Chapter 2: Anya

On the other end of the noble spectrum, Second Baroness Anastasia Wynevir has *her* typical morning rudely--and yet, positively,--interrupted.

Chapter 2

 

   It was a beautiful morning.

          A little less than ten miles from Castle Belgrad, Anastasia Lillane Lady Wynevir, Second Baroness of Wyne and daughter of the current Baroness Wynevir, had been hard at work for hours. Lying late abed is only for nobles with money, Anya thought resignedly as she and Melya Kolov, her erstwhile ladies' maid, trudged across Serenoak Manor to the dye shed. Visiting the dye shed was an important errand, as embroidery sales made up a significant portion of the Wynevirs' ready cash these days. Recently, Anya had taken over much of the fancy embroidering work from her mother, as the old Baroness' eyesight was failing and she could no longer see to do the fine stitching.

         "How much thread d'we need, milady?" Melya asked.

         Anya considered. "I'd like to get five or so more spools' worth to sell, and at least as much to work with." She sighed. "Those sports' badges are such a trial to embroider; the sooner I can finish them, the better."  She reminded herself to feel grateful for the family’s growing reputation throughout the region for producing excellent ready-made trim and patches, particularly of the popular local sports’ teams; but though Anya enjoyed embroidering, the task was not one she'd have taken on if she'd a choice. Nor was I supposed to, she reminded herself bitterly. Mother would've had a bower full of maids to help her if Grigor hadn't been such an idiot. Wynevir was an ancient noble name, and before Anya's father's death they had been quite wealthy. After Baron d'Wynevir had died, however, Anya's elder brother Grigor had received their father's rights to the accounts the Baron had held jointly with the Baroness as a dowry. In less than three years, the arrogant and headstrong young nobleman had squandered most of the family's fortune on gambling, rich living and paying elaborate court to young ladies.

         With never a thought as to the consequences for Mother and I. At the last, in a long delinquent show of family loyalty, Grigor had refused to sign over the deeds to the Wynevir lands as payment for his gambling debts. That refusal had cost him his life in the streets of Crown Belgrad; adding insult to injury, Baroness Wynevir had been forced to sign over the deeds to almost all of the family land anyway to pay his debt to the banks. Anya and her mother had not quite descended to living like peasants, but it was a near thing. Anya had been called home from Bellmeyen, a pricey boarding school in Crown Belgrad, four months before she was supposed to have been presented at the last Summer Court in Prauj.

         That had been three years ago, now. Baroness Wynevir had been forced to dismiss most of the servants, and Anya had taken over much of their tasks. The auburn-haired young lady had learned more than any young lady ever wished to about the daily chores that kept a manor house running. She cleaned her own room, helped with the dusting, weeded the garden, fed the chickens and the pigs. At least I don't have to scrub pans or sweep the ashes from the fire. Yet.

         "Which ones today, Marya?" Melya asked cheerfully as she and Lady Anya entered the dye shed, a large, whitewashed space where hanks of thread in various stages of preparation hung on poles jutting out from the walls.

         Marya Kolov, the woman in charge of dyeing, was one of Melya's many sisters; she nodded to three of the racks. "The green, blue, an' rose pink. That last batch o' red needs t' be double-dipped t' get th' color milady desires."

         "Thank you, Marya," Anya smiled; the loyalty of the Kolov family was all that kept Anya and the aging Baroness Wynevir from having to care for Serenoak Manor alone, so both ladies made certain to make their gratitude known. The Kolovs had held their land under Wynevir rule for three centuries, and when the deeds to that land had been signed away, they had almost cheerfully moved onto Serenoak proper. Now the Kolov sons did the heavy farm work, while the daughters worked in the manor. Melya had even taken it upon herself to assist Lady Anya in any way possible, though it was laughably obvious that the apple-cheeked farm wench had no idea of how to be a lady's maid.

