Seven Brothers Blessed [ Lore of Penrua: Book IV ]

[ 42 ]

"Stop that," said Lady Moigré, frowning at Diarmán's fidgeting hands. "You'll shred it to bits."

Diarmán frowned back, but he tossed the ribbon he had been toying with back into his mother's sewing basket and then slumped into his chair. "It helps me think."

"You don't need the help. You've always been too clever for your own good." Moigré bent over her work again. She had left off her weaving for the afternoon and was now sewing, making minor alterations to one of her dresses, which was to be Lady Naefe's wedding gown.

"Not clever enough for this." Diarmán drummed his fingertips on the arm of his chair, his gaze drifting around his mother's room. It was dark; she was working by the light of the fire and a candle as evening wore on toward the middle of the night.

"He has not grown suspicious?"

"No, I don't think so. I've just come from supper, and I'll meet him again on the morrow. Besides, it's not strange to spend time with you. A man passing an hour with his mother needn't have anything to do with hatching schemes."

Twirling a curl around his fingers, he watched his mother's nimble fingers as she stitched along a seam, her needle flashing in and out of the delicate fabric. He marveled to watch her; he could not remember a time when her hands had not been either slow and clumsy, or trembling. "I think we're running out of time. The wedding is two days hence, and I do not see a way to stop it from happening. I have no instrument."

"Mm." Moigré stitched and stitched, her focus on the seam. "It is unfortunate she cannot be convinced to flee until her mother and fiancé are freed, although I admire her for it."

"I don't suppose she's disposed to trust us. We could promise to unwork the spell that cursed her lover, but why would she believe us?" He stretched, then sank back into his chair. As his arm hung over the edge, his fingers brushed a fold of silk, and he fetched it up and ran it through his hands.

"You spared my ribbon only to shred my silk?"

"I'm just looking at it. I'm not shredding anything, and my hands are scrupulously clean."

Moigré gave a soft chuckle.

Diarmán tossed the length of silk up into the air, and it billowed down, settling over his face and chest. He closed his eyes, mulling and musing. "Do you think I would fill out that dress of yours, Mother?"

"I'm afraid I had a little more shape to me when I last wore it," she replied without skipping a beat. "We would have to use some stuffing. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm nearly of a height with our unfortunate bride. Cover my ruggedly masculine features with a veil, and perhaps I could stand in her place long enough for her to flee."

Moigré gave a skeptical sound. "I think your father would notice your absence at his wedding. And Lady Naefe will still have no intention of leaving."

"Of course." With a groan, Diarmán slid the silk away from his face, staring up at the ceiling. "Then there's no way to manage it: if she is here, she must be wed."

Silence fell, aside from the soft rustle of fabric as Moigré moved the dress she was working on over her lap. After a spell, she spoke again. "What if I stood in her place?"

Diarmán swung his legs over the arm of the chair and sat up, his feet on the floor. He stared at his mother in shock. "Absolutely not."

She did not look up at him, although she raised her brows. "Do not take that tone with me, my son. Consider it: I may need a little stuffing, too, but I could wear this gown."

"I will not put you in that position again."

"You would do nothing. Was it not I who raised the suggestion?"