The Untold Tale

Two

When Lucy Piper wakes the second time, nearly a full day later, Mother Mouth is there to decant broth and watered wine into her. Lucy Piper cranes her head around to watch all that happens over her shoulder, and Mother Mouth obligingly mixes her potions on the bedside table where her patient can see. She follows Mother Mouth's every movement with an expression that reminds me sharply of the looks on the faces of the village children when they see a fairy for the first time: wonder that such a creature is really before their eyes.

It disgruntles Mother Mouth, and, very strangely, keeps her quiet for once. I find I miss her brash laughter and blunt pronouncements. I do not like her silenced, not at all.

When it is all done and her bandages are changed, Lucy Piper reaches out and grabs the healer woman's hand as she packs up her bag. "Thank you, Mother," she says softly.

Mother Mouth's eyes dart to mine, just as surprised as I am that Lucy Piper knows the term of endearment which only the Shadow's Men use.

"You're very welcome, Lucy Piper," Mother Mouth replies and, flustered, wishes us a very hasty goodbye. She doesn't even linger to converse with me in the hall, as she usually does.

"Neris will help bathe you now, if you like, Lucy Piper," I say, once we are alone. "It's too early in your healing for a full tub."

"I'd like that. And just Pip is fine," she says. "It's what my friends call me."

"Pip," I allow. "Am I your friend?"

"Gee, lemme think. Do I want to be friends with the man who rescued me out from under the blade of Bootknife? Uh, yeah. Yeah I do, Master Turn."

I wonder what my name will sound like in her mouth, and so I offer it: "Forsyth, please."

"Forsyth," she says, obligingly, and I suppress the shiver that crawls up my spine, which has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Oh, I like that. Her accent turns the last syllable of my name into a sweet little lisp.

Neris comes in, clad in Turn-russet livery and carrying a wash basin. I step out of the room to allow the ladies the privacy required. I find I am imagining what Pip's hair will look like when it is clean and dry, spread out upon her pillow, a soft, straight curtain of ebony. I shake my head—and the thought away—and trot to the other wing of the Hall to ensconce myself in my study. I must get caught up on the paperwork with which my position, unfortunately, is filled.

Anyone would think that being the king's chief spymaster would be a duty overflowing with dangerous chases and listening at keyholes, when in fact it is largely comprised of sifting through missives to separate the truths from the elaborations and tracking spending so I may pay off informants. Snowdrifts of paperwork wait for me upon my desk in all seasons, and I shovel down through the layers daily, as best I am able.

If action needs to be taken, I have my Men to do that for me. Very rarely must I don the Shadow Hand's mask and cloak and venture out with a sword strapped to my hip. And even then, I am usually capable of diffusing the situation without ever having to draw my blade—my tongue is a far deadlier weapon, and I have leverage on nearly everyone in Hain.

A few hours pass in this manner, and by the time I am finished, my shoulders have seized up from being hunched over a desk for so long. I stand, stretch, and decide that now is the perfect time to spar to loosen them up, and then to indulge in a hot bath of my own.

Sheriff Pointe's home is the next estate over; when the old man who previously lived there died heirless, the lands and house reverted back to the possession of the Turn estate. As I had more than enough land to supply my own kitchens and tenants, and no need for a second home, I turned it over to the constabulary to be used as both a courthouse and a jail. One of the wings was also transformed into the Sheriff's apartments, where he and a very small staff reside. The outbuildings were made into cottages for the farmers who work the estate's land and pay their rent in food for the Sheriff's table. It is an excellent arrangement, and I have entailed the estate to the constabulary in perpetuity. The estate's previous owner's wastefulness was frustrating—there is no need for a single man living alone in such a large house, hoarding some of the most fertile land in the Chipping when, in the town center, the tenements are rarely large enough to even include a kitchen.