

The wedding was one day off. Delia woke before dawn in the cottage and reached for her lists. Ribbons to hang. Benches to set. Tea for the patients who would sit on their side of the field. Her stomach rolled the moment she stood. She pressed a hand to her mouth and breathed until it passed. Too much work, she told herself. Not enough sleep. She tied on her flower-embroidered apron and went to the stack of worn books by the window, the ones wrapped in pink vine, and pulled out the plan she had drawn for the day. By midmorning she had scrubbed the benches and cut the last flowers. The sickness came again while she filled water jars. She gripped the table and waited it out. She counted the days on her fingers, and stopped. She had not bled this month. Or the month before. She set the jar down slowly and stood very still in the quiet kitchen. Nick found her there. He wore his dark coat, sleeves rolled, a roll of ribbon under his arm. He saw her face and dropped the ribbon on the table. "You're gray," he said. "Sit down." "I'm fine." She did not sit. "You're not." He crossed the room. He put two fingers under her chin and looked at her the plain way he looked at everything. "Tell me the problem." Delia met his eyes. She was a healer. She knew the signs better than anyone. "I've been sick every morning," she said. "For weeks. I thought it was the work." She took his hand off her chin and held it. "It isn't the work, Nick." He went still. His blue eyes moved over her, and she watched him count the same days she had counted. "You're sure," he said. It was not a question, but she answered it. "I'm sure." For a moment he said nothing. Then he sat down hard on the bench she had scrubbed, and a laugh came out of him, low and surprised. He pulled her down beside him. "A child," he said. "Before the wedding. Before I've even—" He stopped. He took her stained hand in both of his. "The court sits in that field tomorrow. My father. Every noble in Pinehollow. They'll see it soon enough." "They'll count too," Delia said. "Same as we did." Nick nodded slowly. His jaw set. "Then we tell them on our terms. Not theirs." He stood and pulled her up with him. "But not today. Today you rest. I'll hang the ribbons." Delia looked at her lists, still half undone. For once she let them lie. She sat back down while Nick took the ribbon roll to the door. The wedding was ready enough. But now she carried something the whole court would read in her face, and the king who demanded an open marriage would have more to reckon with than a field of plants.