          After the thread had been packed away, Anya and Melya set out for the Garden to ready the soil for spring planting; at least in this, Melya far outshone Anya's last maid! Considerably larger than its name implied, the Garden encompassed over three acres of land, each arm-length of which had been painstakingly wrested from the forest over the years. Fortunately, the Wynevirs' noble blood entitled them to hunt in the surrounding forest, which supplied most of their meat. From the thousands of beasts they had once owned, they had kept only two small herds, one of dairy cows and the other of sheep whose wool made the family's thread; most of their foodstuffs now came from the Garden's orderly rows of vegetables and ancient fruit trees.

         "Soil's hard this year," Melya commented between thrusts of her hoe.

         "Mm," Anya agreed. Storms of incredible harshness had pounded the coast this past winter, leaving the soil almost frozen even this late in the spring.

         "Still, we've 'scaped the worst of it, praise be to Mordron the merciful. I've heard that th' harvests were ruined near northern border, an' famine an' death from cold be plaguin' th' villages there." The maid made the sign of the moon over her heart in pious thanks, for this tragedy meant that any extra food the Wynevir's southern baronetcy could produce would fetch a better price.

          Anya found it difficult to be grateful for anything these days, so she made no answer; only dug harder into the stubborn, silent soil.

         "The Summer Season’s startin’ soon, m’lady," Melya ventured then. "Mum gives me t’ understand that most young ladies o’ quality be spendin’ every wakin’ moment in preparation for yon fancy shindig." She glanced sidelong at her young mistress’ profile. The set of Anya’s jaw and the way she attacked the frozen soil made it clear that she was upset, and Melya knew exactly why. Anastasia Lady Wynevir had not been bred to be out here digging up the kitchen garden, with sweat on her brow and dirt under her fingernails.         

         Anya paused in her hoeing a moment. "Probably. Why do you ask?"

         "Well," brightly, "I was thinkin’ that the farm’s done good last year. Mum says we’ve extra funds, an’ I know we haven’t sold all the winter preserves jus’ yet. Mebbe m'lady Wynevir’ll see her way clear t’ puttin’ that extra bit o’ bread behind you, send you t' Court for the Summer. Mebbe y'could make a match."

         Anya stopped hoeing and looked up, surprise written across her pretty face. Then she laughed, throwing back her head in mirth, giggling until her face turned red and she gasped for air. "Oh! Oh, Melya, you’re priceless! Sending me to Court! What a lark!"

         "Well!" Melya grumbled, a bit put out at her mistress’ flippant reaction. "I don’ see as there’s anythin’ so funny 'bout it. Not at all. You’ve got all them fine gowns jus’ waitin’ for a party--"

         "Three years out of date!"

         "Easily altered t' fit the current fashions," Melya countered that argument. "An’ wi' such laces an' ‘broideries as you an' m'lady Wynevir can offer, why, I’m sure there’d be none so fine as you in all o' Crown Belgrad!"

         "You’re exaggerating." Anya wiped sweat from her brow and tears of laughter from her eyes with one dirty hand. "And anyway, I’ve no way to get to Crown Belgrad."

         "Y’could go on horseback! Ol’ Knightley’s a bit long-toothed, but he’s still o’ fine breedin’." Old Knightley had been Baron d'Wynevir's colorhorse.

         "Old Knightley’s mostly blind, and even if he did get me there without falling off a cliff on the way, I cannot show up at the Castle gates with nothing but an old horse and my traveling dress!" Anya exclaimed, slender hands on her hips.

         "Then go in the pony cart--"
        

         "The pony cart??"

         "Aye, an' hire a nice carriage once you’re inside the City Gates!" The other cried, exasperated. Melya put one broad hand on her hip, using the hoe as a pointer. "There still be some few baubles left t' bedeck you with, an’ I could come along t’ serve. We could put on a show as well as any tiny House from the Borderlands!"

