Dhampira

The village was quiet, but it wouldn't stay that way for long.

All the more reason to hurry.

With the wooden yoke stretched across my shoulders, I rounded the corner of the blacksmith's shop. The water buckets dangling from either end of the yoke swayed slightly as I made my way down the dirt path that served as Derryton's main street. A handful of shops marched along either side of the road, their windows covered with wooden shutters still locked against the night.

Except for Horace Alderson's dress shop. Its windows boasted real glass that glowed a soft purple in the predawn light. Before his eyesight grew too poor for sewing, Horace had been dressmaker to the ladies of King Hubert's court. Clever as a fox, he'd returned home to Derryton, paid the ladies from Sausberg to ship him their outdated dresses, and sold last year's fashions to country women desperate for a sample of city life.

Water sloshed in my buckets as I slowed before the big window. Inside the shop, headless mannequins displayed beautiful gowns in bold colors. The deep reds and vibrant blues were trimmed in fur, feathers, and rows of stones that looked like real rubies and diamonds even though Mama swore they were paste. It didn't matter. The light set them twinkling all the same. They were probably breathtaking under chandeliers blazing with candlelight. My simple gray dress was a sharp contrast to the finery from Sausberg.

A sigh built in my chest as I studied my reflection in the glass. I looked the same as always. Green eyes. Wavy black hair scraped away from my face, although a few stubborn strands had already escaped the knot I'd pinned to the back of my head. My hand, draped over the curve of the yoke, was red from scrubbing the cottage's floor with last night's bathwater. Even if Mama and I had the money for a gown like the kind Horace Alderson sold, I had no place to wear it. I lowered my head, my gaze falling to the toes of my leather work boots. They were only a year old, and they'd been costly. But they were plain. Ordinary.

Why can't I have something extraordinary?

The sound of a bell drifting on the air made me jerk my head up. In the window's glass, the reflection of a large cow meandered down the street behind me. A second later, Duncan Bagley strolled in the animal's wake.

Oh no.

Cringing, I turned from the window and hurried forward, my head angled down and my heart thumping faster.

Duncan's deep voice boomed over the clang of the bell. "Get on there, Tess! You're a slow girl this morning."

I walked faster, the water in the buckets lapping against the wood. He was going to wake the entire town.

"Corinthe! Hey, Corinthe!"

Damn. Plastering a smile on my face, I let my shoulders droop a bit as I turned. "Good morning, Duncan."

"Corinthe Trevil," he said, his eyes bright as he strode toward me. His teeth flashed white in his face, which was tan from days spent tending his father's fields. Behind him, Tess the cow wandered to a patch of grass in the road and began yanking it from the ground. Duncan reached me, bringing the scent of ale, horse manure, and cologne. The latter might have been unusual for other farmers, but not for Duncan. The Bagley farm was a large estate, and the Bagleys were well on their way to becoming landed gentry. Duncan's clothing was nearly as rich as the gowns behind Horace Alderson's windows.

"You're up early," Duncan said. His blue gaze took in my yoke and the dangling buckets. "Need any help?"

"No, thank you."

"You sure?" He smiled, displaying dimples the women in town swooned over. "It's hard work hauling water, especially all the way to your cottage."

"I'm used to it." And I was far more capable than he knew. If necessary, I could have probably carried Tess to his father's farm. Although I could never tell him that. So I kept my smile in place and said, "I'm not scared of hard work."

Duncan's expression abruptly grew serious.

No. Not serious.

Earnest.

Oh gods. Not this again.

His throat bobbed as he ran a large hand through hair as yellow as the hay in his fields. "I know you're not, Corinthe. And any man would be proud to have you at his side. I know you said you aren't quite ready to settle down, but if that ever changes . . ." Another throat bob. "Well, my offer stands."

I drew a deep breath, prepared to refuse his proposal-again-as gently as I could. "I-"

"And you're not getting any younger."

I snapped my mouth shut.

