Reclaiming Ryda, the next novel in the Once Upon a Duchy series is debuting on April 20th. I can't wait to share it with readers. Until then, I am going to offer a bit of a sneak peek into the second chapter of this Rapunzel-inspired novel.
Background: The hero and heroine met briefly the day before when the hero arrived at the castle where Ryda is kept as a captive librarian in one of the towers. It is now the next morning and Ryda is rising from her bed on the top floor of the tower.
Ryda
The distant thump of books being dropped on a hard surface brought the time to my attention. My visitor was most likely back. By the look of the sun, I had been moping around far longer than I ought.
Rising, I donned additional layers of clothing, straightened
my bedding, and closed the windows. Finally, I brushed and braided my hair. I
gave a fleeting thought to leaving it loose, it being my one aspect that I
might use as a wile, but then I thought better of it. I refused to stoop to
Rodney’s level. I braided it like normal, without any extra measures. In the
end, it was neat, and that was enough.
On my way down to the first floor, I paused on the second to
gather my customary morning occupation, a stack of Saruthian fables that I was
translating. When I reached the bottom of the stairs with my arms full of
books, I was surprised to meet the stranger entering the library.
“Did you forget something?” I asked, nodding toward where
his satchel rested in the middle of the table.
“No, I needed to check the corridor. As you can see, I have
plenty of ledgers to go yet.” He laid a large hand on the stack of ledgers
resting on the far end of the table. They were probably the source of the sound
that had announced his presence.
“I also have much to occupy me.” I crossed to the end of the
table farthest from the door and from the stranger. Setting down my own small
stack of books and note-taking pages, I left again in search of my ink and
pens, which I kept tucked next to the stairs halfway between the first and
second floors.
By the time I returned, the stranger had made himself
comfortable nearest the door, covering half the table with the stacks of
ledgers and the contents of his satchel. His shaggy golden-brown head was
already bent over an open ledger when I settled in my place opposite him. I
scooted down as far as I could possibly be and still share the table.
We settled into a comfortable silence, and within moments, I
forgot the man was even there. About midmorning, I struck a Saruthian word I
had never encountered before. I tried figuring out the meaning from the
context, but I couldn’t guess. Rising, I trekked up to the second floor for the
rudimentary dictionary that I had left behind.
“Where do you want it?” The question in the familiar
disgruntled tone of voice drifted up from below as I reached the landing. My
heart stuttered. The breakfast tray had arrived. The texts on the table were
delicate and couldn’t withstand the delivery boy’s customary shoving act. I
turned to rush back down the stairs and rescue my books.
“Not there.”
The deep tones of command in the stranger’s voice from below
stayed my feet. Would he spare my treasures? Taking a risk, I waited. He spoke
again.
“I said, not there!” The scraping of wooden chair legs on
stone followed by shuffling and thumping left me guessing. “Leave them here.”
“The lady never makes this much fuss.” The usual delivery
boy’s nasal whine made me cringe even from the top of the stair.
“She shouldn’t have to. These are delicate and valuable
documents. Treat them with care, or you will be held liable for their value.”
The boy snorted. “It won’t be me. That girl’s hide will
receive the measure.”
“All the more reason to take care.”
Another snort was followed by a clatter as the tray was set
roughly down.
After a few moments of heavy silence, the lad retreated with
a sullen leadenness to his steps.
I quickly retrieved my resource before descending with far
more languor than I felt. To my great relief, I found my end of the table just
as I had left it. The stranger and his gear had moved to the floor next to the
resources I had initially pointed out to him. On his end of the table, two
trays covered the entire space. One held only empty dishes. The other lay
neatly arranged. A small bowl of berries and a glass of milk stood next to my
customary porridge. I stared at the luxuries.
I turned to protest to the stranger that surely the milk and
berries had been meant for him, but he was gone.
My only recourse was to eat, which I did. However, I
couldn’t bring myself to finish all the berries. They were perfectly ripe,
sweet and tangy on the tongue. I set aside half for him when he returned and
set the empty trays on the ledge for the boy.
An hour later, the stranger returned. Slipping silently
through the gate, he crossed to his collection of things and hunkered down on
the floor. Propping his back against the edge of the bookshelves, he opened the
top ledger on the nearest pile. He resumed his perusal of it as though nothing
had happened.