         Anya rolled her eyes. "An alliance marriage is not like your country handfasting. It is meant to be a trade of equals, the man's dowry for my land. Serenoak has no land. No land, no match; surely even you can see that!" She closed her eyes briefly, swallowing her temper. "Thank you for the thought, but unless a magic spell somehow restores our fortune," smiling at the irony, for magic spells cost money to acquire, "I will simply have to learn to be happy digging potatoes." With a determined air, the lady resumed turning the earth at her feet.

         After a moment Melya joined her. They worked in silence for a long while as the weak spring sun moved slowly towards its height. 

         The awkward interim was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the manor. Both women looked up to see Yuri, Melya’s youngest brother and Baroness Wynevir’s sometime page, pelting across the Garden.

         "Lady Anastasia!" He called in a piping soprano. "Lady Anastasia! Lady!"

         "Yes, Yuri, she heard you!" Melya snapped as the boy skidded to a halt in front of them.

         "Lady Anastasia," Yuri began again, making a face at his sister, "the Baroness Wynevir requests your presence in th' large drawing room at once!"

         Anya raised one elegant eyebrow. Since when does Mother formally request my presence? "Are you certain, Yuri?"

         "Yes, miss!" Yuri replied earnestly. "Th' large drawing room, she said. An' you’re to be presentable, she said. There’s an imp-imp, uh, impertinent visitors."

         "Visitors?" Anya exclaimed, ignoring the boy’s malapropism. "Who?" Most of their friends had abandoned them after Grigor's scandal.

         But the boy did not know, so the two women handed him their farm implements, stripped off their gloves, and raced for the house. Breathless and flushed, they burst through the kitchen door where Madame Kolov, the housekeeper and Melya's mother, ordered Anya into a steaming wooden tub next to the kitchen fire while Melya raced upstairs to find suitable garments for her mistress to wear.

          Less than fifteen minutes later, Lady Anastasia, elegantly attired in a light mauve satin dress corseted in a darker plum with silver embroidered flowers running along its seams, was ushered into the Manor's large drawing room. The first thing Anya always noticed were the stained glass windows, with panels of roses and oak leaves inset down their length, that let the weak sunlight filter through. That sunlight illuminated the heavy, dark oak furniture, making the faded rose upholstery gleam. Here and there Anya saw evidence of a quick dusting and polish, while dried herbs in crystal bowls had been touched with warming spells and let to unfurl their sweet fragrance into the room. Fine wax tapers were lit in sconces, and a few weak orb-lights floated near the heavy, beamed ceiling. A mundane fire crackled in the fireplace, and two people occupied the room: Baroness Wynevir perched uncertainly upon a small sofa, while another, older woman reclined corpulently in what had been Baron d’Wynevir’s favorite armchair.

         Anya sank into a demure curtsy. "Good afternoon, Lady Mother," she said in her most genteel manner. As Baroness Wynevir made the introductions, Anya’s gaze was drawn to the low wood table between chair and sofa, which was set for tea; greedily she eyed the dainty sandwiches, the sugared rugala, the freshly baked pirozhki, and the dishes of preserved fruits nestled amongst miniature quince tarts. I haven't had a rugala in ages!

         "Countess Myresvale, may I present my daughter, Anastasia Lillane Lady Wynevir, Second Baroness of Wyne? Anya, this is Ostrelya Utreska Countess Myresvale, a cousin of your father's." Baroness Wynevir was wearing a gold tabaret gown, under-corseted, and rich with the embroidery for which she and her family were renowned. With her graying brown hair coiled in a braid around her head like a crown, she looked every inch the gracious noblewoman.  

         "It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear cousin," their guest pronounced, proffering one pudgy hand. Countess Myresvale was extremely well fleshed, and at least three decades older than Anya. The color of her thinning hair was false, the smoothness of her skin obviously maintained by illusion. Her eyes were small and sharp, their black gleam almost lost among the folds of her eyelids; her tiny mouth was painted a violent red.