"Ma says a woman your age can't afford to be choosy." Duncan hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers. The cuffs of his tunic sleeves were embroidered with tiny blue B's-no doubt stitched by Mistress Bagley herself. Pink tinged the bridge of his nose as he cleared his throat. "Looks don't last forever. Ma says you're a dreamer, but dreams won't milk the cows, will they?" He chuckled, rocking on his heels. "Anyway, think on it, all right, Corinthe? Promise you'll do that for me?"

The sounds of the waking village suddenly filled the air. A horse whinnied. Across the street, the bakery's shutters slammed open, and the baker's wife poked her head out. She blinked at Duncan and me from under the ruffles of her sleeping cap.

Duncan beamed at her. "Morning, Mistress Addington! I'll be around in a bit for fresh loaves. And Ma asked about a cake. Do you have anything with preserves? Ma favors preserves."

"I'll see what I have," Mistress Addington said. With a nod at me, she popped back into the bakery.

Duncan's brow furrowed as he scratched at his chin. "I sure hope she finds those preserves."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed for you," I said, swinging away and starting down the street.

"And you'll consider what I said?" he called after me.

I waved without turning around, and I walked faster as more shutters swung open around me. The fewer people who saw me with Duncan, the better. Although it was too late to stop gossip from spreading. Mistress Addington wasn't one to keep news to herself. By noon, every tongue in town would be wagging about me speaking with Duncan.

And all of Derryton would wonder why I continued to turn down Duncan's offer. He was rich and handsome, and he'd been the talk of every unmarried female in town since he first flashed those dimples. No one could figure out why I declined to marry him, and the townsfolk seemed to take my refusal personally. Just about everyone in Derryton had been born and raised in the village. But Mama was an outsider. The gossips agreed I should be grateful for the opportunity to wed one of Derryton's most eligible bachelors.

More shutters opened.

I reached the edge of town and continued down the road. My cheeks burned as I imagined the whispered conversations that followed in my wake.

An odd girl.

She should thank her lucky stars for the Bagley boy's attention.

Twenty-five in a few months. Most girls are married with a brood of children by her age.

Who does she think she is?

A dreamer.

The buckets swung wildly, water slopping over the sides. There was nothing wrong with dreaming. But I was far more than a dreamer, and I could never, under any circumstances, marry Duncan Bagley. Never mind that I'd rather wed Tess the cow than spend one minute as Mistress Bagley's daughter-in-law.

With a glance over my shoulder, I straightened my back and slowed to a normal pace. The road narrowed, ruts and potholes threatening to twist my ankles. I sidestepped them easily and kept going. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves on the trees. Birds chirped. Deep in the forest, an animal scurried among dry leaves. The first rays of morning sunlight crept over the road.

And a man's muttered curses floated around the bend ahead.

I stopped, straining to hear more. The road between Derryton and the cottage was usually safe, but a highwayman had robbed the blacksmith a few years ago. And every once in a while, a creature crossed the Feyline . . .

My heart thumped faster. A bead of sweat streaked down my back.

The man's voice rang out. "You, there, in the road! I'm armed and not afraid to kill!"

Relief swamped me. The fear in his voice sounded real enough. Still, it was wise to be cautious, so I stooped and freed myself from the yoke. Unburdened, I walked forward. "Hello? Are you hurt?"

The scuffling of boots. Then a squat, balding man in a bright red tunic and equally bright yellow trousers rounded the bend. His face was almost the same shade as his tunic. Sweat beaded his brow and stained his neckline. Dirt streaked his cheek. He looked me up and down, then propped his hands on his hips.

"Am I hurt? That depends entirely on your perspective, Miss . . . ?"

"Corinthe," I said, striding forward. A large wooden cart came into view. My heart sped up, but not from fear. Because the cart wasn't like the ordinary, serviceable conveyances the farmers of Derryton used. No, this was a peddler's cart. A golden silk canopy stretched over a frame. Within it, rows of hooks and shelves held an assortment of goods. Shiny cookware, sparkling jewelry, and bolts of colorful fabric occupied every available space. As I drew closer, a dark, spicy scent teased my nostrils.

The man eyed me as he mopped his brow with a square of silk the same shade as the canopy. "Corinthe, eh? Do you have a family name?" His chest rose and fell rapidly, and a fat vein in his neck kept time with it.

