The White Rose



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Chapter Fifty-Four:
AN EVENING AT HOME

Days passed. No one of any especial allegiance gained any
apparent ground. The Lady canceled all investigations. She and the
Taken conferred often. I was excluded. So was Bomanz. The Limper
participated only when ordered out of my quarters.

I gave up trying to sleep there. I moved in with Goblin and
One-Eye. Which shows how much the Taken distressed me. Sharing a
room with those two is like living amidst an ongoing riot.

Raven, as ever, changed not the least and remained mostly
forgotten by all but his loyal Case. Silent did look in
occasionally, on Darling’s behalf, but without
enthusiasm.

Only then did I realize that Silent felt more toward Darling
than loyalty and protectiveness, and he was without means of
expressing those feelings. Silence was enforced upon him by more
than a vow.

I could not learn which sisters were twins. As I anticipated,
Tracker found nothing in the genealogies. A miracle he found what
he did, the way sorcerers cover their back trails.

Goblin and One-Eye tried hypnotizing him, hoping to plumb his
ancient memories. It was like stalking ghosts in a heavy fog.

The Taken moved to stall the Great Tragic. Ice collected along
the western bank, turning the force of the current. But they
overtinkered and a gorge developed. It threatened to raise the
river level. A two-day effort won us maybe ten hours.

Occasionally large tracks appeared around the Barrowland, soon
vanished beneath drifting snow. Though the skies cleared, the air
grew colder. The snow neither melted nor crusted. The Taken
engineered that. A wind from the east stirred the snow
continuously.

Case stopped by to tell me, “The Lady wants you, sir.
Right away.”

I broke off playing three-handed Tonk with Goblin and One-Eye.
So far had things slowed—except the flow of time. There was nothing
more we could do.

“Sir,” said Case as we stepped out of hearing of the
others, “be careful.”

“Uhm?”

“She’s in a dark mood.”

“Thanks.” I dallied. My own mood was dark enough. It
did not need to feed on hers.

Her quarters had been refurnished. Carpets had been brought in.
Hangings covered the walls. A settee of sorts stood before the
fireplace, where a fire burned with a comforting crackle. The
atmosphere seemed calculated. Home as we dream it to be rather than
as it is.

She was seated on the couch. “Come sit with me,” she
said, without glancing back to see who had come in. I started to
take one of the chairs. “No. Here, by me.” So I settled
on the couch. “What is it?”

Her eyes were fixed on something far away. Her face said she was
in pain. “I have decided.”

“Yes?” I waited nervously, not sure what she meant,
less sure I belonged there.

“The choices have narrowed down. I can surrender and
become another of the Taken.”

That was a less dire penalty than I had expected.
“Or?”

“Or I can fight. A battle that can’t
be won. Or won only in its losing.”

“If you can’t win, why fight?” I would not
have asked that of one of the Company. With my own I would have
known the answer.

Hers was not ours. “Because the outcome can be shaped. I
can’t win. But I can decide who does.”

“Or at least make sure it isn’t him?”

A slow nod.

Her bleak mood began to make sense. I have seen it on the
battlefield, with men about to undertake a task likely to be fatal
but which must be hazarded so others will not perish.

To cover my reaction, I slipped off the couch and added three
small logs to the fire. But for our moods it would have been nice
there in the crispy heat, watching the dancing flames.

We did that for a while. I sensed that I was not expected to
talk.

“It begins at sunup,” she said at last.

“What?”

“The final conflict. Laugh at me. Croaker. I’m going
to try to kill a shadow. With no hope of surviving
myself.”

Laugh? Never. Admire. Respect. My enemy still, in the end unable
to extinguish that last spark of light and so die in yet another
way.

All this while she sat there primly, hands folded in her lap.
She stared into the fire as if certain that eventually it would
reveal the answer to some mystery. She began to shiver.

This woman for whom death held such devouring terror had chosen
death over surrender.

What did that do for my confidence? Nothing good. Nothing good
at all. I might have felt better had I seen the picture she did.
But she did not talk about it.

In a very, very soft, tentative voice, she asked,
“Croaker? Will you hold me?”

What? I didn’t say it, but I sure as hell thought it.

I didn’t say anything. Clumsily, uncertainly, I did as she
asked.

She began crying on my shoulder, softly, quietly, shaking like a
captive baby rabbit.

It was a long time before she said anything. I did not
presume.

“No one has done this since I was a baby. My
nurse . . . ”

Another long silence.

“I’ve never had a friend.”

Another long gap.

“I’m scared, Croaker. And alone.”

“No. We’ll all be with you.”

“Not for the same reasons.” She fell silent for good
then. I held her a long time. The fire burned down and its light
faded from the room. Outside, the wind began to howl.

When I finally thought she had fallen asleep, and started to
disengage myself, she clung more tightly, so I stilled and
continued to hold her, though half the muscles in my body
ached.

Eventually she peeled herself away, rose, built up the fire. I
sat. She stood behind me a while, staring at the flames. Then she
rested a hand on my shoulder a moment. In a faraway voice she said,
“Good night.”

She went into another room. I sat for ten or fifteen minutes
before putting on a last log and shuffling back into the real
world.

I must have worn an odd look. Neither Goblin nor One-Eye
aggravated me. I rolled into my bedroll, back to them, but did not
fall asleep for a long time.



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