         "The pleasure is mine," Anya replied, clasping hands and trying not to wince as jeweled rings on the other woman’s thick fingers cut into her flesh.

         "I have been interested in making your acquaintance for some time," the countess said then, "but my business has kept me away from Crown Belgrad."

         "Of course," Baroness Wynevir accepted the lie graciously; any noble worth her title settled in the crown city during the winter months. "Though we were sorry to miss you at my dear husband’s memorial."

         "Yes, Ostar was always of a weak constitution." Countess Myresvale made an expression of distaste and released Anya’s hand. "I should hope, my dear Anastasia, that you inherited your health from your mother."

         Anya’s mouth opened slightly with shock. How dare she?

         "I assure you, my daughter is of a very healthy constitution,"  the Baroness interrupted hastily. "She is rarely ill. Come sit by me, my dear."

         The young lady took a deep breath, suppressing her feelings and forcing a pleasant expression onto her face. "Are you journeying to, or from Crown Belgrad, my lady?"

         "To it," their visitor replied, eyeing the pastries. Instantly, a Kolov brother, acting the butler, leaped forward to prepare her a plate while Lady Wynevir poured cups of tea. Once each of the three ladies was ensconced with her plate and cup, Myresvale continued. "I have only just finished preparing the estates for my absence, as I plan to be in Crown Belgrad for the entire Summer Season. As you may know," though her smile indicated she did not expect them to, "two of my daughters are lately married, the fruits of their presentations at last Summer Court. With my youngest having not yet finished her schooling, I am left all alone." She sighed piteously.

         "Tragic," Anya murmured, a-twist with jealousy inside at the good fortune of her unseen cousins' marriages.

         "It is. But I never could hold with self-pity," pompously, "so I have decided to sojourn in my suite at the castle." Myresvale turned her sharp gaze towards Anya. "Lady Anastasia."

         "Yes, ma’am?"

         "I am told you have inherited your mother’s skills with the needle. Would you care to show me a sample of your work?"

         At her mother’s encouraging nod, Anya put down her cup and picked up a small glass bell.

         The echoes of the bell’s clear tone had not yet faded when Melya opened the door to the drawing room, curtsying before asking, "Your will, my lady?" In the time since finishing Anya’s preparations, Melya had changed as well and was now attired in a soft, grey wool dress with the Wynevir family crest embroidered in fine detail above her heart. A spotless white apron circled her waist, and her dark brown hair was braided and hidden under a small lace cap.

         "Bring samples of my latest work," Anya ordered her, amused at how hard they were all striving to look well-to-do for Myresvale's sake. "The gold sampler, the rose embroidered ribbon, and--"

         "The Goddess tapestry," Lady Wynevir suggested softly.

         "�"the Goddess tapestry," Anya finished.

         "At once, my lady," Melya murmured, hurrying out. She returned in only a few moments, leaving Anya to surmise that her maid had prepared the samples in case they were asked for.

         Before Anya could reach for the pile of fabric and thread, Myresvale leaned forward and all but snatched them from Melya’s outstretched hands. The countess leaned back to examine the samples, a small pair of gold-framed glasses perched atop her nose, ignoring Anya’s small gasp of outrage and Melya’s confused retreat.

         "These are very well done," she conceded eventually, "though your stitches here," touching the edge of the small Goddess tapestry, an exquisitely detailed piece depicting each of the Nine Goddesses in Her own phase of the moon, surrounding a picture of a silver star,  "could be much tighter, more refined. And I don’t particularly enjoy the colors."

         "Oh?" Anya frowned; the Goddess tapestry was her favorite piece, and the colors were traditional.

         "Too monochromatic for my taste. I am a fan of color," indicating her own dress, a riot of conflicting shades. Abruptly, Myresvale tossed the samples aside. "Can you sing?"

         Anya blinked before giving a cautious, "A little."

         "She sings like a nightingale," Baroness Wynevir corrected.

         "And can you dance?"

