Chapter 4: The Fern Clause

The Rothgar Harvest Fair was the one day a year the Duke and Duchess had to walk through the village together.

It was also the one day the stalls sold ferns.

"Six," I told the plant seller. "In pots. The ones with the thickest leaves."

"Six ferns?" Ansel said behind me. He had come in his plainest coat and still drew a crowd. "For what?"

"Evidence."

"Of what?"

"Wait until tonight."

The plant seller, who had never in his life sold six ferns at once, asked if we wanted the wheelbarrow too.

"Yes," I said.

"No," said the Duke.

"Three gold for the wheelbarrow," I said. "It goes on your account."

He looked at the sky, and Bertram, a step behind us, wrote it down.

We walked down the main street with the wheelbarrow and a line of villagers curtsying on both sides.

Ansel stood very straight and nodded at every curtsy.

"They expect you to hold my arm," I said.

"They expect me to walk beside you."

"They expect you to hold my arm, and that's three gold."

He gave me his arm, stiffly. I took it with my right hand and kept my left in my sleeve.

Beside the baker's stall, a boy ran past with a hoop, and a cart horse took fright.

I didn't see it. I heard the wheels.

An arm closed around my waist and I was off my feet and against a very warm chest, and the cart went by close enough to take a hem off my skirt.

My left hand was flat against the front of his coat.

He was breathing hard. His heart went fast under my palm, and fast was a reasonable response to a horse.

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