Chapter 61 Salt Cellar

Chapter 61 Salt Cellar

ANA

My fingers remained on the wooden notches of the calendar board by the washstand. The little bone peg sat in the third hole past the full moon marker, right where I had left it three mornings ago when I first started counting the days on my knuckles. The moon pool in the lower garden had already gone dark and filled again since the last time Sena had to carry the stained cloths down to the laundry tubs. My stomach gave a small, greasy lurch, the smell of the mutton fat from the breakfast trenchers rising up from my apron.
Sena sat by the larger cedar chest, her teeth tugging on a length of coarse grey thread while she mended the hem of my wool gown. She didn't look up when I pulled my hand away from the board, but her needle stopped mid-stitch, the iron point catching the grey light from the high window.
"The herb woman from the south gatehouse came by with the dried tansy while you were in the clerk’s office," Sena said. She tucked the needle into her bodice, her palms smoothing down the heavy linen over her apron. "She asked if you needed the bitter bark tea this month, Ana. I told her we had plenty left in the jar, but she looked at the calendar board anyway before she went out."
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, my boots dragging against the rug. My thumbs hooked into my pockets, finding the small silver comb Rhydian had returned to me. The metal was cold against my thigh. "I haven't needed the bark tea since the frost ended, Sena."
Sena dropped the wool gown onto the chest, her stool scraping against the stone as she hitched it closer to the bed. Her hand came out, her fingers catching my chin and tilting my face until I had to look at the small squint in her left eye. "You haven't touched the salt fish since Tuesday, either. And your face looks like the grease on a tallow candle when the kitchen boys bring the lard in."
My mouth opened, but the back of my throat felt dry, the salt from the morning bread sticking under my tongue. I pulled my face back from her fingers, my heel digging into the pile of wool on the floor. "The kitchen smells like old lard every morning. It’s nothing."
"It’s a child," Sena said, her voice dropping down until it was just a breath against the wool of my bodice. She didn't smile, but her knuckles pressed hard against her own knee, the grey fabric bunching under her grip. "A child by the blood line, Ana. Think about the council hall. Think about Alpha Bram looking at a cradle with the three ridges on the header. He can't send you to the lower supply corridor if you’re carrying what belongs to the house. Vessa can scream until her throat goes raw, but the law doesn't let them touch a woman who has the next winter count in her belly."
I reached out, my fingers catching the edge of the washstand to stop the small wobble in my knees. The lacquer box with the ivory birds sat right beside the basin, its little wings catching the sun. A small laugh, thin and shaky like grease on water, came up into my mouth. A child. Rhydian’s locs would be small and soft on a baby’s neck, the skin the same dark plum color as his shoulder where I bit him on the floor by the rug.
"I have to tell him before the midday council begins," I said, my hand moving down to press against the linen of my apron. The fabric felt tight across my hips, though it was the same kirtle I had worn since the harvest. "He’s with the horse masters in the lower yard, Esther said he was checking the iron shoes for the pack beasts."
"Tell him in his private room," Sena said, her hand reaching over to straighten the collar of my shift. She gave the wool a small, rough twitch that brought the scent of the laundry lye up into my chin. "Don't say it while the clerks are carrying the inkwells. Let him look at you without three scribes waiting to write down the date of the birth."
The heavy oak door swung back before her hand left my neck.
The iron latch hit the stone wall with a loud clang that made the water in the washbasin rattle against the ceramic rim. Rhydian stood in the opening, his formal wool coat hanging loose from one shoulder where the top silver button had come out of its thread. His boots were covered in the grey river mud from the lower lane, and his hair was damp around his forehead, the dark locs sticking to his temples in small, crooked lines.
He didn't come into the room properly; he stayed in the frame with his shoulder heavy against the wood, his chest rising and falling like he had run all the way from the gatehouse without his horse.
"Sena, leave the gown," Rhydian said. He didn't look at her; his eyes stayed on the washstand where the silver comb was sitting by the basin. His fingers were curled into his palms so tight the skin around his knuckles looked white.
Sena stood up from the stool, her boots catching on the hem of the wool dress she had been mending. She looked at his boots, then at the tear in his shoulder seam, her mouth flattening into a straight line before she reached for the door. "There’s fresh tallow in the hall if you need the lamp lit, Your Highness."
"Go down to the kitchen," Rhydian said, his voice dropping into that flat, dry tone he used when the council met during a bad harvest. "Tell Marta to keep the boys out of the eastern corridor until the bells ring for the evening prayer."
The door didn't shut all the way; the latch clicked against the strike plate but stayed loose, a small draft coming through the gap from the stairwell.
Rhydian walked over to the sewing table, his hand reaching for the low stool Sena had just left. He didn't sit; he just gripped the top wood rail until the frame creaked under his weight. He looked down at the floor between his boots, his thumb tracing a dark grease spot on the oak seat.
"The physician was just in the western wing," he said.
My hand stayed flat against my apron, the linen warm beneath my palms. My throat tightened up until it felt like I had swallowed a dry pebble from the garden path. "Did Vessa break another basin, Rhydian? I told Sena to leave the wardrobe pieces on the lower shelves so nothing else could fall."
"Vessa is pregnant," Rhydian said.
He didn't look up when the words came out. He just shifted his grip on the stool, his fingernail catching on a loose splinter in the wood until it snapped off short. "Alpha Bram has already sent the messengers to the southern septs. They’re bringing the white mare for the blessing ceremony before the weekend is out."
The water in the washbasin didn't move, but the grey light from the window seemed to turn the color of old lard against the stone. My fingers uncurled from my apron, dropping down against the wool of my skirt until they felt like lead weights hanging from my wrists. The little bone peg on the calendar board stayed in its hole, three days past the full moon, small and white like a tooth someone had dropped in the dust.
"The physician said it’s two months along," Rhydian continued, his voice coming out slow, like he was reading the numbers from an old grain ledger he didn't trust. "Before the siege lines were taken down. Before the chests were moved into this wing."
I didn't move my feet from the rug. My tongue felt thick, the taste of the morning grease coming back into my mouth until I had to swallow three times just to get my breath down into my throat. "Vessa will have the first cradle then," I said, the words falling out of my mouth before I could think about where they were going.
Rhydian looked up then. His eyes were very dark, the skin beneath them looking grey like the river mud on his boots. He took a step toward the bed, his hand reaching out until his thumb brushed the edge of my apron, right where my own fingers had been sitting a moment before. He didn't take my hand; he just held the wool of my skirt between his two fingers, his breath coming out short against the linen of his shirt.
"Alpha Bram wants the western chests back in the high vault by noon tomorrow," Rhydian said, his thumb stopping against the grey fabric. "He says the child needs the royal dowry registered before the council signs the new land tithes."