         "Some," Anya replied.

         "As gracefully as a Faeran," her mother put in.

         "Cook?"

         "Well enough to suit myself."

         "She is an elegant chef, with extensive knowledge of soothing herbs and possets." Baroness Wynevir’s expansive praise made Anya feel like a slave on the auction block.

         "And your magic?"

         Here, they hesitated, for Anya was a Null. Though every living being held at least the smallest fragment of magical ability within them, in Anya that fragment was so small as to be unnoticeable. Children were tested for magical potential at the age of thirteen by the Journey-ranked magi from each of the Nine Temples; those with substantial magical gifts were taken away to become magi, while those with the more common minor gifts were given some basic training as part of their schooling. However some, like Anya, possessed so little magical ability that they were almost helpless without commercially made magical products. It was an embarrassing situation, to say the least.

         Baroness Wynevir finally answered for her daughter. "She is not naturally gifted in that area, but is so skilled at using mundane tools one would never notice the lack."

         "Null, is she?" The countess frowned. "Can you defend yourself?"

         At least here, Anya could boast. "I took top honors for self-defense at Bellemeyen School, under Lieutenant Thaneswoman Lireen."

         "Very good!" Myresvale said in a satisfied tone, removing her glasses. "I think I have seen enough to make my decision. You," indicating Anya, "are of good breeding, well-educated and accomplished enough for my needs. I shall be glad of you as a companion."

         Anya paused mid-bite. "Companion!"

         "With compensation," Myresvale smiled graciously, "though a waiting-gentlewoman cannot usually expect such. Does ten silver a week suit you?"

         Lady bless, ten silver! That’s half of our monthly income!  

         "Room and board, too," Myresvale continued blithely, "and you would have gowns from my castings." ‘Casting’ was the polite term for second-hand clothing, cast-off by the original owner.

         "That is quite generous!" Baroness Wynevir sounded pleased, and suddenly it became clear why she had been so lavish in her praise of Anya’s worth.

         She thinks to sell me to the countess and use my wages to revitalize Serenoak. It was a clever idea, but Anya herself was much less impressed with the offer. Ten silver a week, to spend every waking moment tending to a woman I cannot stand after fifteen minutes? Never! A hundred silver would be too little.

         "Countess Myresvale," the young lady said, carefully putting down her plate, "while your offer is quite kind, I cannot think of leaving Serenoak at this time." Anya ignored the disapproving grip her mother had taken on her arm.

         "Really?" Myresvale raised one heavily plucked eyebrow. "My dear, I do not think you are fully aware of your current financial situation."

         "We are fine," Anya replied primly.

         "You are in dire straits," the countess corrected. "A manor house needs land to support it, and you have none. Such small income as you are able to make on your own is barely enough to cover your yearly tax! You have no disposable income, and no prospects. Why, you cannot even afford a mage fire!" Myresvale glanced significantly at the fireplace, which burned only mundane wood. "You are in need of assistance; your lady mother has so informed me."

         Anya turned to stare at her mother in astonishment.  "Mother?"

         The baroness refused to look her daughter in the eye. "This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Anya. Think with your head, not your pride. Countess Myresvale can help us, yes, but it is more important to me that you are able to attend Summer Court." The baroness' long, thin fingers played nervously with the folds of her gown, but her tone was firm.

         "Summer Court?" Wild hope leapt in Anya's breast.

         "Indeed," the countess replied condescendingly, brushing crumbs from her skirt. "As my companion, you will also have the right to be presented at Court. So long as it does not inconvenience me, you may attend any functions to which you are invited."

         And there it was; the offer that meant everything to Anya’s hopes, and the future of the Wynevir name. As a part of the countess’ household, Anya would escape the astronomical cost of finding room and board in Crown Belgrad during the Summer. With most of her wages going home to Serenoak, the manor could be repaired and refurbished quite well enough to impress a potential suitor; there might even be enough to start saving to re-purchase the deeds for the surrounding land.

