The Lady Penitent

V. Dream

Holland looked up at a raised eyebrow. Seva was laughing at her again. Fionn and Daimhin were off hunting, which the penitent had been glad to let them do. It gave her some relative alone time with Seva, as Ciar was off playing. He stayed in earshot, but he finally seemed to be coming out of his shell even though he still hadn't said a word since he gave Seva his name. "What?" the warrior all but demanded, even though she could feel a smile starting to twitch up at the corners of her mouth.

"Thou art silly," Seva explained, hiding her smile behind one hand. "Thy vexation lends to a furrowed brow and childish irritation."

"I am not being childish," Holland said even as she pricked her finger with her sewing needle. The penitent cursed and shook out her hand. She was repairing a tear to the sleeve of her subarmalis and doing a good job of turning her own hand into a pincushion. It was such a tough material that it rarely needed repair and she wasn't very good at it. She glared down at the fabric.

"Oh, give it here," Seva said with amused exasperation, holding out a hand.

Holland turned her disapproving look towards her friend. "I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own," she said haughtily.

"Thou art bleeding over it," the baroness said before leaning over. She went to snatch the shirt away from Holland. The penitent gave a tug the moment Seva caught it, sending the off-balance noblewoman right over. She landed neatly in Holland's lap with an undignified squeak. "Holland!"

The penitent laughed, ignoring the rush of warmth that any contact with Seva brought. It felt good just to touch her friend. "And now I'm not."

Seva wrinkled her nose. "If thou hast bled on mine dress, thou wilt find me a sore companion." Instead of disentangling herself, she laid comfortably on her guardian's legs. "At least thou art comfortable." She levered herself up. She grabbed the shirt and tugged it out of Holland's hands, this time with no resistance. "Mine needlework should serve admirable purpose."

Holland was honestly happy to surrender the task. She had pricked herself enough that she was sore and there was in fact a little blood on her hands. Thankfully, the fabric was black. She watched Seva work quietly. Delicate fingers made the needle dance and rosebud lips pressed into a line of concentration. The penitent tried to take in every detail. They were less than half a day from Tamaris, Yssa's gleaming capital. She was going to lose Seva.

Seva suddenly looked up, as if she'd felt hazel eyes watching her. The baroness's smile faded slightly when she saw how serious Holland looked. "Thy aspect is a sorrowful one," she commented softly. "What dark clouds trouble thee?"

Holland felt an unfamiliar tightness in her throat. "I wish our paths would not part at Tamaris," she said honestly.

"They have no need to," Seva said firmly. "Thy investigation into Aediobri should be worthy too of royal attentions, and mine. The Count of Navia was friend to my family and must be avenged."

"You're too good to think about vengeance, my lady," Holland said softly. "It's a dangerous road."

"Justice, then," Seva said as she tempered her stance. She looked at Holland with those beautiful blue eyes. "Mine heart gladdens to know thou holdest me in such esteem."

"If you saw yourself the way that I see you, you would have very few doubts," Holland said with a small smile. Seva bumped the penitent gently with an elbow.

"Thou speakest honey. How fortunate that Fionn follows in thy example," Seva said. There was a happy sigh to those last words and Holland felt her chest constrict unpleasantly.

It had been patently obvious from the moment Holland had seen them together that Seva was smitten. The noblewoman had explained it a little bit: she'd grown up on stories of the bravery of Fionn and his family, the nobility of his character, and now she had found out he was handsome. The perfect knight, the stories called him. Seva saw him in absolute rose. For his part, Fionn looked at the baroness with an interest Holland recognized too clearly. It neatly mirrored her own. A tentative sort of courtship was forming between the prince and the baroness. It was for the best, Holland told herself. Seva wasn't interested and she could make no vow above that which she'd made to the gods. Being a penitent meant giving up love.