I studied him brazenly for a moment, half fearing and half
hoping he would ask why I stared. In the end, he didn’t, and I returned to my
work.
The meter didn’t work. I could get the words to rhyme, but the timing remained clunky. Despite it only being a child’s rhyme, I desperately wished to get it right. The only solution was to try it to music.
After another swift trip up the stairs, this time to the
third floor for my lute, I returned. Settling with the translation and the
original before me, I began plucking out a simple melody, an ancient one I had
once heard played by a traveling minstrel. After a few tries, I had fit verse
and tune together.
So, I tried it out.
At the end of the first translated stanza, the stranger
stood.
I stopped singing and playing. A hot blush flooded my face
as I realized I had forgotten the man was still there.
“Please continue.” He came around the table to stand behind
my right shoulder, leaning over to read my notes. A waft of mint and honey
filled my nose.
He hummed a few bars of the song I had been playing. “It is
a pretty tune. Where did it come from?”
“I heard it once.” I found my throat suddenly dry.
“I like your choice of word here.” He reached around me to
tap the word gilt in my notes. “I would have chosen gold, but your choice fits
the rhyme pattern better.”
“It also seemed to better fit the intent of the song.”
“To lull children to sleep?”
“To accompany their play. At least that is what I always
suspected these songs were meant for.”
I turned my head to look up at him and found myself looking
deep into the warmest pair of brown eyes I had ever encountered. Not that I had
gazed into any man’s eyes for any length of time before that moment. I
immediately dropped my attention to my instrument.
“So, this is where you ran off to?” A young man of perhaps
eleven years strode into the room and surveyed the scene, including the chaos on the floor where the
stranger had been working. “And you say I make a mess.”
“Pip, hush.” The stranger straightened and frowned at the
new arrival. “I thought I told you to mind the horse and lie low.”
“There will be no minding of no horse, master, if you don’t
go speaking to the man in charge of the stables. He had me evicted and refused
to feed your horse.”
“Did he tend to the horse’s lameness, at least?”
Pip shrugged. “How should I know? He won’t speak civil to
me.” He eyed me. “Who is the lady?”
“Is that how I taught you to behave? Introduce yourself.”
The censure in the stranger’s voice was met with a smirk from the lad.
The lad executed an excellent bow fit for a meeting with a
duke. “Begging your pardon, my lady. My name is Pip Mayton, late of Greenwood
and more recent of this gentleman’s service.”
I rose and offered him a deep curtsey in return. Grandness
begets grandness. With a broad smile, I introduced myself as Rydaria Lowellyn
of Westerworn Tower. “My friends, few though they are, call me Ryda. I would be
pleased to count you among them, Master Mayton.”
“Nay, my lady. I will be happy to be called a friend, but
Pip is best. Master Mayton is far too formal for the likes of me.”
I turned to the stranger. “I believe you need to apologize
to Pip, sir.”
The stranger’s handsome features were an amusing study in
confusion. “For what?”
“You chastised him for not introducing himself, and you have
shared several hours of my company without doing the same yourself.”
The stranger laughed. It was an inviting sound that
brightened his eyes and filled the room with warmth. “True enough. My
apologies, Lady Lowellyn, I am in the wrong.” He stepped back to offer me a
bow. “I am Crispin Winder, a traveling scholar from Areyuthia.”
“Areyuthia is a long way off.” Three months’ journey by foot
was distant for anyone. According to my best maps, Areyuthia claimed the far
northwestern corner of the duchies, far from Worthenave and its capital city.
“I have been journeying long,” he admitted with a hint of
sadness in his voice.
Pip cleared his throat loudly. “A certain horse is
starving.”
“Yes. My apologies, my lady. I will return to clear up my
mess.” Master Winder offered a truncated bow in my direction before leaving on
the heels of his companion.
Pip’s voice echoing back to me as they raced off to see to
the horse’s condition only underlined my loneliness. Even the wandering scholar
had a companion.
Having lost my interest in translating or singing, I gathered my things and headed up the stairs. I had a whole list of tasks to complete before the next morning’s inspection.
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