“It's not a matter of can I do it. Of course I can do it. The question is if I can be arsed to do it.”
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Requiem for the Wicked
"Why do I have to?" the boy moaned, dragging his feet through the camp. This, of course, threw a good deal of dust onto his black breeches and doublet. "I don't want to," he added sullenly, making a show of looking at the ground. When he thought she wasn't looking, he hazarded a peek up at his sister to see if he'd garnered any reaction.
"Mother is hosting guests, Edward, so we must dress to greet them," the girl responded, hitching her own black skirt and skipping forward. "Don't kick up so much dust! You're going to ruin my dress, not to mention your own clothes. Not that you'd care." Around them, the scattered tents, fires, and work tables were quiet and still, the noon-day lull before preparations for supper began.
"I hate this doublet," the boy continued, not changing his steps in the least. "It pinches my armpits."
"Then have Martha add some darts," was the girl's exasperated response. They had reached a broad pavilion in the midst of the encampment, and she paused at the door to collect herself. "We certainly won't be getting anything new while we're living out here."
"Martha already added darts twice and said I should stop growing. Oof." Eyes downcast, he had run into his sister's back. "Watch it, Molly!"
Without looking behind her, Molly flailed her arm backwards to slap at her brother. "Hush." She scanned the interior of the pavilion quickly. Her mother, beautiful and regal as always and presently quite pregnant, sat behind the broad table in the center of the tent. The Baroness's ladies in waiting stood arrayed behind her, and her knights stood off to the side. A few functionaries stood or sat in the back of the tent. "I don't think the guests have arrived yet."
Molly stepped inside and dipped a low curtsy to her mother, who responded with a smile and nod. "Good morning, Molly, is Edward — oh, there you are, you little laggard. Come inside," she directed, pointing over her shoulder. "The two of you may play quietly or read behind me."
Edward bolted around the end of the table and back towards the rear of the pavilion; Molly followed at a more sedate pace. "With your leave, Mother, I had hoped to stand at court," she confided softly, carefully enunciating what was rather formal language for her.
The Baroness's eyebrow rose slightly. "Would you, my dear?" She gestured to her right side. "Then you may stand here. The barons should be here shortly." When Molly had taken her place, her mother placed a warm hand on the top of her head and pulled her close. When she released her, she told her daughter: "Listen, if at any point you wish to leave, just pat my hand and I will invent an errand for you, all right?"
The girl gave her mother an indulgent smile. "I doubt I'll want to run off and play with Edward, Mother," she said quietly. "I'll be fine."
There was something in her mother's expression that was both proud and doubtful, but she only nodded. "We shall see."
Ten minutes later, Edward looked up from his book to find Molly standing over him, spine rigid, hands quaking at her sides, breath coming in shudders. He dropped the book beside him, forgotten. "Molly, what is it?"
Her eyes drifted right as if she wanted to look behind her but could not bring herself to. Her lips quivered, but she finally managed, "It's P– P– Pavel Tavish. One of Mother's guests." Speaking seemed to uncork the tension in her, and she exhaled, shoulders drooping, blood still singing from the rush of fleeing for her life.
"Pavel who?"
"Pavel Tavish!" she hissed. "The Black Baron!"
Edward's eyes went wide, and he spun around to stand on the chaise. "Truth?" He craned his neck to see between the ladies in waiting, took a step to get a better angle. She grabbed at his shoulders to pull him back to safety. "Give off, Molly," he grumbled, slapping at her clutching fingers. "I want to see."
"What is he doing here?" she breathed, collapsing back onto Edward's chaise.
"Probably going home," her brother muttered, and climbed up to stand on a nearby chair. From that vantage, he could see two men standing before the pavilion's open door. Thin trails of cookfire smoke from the kitchens outside curled around their feet, as if reluctant to let them go. One, tall, lean, and dark, wore the Archduke's golden lion on his livery. Not the Black Baron, then. The other was light-skinned and dark-haired, wrapped in as much black as Edward and Molly were. His hands wove through the air before him; for a moment Edward thought he might be ensorcelling his Mother, but it seemed he was simply talking with his hands as much as his smiling lips. "He's shorter than I imagined," Edward noted absently. "Who's the other man?"
Molly shook her head. "I don't know, some Baron Norchester or something."
"Molly, Edward," their mother called. "Come meet our guests."
"Oh, bells," the girl quailed, standing. "He's going to turn us all into newts."