An ache blossomed in my gums. Suddenly, his heartbeat filled my ears.

"Corinthe will do," I said, tearing my gaze from his neck. Focusing on the cart, I curled my hand into a fist and dug my nails into my palm. The ache faded, and the sounds of the forest returned.

The peddler stuffed the silk in his trouser pocket. "Corinthe Willdoo. That's a mouthful. Forgive me if I don't attempt to spell it. You must not be native to Ghedda."

I looked at the peddler, and he smiled, displaying a prominent gap between his front teeth. His eyebrows were thick and dark, as if they tried to make up for the lack of hair on his head. His eyes were an odd shade, like gold that had been heated and then beaten into something new. Emerald studs winked in his ears. A golden amulet the size of a saucer hung from his neck, and emeralds and other gemstones formed a dragon in the center of the disk. His clothes were a great deal finer than Duncan's, although nothing like the gowns in Horace Alderson's shop. I'd wished for something extraordinary. Nothing about the peddler was ordinary.

He waited, his golden gaze steady under my perusal. The hair on my nape lifted as a tingling awareness spread through me. The Feyline was only a day's ride from Derryton. I had nothing to fear from men. But if the peddler had crossed the line . . .

If he'd come from Nocta . . .

Mama's voice rose in my memory. You must never speak to creatures from over the line, Corinthe. They aren't as easily fooled as humans. And if they suspect you're one of their own, they'll either kill you or take you.

I forced myself to hold the peddler's stare. "Who was manning the wall when you entered the town?"

"You call that picket fence a wall? No offense, but my grandmother has better fortifications around her vegetable garden."

"You didn't answer my question."

He tilted his head. "Tall fellow. Shock of red hair. You'll forgive me that I didn't catch his name. Gatekeepers aren't usually the chatty sort."

My apprehension faded. His description of Tom Tweedle was accurate. "Are you from Sausberg?"

Indignation crossed his features. He gestured at his tunic and trousers. "You've never seen royal livery before?"

I shook my head.

"I suppose that makes me feel better," the peddler mumbled. With a flourish of his hands, he offered a low, formal bow that exposed the shiny crown of his head. When he straightened, he swept an arm toward the cart. "Young lady, not only am I a proud son of Sausberg, I am Cyprio Kormaz, official cookware supplier to the royal kitchens."

I looked at the rows of frying pans.

Cyprio frowned. "You're still not impressed."

"No, I am," I said quickly. "I've never met anyone from Sausberg before. Well, the town dressmaker lived there for a bit, but he was born in Derryton."

"Uh-huh." Cyprio walked to the cart and plucked a pan from one of the hooks. He flipped it over and pointed to a crest stamped on the bottom. "See that boar? It's King Hubert's seal. A little pedestrian, if you ask me, but no one did, so there you go." Cyprio flipped the frying pan right side up. "You do any cooking?"

"A little. If you're the king's official cookware supplier, why do you have a peddler's cart?"

"Even kings only need so many pans. And I like money." Cyprio's expression turned thoughtful. "If you're not interested in a frying pan, I guess I'll have to offer you something else."

Surprise jolted me. I looked at the cart's wonders, a thread of excitement snaking through my veins. "Why would you offer me something?"

He jerked a beringed thumb toward the forest. "My horse bolted. I need a new one."

"It got spooked?"

"No, it's a lazy son of a harlot, and it took off at the first opportunity." Cyprio huffed. "Trust me, Miss Willdoo, the beast is probably across the Feyline by now." He leaned around the cart and shouted into the forest. "And good riddance! Don't come crying to me when a troll tries to put you in a stew!"

Laughter bubbled in my throat, and I bit the inside of my cheek to stave off a smile.

Cyprio waved a hand at the cart. "I can't leave all this unattended. Pick an item. Large or small, whatever you want. Go into the village and ask the stable master if he has any horses for sale. I'll give you the gold to negotiate a purchase. When you return, you can take your item from the cart. No strings attached."

A diamond-encrusted tiara wrought from delicate gold filigree winked from one of the lower shelves. Probably paste. But it was beautiful.