fill. In the absence of cutlery she was unwilling to produce Edmund’s knife from her pocket, so she picked at the meat and vegetables daintily with her fingers and licked the thin gravy from her fingers. Miles settled back in his seat and watched her.
“Another place, Kirk Knowe ?” he asked as he passed the mug back and Grace wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took another sip between bites.
“No. Just somewhere with bad memories,” She wondered what Miles would make of the truth, if she ever got around to telling it. She chewed slowly and gazed into the fire. She was warm for the first time in days and there was something about an open fire that was comforting. Despite having just woken she was still weary and stifled a yawn.
“Was your father the gardener at Kirk Knowe ?” asked Miles, taking the mug back from Grace and filling it from a pewter jug before taking his fill.
She reluctantly drew her gaze from the flames. Of course he had assumed her father’s trade, because her name was Gardner.
“No my father was a teacher. H e taught music at an academy in London. He was a talented violinist, you know, fiddler?” She mimed the action of fiddle and bow and ignored his blank look .“ He played in concerts. My mother was an artist a free spirit, rather like me really.” She thought of them wistfully, hadn’t really thought of them for some time. They had been gone so long and her memories were those of a child. She pulled at her fringe and twisted the ends between her fingers. It had been one of her childhood habits. Her mother had scolded her, warned her she would wake up one morning with no hair if she continued.
Miles studied her and poured another drink. “Why did they give you to the church? Surely you would have made a good marriage match, or did they have one too many daughters?” The mead was loosening her tongue, and he pressed another into her hand.
Grace smiled. S he w ould have to put him straight. T he whole situation was getting far too bizarre and the mead didn’t help. She enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps if she just came out and told him the truth they could sort out the mess she’d found herself in. Of course tel ling the truth wasn’t the issue - having him believe it would be the problem...a time portal, a doorway, a passage to the past? She didn’t quite believe it herself.
“No, they had only one child, although I always wanted a little brother.” She glanced wistfully at Edmund. “They were killed in a fire at a concert hall when I was ten and I was brought up by my grandparents at Kirk Knowe .” She paused to look at him. “I don’t know who or what you think I am, but I’m certainly not a nun. No one is going to pay ransom for me. In fact there is no one here who would even care whether I exist or not. You may as well take me back to where you found me and let me go. I’m not worth anything to you.” Or anyone else she added silently, and wasn’t that the truth.
If she was expecting some blinding flash or whirlwind which would miraculously catapult her back to where she’d come from, she was disappointed. Neither did she find herself back in the forest with a bump on the head, or waking up in her own bed in her cottage. She was still in the great hall sat at the wooden table in front of the fire with Miles at one end and a slumbering Edmund at the other.
Miles took back the mug. She had recklessly drained the contents and he filled it once more. The mead was having an effect on him too. She could see it in his eyes; that mellow self-contentment and just a hint of wickedness. Perhaps her revelations had not come as an entire surprise, she did not behave as nun should, but if he accepted she were not a lost nun, then he must be wondering at her real identity. She watched as he toyed with his knife, slowly running his finger and thumb up and down the flat of the blade.
“So no one knows where you are and there is no one to care if they did. One
“Another place, Kirk Knowe ?” he asked as he passed the mug back and Grace wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and took another sip between bites.
“No. Just somewhere with bad memories,” She wondered what Miles would make of the truth, if she ever got around to telling it. She chewed slowly and gazed into the fire. She was warm for the first time in days and there was something about an open fire that was comforting. Despite having just woken she was still weary and stifled a yawn.
“Was your father the gardener at Kirk Knowe ?” asked Miles, taking the mug back from Grace and filling it from a pewter jug before taking his fill.
She reluctantly drew her gaze from the flames. Of course he had assumed her father’s trade, because her name was Gardner.
“No my father was a teacher. H e taught music at an academy in London. He was a talented violinist, you know, fiddler?” She mimed the action of fiddle and bow and ignored his blank look .“ He played in concerts. My mother was an artist a free spirit, rather like me really.” She thought of them wistfully, hadn’t really thought of them for some time. They had been gone so long and her memories were those of a child. She pulled at her fringe and twisted the ends between her fingers. It had been one of her childhood habits. Her mother had scolded her, warned her she would wake up one morning with no hair if she continued.
Miles studied her and poured another drink. “Why did they give you to the church? Surely you would have made a good marriage match, or did they have one too many daughters?” The mead was loosening her tongue, and he pressed another into her hand.
Grace smiled. S he w ould have to put him straight. T he whole situation was getting far too bizarre and the mead didn’t help. She enjoyed it a little too much. Perhaps if she just came out and told him the truth they could sort out the mess she’d found herself in. Of course tel ling the truth wasn’t the issue - having him believe it would be the problem...a time portal, a doorway, a passage to the past? She didn’t quite believe it herself.
“No, they had only one child, although I always wanted a little brother.” She glanced wistfully at Edmund. “They were killed in a fire at a concert hall when I was ten and I was brought up by my grandparents at Kirk Knowe .” She paused to look at him. “I don’t know who or what you think I am, but I’m certainly not a nun. No one is going to pay ransom for me. In fact there is no one here who would even care whether I exist or not. You may as well take me back to where you found me and let me go. I’m not worth anything to you.” Or anyone else she added silently, and wasn’t that the truth.
If she was expecting some blinding flash or whirlwind which would miraculously catapult her back to where she’d come from, she was disappointed. Neither did she find herself back in the forest with a bump on the head, or waking up in her own bed in her cottage. She was still in the great hall sat at the wooden table in front of the fire with Miles at one end and a slumbering Edmund at the other.
Miles took back the mug. She had recklessly drained the contents and he filled it once more. The mead was having an effect on him too. She could see it in his eyes; that mellow self-contentment and just a hint of wickedness. Perhaps her revelations had not come as an entire surprise, she did not behave as nun should, but if he accepted she were not a lost nun, then he must be wondering at her real identity. She watched as he toyed with his knife, slowly running his finger and thumb up and down the flat of the blade.
“So no one knows where you are and there is no one to care if they did. One
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