         If we could regain even twenty acres, it would make such a difference. Anya thought wistfully of the manor’s heyday, of the villages and farms once beholden to them.

         "With the wages I shall pay you, and my good opinion to back you, you have at least a chance of making a match," Myresvale pointed out, shrewdly echoing Anya’s thoughts. "What better offers have you?"

         Anya looked at her mother, whose closed expression told her nothing, then back at the countess. "You have made excellent points," the young lady said finally, "but please, give me time to consider them."

         But Myresvale shook her head. "I cannot waste any more time here--"

         "Give her one night, cousin," Baroness Wynevir said abruptly. Placing one hand atop Anya’s clenched fists, the lady smiled gently. "My daughter is young and spirited, and these changes of fortune have been sudden. You cannot blame her for being distressed or confused, surely."

         The older woman made a moue, but relented. "I suppose not," testily. "Lady knows I’d have put up a fuss if I had been asked to leave Myre’s Hold as a young woman. Very well, you have the evening to consider, but I leave at first light tomorrow."

         "Of course," Baroness Wynevir acceded, rising gracefully to her feet. "And you must stay the evening as our guest."

         "Must I?" The countess sighed exaggeratedly. "Very well." With much grunting and heaving, she managed to get to her feet. "Consider your options, Lady Anastasia."

         "Thank you for the time, cousin," Anya managed to say.

         "Yes, well, I have always been more generous than I should be." She made for the door with astonishing speed for one so large, forcing the Kolov butler, who had stood silent vigil over the uncomfortable meeting, to leap forward and snatch the door open for her.

         "Too hasty, boy, too hasty," Myresvale corrected him. "Learn to serve with some decorum, for Mordron’s sake!"

         The butler bowed deeply as the countess exited the room. From the hallway, Anya and Baroness Wynevir could hear Myresvale ordering the servants about, demanding a hot bath and supper in her room.

         "Close the door behind you, d’Kolov," Anya's mother ordered wearily. "Lady Anastasia and I have much to discuss."

          The butler bowed himself out, certain it was going to be a long, loud discussion. He was only glad, as his mistresses argued all through the long night and into the early morning, that the stone walls of Serenoak were thick enough to keep Countess Myresvale from being privy to it. 

* * *

         "She’s going," Melya announced early next morning to the kitchen at large, as those who worked the manor gathered for their pre-dawn breakfast.

         "Thought she would," Cook Kolov grunted from his place at the fire. The day’s baking had already begun; rows of freshly made buns lay temptingly on metal racks, filling the kitchen with their warm, comforting smell.

         "Are you to go as well, Sparrow?" Madame Kolov asked.

         Melya shook her head sadly. "Milady says not. Says there’re servants enough in the castle, and I--I’ve not the skills t’ serve there. Yet," she added hopefully, though tears sparkled in her eyes.

         Madame Kolov lay a maternal hand on Melya’s slender shoulder.

         Melya sniffled. "Milady says that once she has enough money, she’ll send me t’ the Temple o’ Nimue fer better training. Says I can get my certificate, an’ then I’ll be worthy t’ serve in any house."

         "If that’s what the young Baroness says, then that’s what’ll happen," Madame Kolov stated with conviction. "But for now, my Sparrow, you must do your best for her. Run along and pack everything you think she’ll need. I’ve a luggage shrinking charm somewhere around here, and I know that lazy Countess won't be up and about till after noon at least, so we have a little time."

         "Yes’m," Melya agreed. Though it was distressing to be parted from her mistress, the little maid was glad of the opportunity being afforded Lady Anya.

"I’d better pack all her gowns though," she chuckled to herself as she headed up the stairs, where she’d left Lady Anya collapsed in exhaustion only a few hours before. "For she’ll be needin’ a lady’s attire, and wouldn’t it be a horrible crime t’ leave her wardrobe up t’ Countess Myresvale?"