The Swan Maiden Read Free

saints at least have gifted her with a tiny portion of the assurance Azelais and Cecilia possessed?
    Cecilia’s lovely mouth pursed in mock surprise. “You’re out for an early stroll.”
    Awkwardly holding the honey jar, Doucette climbed down from the rock. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks, though she tried to hide her chagrin with a mask of calm. No sense in giving her sister another weapon to wound her with. “Good morning, Cecilia.”
    â€œWherever are you going?”
    â€œThe shearing pens, to deliver a few things for Na Patris. Welcome bread for the shepherds. Honey to Na Soufio.”
    Cecilia clicked her tongue. “A shame you forgot to tell Mother about the baker’s important commission. Poor Na Claro ran her old bones up and down the tower stairs, calling for you.”
    Doucette dug her toe into the dirt. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt’s Na Claro deserves your apology, not me.” Absently smoothing her ruffled swan skin, Cecilia leaned over the saddle and turned her dazzling smile on Anfos. “And who’s this?”
    He ducked his head. “Anfos, Lady.”
    â€œThe kitchen boy?” Cecilia drawled. “Your taste in escorts is delightfully original.”
    Doucette was spared from responding when, with a jingle of mail shirts and swords, several armsmen reined in behind her sister.
    â€œLady Cecilia.” The first man tugged on his leather cap. “How can we protect you if you leave us behind?”
    Cecilia smirked at him. “Ride faster, Renod.”
    â€œAs you command, Lady.”
    Her sister’s latest conquest, Doucette thought, judging from the man’s foolish expression. Sorceresses weren’t bound by the rules that governed an ordinary woman’s conduct. Azelais managed her affairs with discretion, but Cecilia took pleasure in twisting propriety into knots and tossing it over the battlements.
    â€œWhat’s the delay?” Azelais called from the rear of the line.
    â€œCome see,” Cecilia said.
    The armsmen shifted their horses to make way for a spotted gelding whose rider wore a feathered cloak as black as the knot of ebony hair at her neck. In contrast to Cecilia’s charming dishevelment, Azelais’s appearance was immaculate, as always.
    â€œDoucette!” Elegant dark brows drew together. “You missed our leave-taking to carry that ugly jug down the hill? And walking abroad without a proper escort! Have you no scrap of dignity?”
    Doucette shrank under the withering stare.
    â€œDon’t fuss, Azelais,” Cecilia coaxed. “She can hardly fly, can she? Provisioning the shepherds like a good little chastelaine—I call that sweet.”
    â€œChastelaine?” Azelais’s pomegranate lips compressed. “I see a drudge dressed above her station, but that is easily remedied.” She flicked the polished wooden wand from her knot of black hair, murmured a few words under her breath, of which “kitchen” and “rags” were the loudest, and reached down from her horse to tap Doucette’s shoulder.
    The Transformation spell fell over Doucette like a shower of icy needles. Magic stung her skin. Her woolen gown dissolved into a tattered patchwork. On her feet, the leather walking shoes hardened into wooden clogs, which found no purchase on the slippery rock. Holding desperately to the honey jar, Doucette lurched to her knees. An overstressed seam gave way and ripped loudly, exposing her white shift. Doucette’s jaws clenched in humiliation.
    â€œCruel, Azelais.” Cecilia giggled. “Apt, but ooh, so unkind.”
    One of the armsmen coughed. Another hissed behind his hand, spreading the word though the file of riders.
    Doucette struggled to her feet. Transformed by Azelais’s wand, the torn dress barely covered Doucette’s shins. The material was threadbare where it wasn’t patched and ugly with stains. The trick was