Three Hands for Scorpio Read Free

females of the noble clans do not make a show of riding—”
    â€œNo,” interrupted Cilla, “the men would not permit a true contest.” She spread her skirts, touched the fingertips of her right hand to her chin, and summoned up a simpering smile.
    While clansmen and women were granted equality of rank, the important families within the heritage employed a particular set of manners in public life. What was done in private, we knew, was quite another matter. Highly placed clan ladies dressed with ribbons and lace, and they also fluttered fans and bedizened themselves with simply cut gemstones set in silver and gold from the mountains. Our preferred garb of riding habits with divided skirts met with their disdain as often as their stilted formal manners provided us much silent amusement. Having visited both northern peel castles and the Alsonian court, we opined that a servingmaid to our gracious queen could show more refinement and intelligence than many of the self-important grand dames of Gurlyon.
    Mother stilled us with a stare and we, realizing we had gone beyond proper limits, curtseyed again with appropriately sober faces. She did not have to enlarge upon her displeasure, but continued on another subject.
    â€œYou,” she addressed Cilla directly, “will go to the stillroom and fetch one of the hop-pillows Bina made. You are to use that tussie for your bed until I say otherwise, and I trust it will bring you dreamless sleep. We want no more trouble than we already face.” Her wine-dark skirts of stiffened silk rustled softly as she swept out of the door.
    â€œWhat did she mean, ‘more trouble’?” Cilla’s mental question touched each of us.
    â€œFather may share more news with her than we are told.” I answered aloud, and my opinion was echoed by Bina. “Could it be that the Border is ready to rise again?”

Two

    O ur mother’s perfection as a chatelaine was well-known. We often lagged behind her, to be sure; still, she had trained us, even as she had the servingmaids, to do with all our might whatever needed to be done to show courtesy and provide comfort for guests. And so we were occupied for the next two days.
    The part of Grosper Castle kept for the housing of visitors had been given a spring turnout several weeks early this year. Linens, smelling of the lavender and dried rose petals that had been placed in their folds, were shaken out and spread on the large, curtained beds. Any spiders surviving the chill of winter were banished, and the floors pathed with thick carpet.
    While we were engaged in aiding Loosy, the maid, in her work in the largest state chamber where the Starkadder himself would be lodged, Duty came in, a basket on her arm.
    â€œUnderpillows.” Duty was never free with what she considered unnecessary speech. She thumped the basket down on a carven chest to make a quick inspection of our bedmaking, including a twitch to the heavily embroidered upper spread; then she was gone.
    Bina was nearest the basket. She leaned over to take an audible measure of its contents. “Lavender and hops,” she announced. “We wish our chief guest good sleep, it would seem.” Then she paused for a second sniff and
looked puzzled. “What else?” She held the herb-holder to me as I labored at her elbow.
    I performed a more thorough scent testing, then shook my head and passed the woven container along to Cilla for her guess.
    But our third sister had none to offer. “Some other fragrance, neatly overlaid by the hops; I cannot put name to it. Loosy”—she summoned the maid, who was plumping pillows near as tall as she—“what say you?”
    Loosy held the basket well up against her breast and took several noisy nosefuls. “I cannot tell, my lady, but no harm be in it. These Gurlys will have ridden long to get here, and the mistress may wish them a goodly rest.”
    A bunch of herbs from the