Sarabande: River of Falcons Book 4

21. Red Brook Farm

Summer was overseeing the harvest festival at Red Brook Farm, which was located along a tributary stream that wound out of a gentle valley into the Amnis River. The farm was actually at the center of a cluster of farms that stretched the length of the little valley, and as it was the biggest of them, the other farmers always gathered there to begin the harvest season with a dance and bonfire.

Summer had been asked to perform the traditional blessings to insure a good harvest. This practice had died out under the sorcerers. Now that the Queen was back, Oscar, the master of Red Brook Farm, had made the long trek to town to petition for an elder to oversee their festival, and the Queen had selected Summer to do the duties.

Red Brook Farm had earned its name from Red Brook, which had earned its name, so legend had it, from the time when the First Princess had fought a whole company of the governor's guards and the brook had run red with their blood. Now the brook ran clear and clean and it reflected the sunrise with a hazy orange glow. Summer examined the sun and the heavy clouds above it with a practiced eye and said to herself, "Rain's coming. They better get the hay in soon." Then she turned and walked back to the barn with a bucket of fresh water from the brook.

Summer had been offered the farmhouse's master bedroom for her visit, but she had not wanted to displace the master and mistress of the house, and had insisted on staying in the barn instead. All she needed for her comfort, she explained, was a blanket for sleeping and a clean bucket for washing up. Now she wished she had remembered to ask for a towel or a clean rag, too. Entering an unused stall, she set the bucket down, hung her dress and undergarments on a convenient hook, and began to wash herself as best she could using only her hands. The cold water was reviving, however without a towel she was not sure how to dry off. It was too cold to stand around and drip dry, so she muttered a little chant over her cupped hands. A glowing ball of orange heat appeared and she rubbed it over herself as if it were a soft sponge. The drops of moisture steamed away. Summer extinguished the heat and pulled her clothes back on. "Ah, much better!" she said to herself. "Now, let's see if they've cooked breakfast yet." She passed down the middle of the barn, patting a goat whose nose was pressed through a stall gate. "You'll be fed soon," she soothed.

When she reached the back door of the farmhouse, she knocked politely and waited to be asked in. However, raised voices from inside the kitchen told her that some sort of lively discussion was going on. She thought they had not heard her knock, so she rapped more loudly. Still no one came, and the voices grew louder. Frowning, she let herself in.

Chamomile and Oscar had been married shortly before the royal house fell. Sixteen years ago, if Summer's memory was correct. She had been present for the wedding, and recalled that the happy couple had been lean and youthful back then. Now Chamomile was stouter and Oscar had a bald crown and broad, strong shoulders to attest to his years of hard work on the farm. Chamomile was standing at the stove with two of her daughters while their latest child, a baby boy, played at her ankles. Several other women who were visiting from nearby farms were at the kitchen table, rolling out dough to make cinnamon biscuits. But Chamomile was not working. She was waving a long-handled wooden spoon in the air and shouting at Oscar, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen in his workboots. "I told you we don't need any more soap. What we need is hay! Why didn't you get that hay in yesterday? It's going to get rained on this morning and it'll be ruined!"

"But Chamomile," Oscar pleaded, "you know I just cut down that old maple tree out back. What was I going to do with all the logs? I didn't want to have to stack them so I burned them where they'd fallen."

"You're losing your mind, Oscar! Why burn green wood now when we're going to need seasoned wood this winter?"

"To make soap, I told you! Don't you ever listen to me, Chamomile!"