Somewhere along the way, they separated, Rhosyn losing herself in the lives of the locals. Karsyn was somewhere else in the throng of bodies. Sometimes she'd catch glimpses of him, while others she conversed with men and women alike.
Their accents brushed against her and she found herself enjoying the song-like way it hummed. It reminded her faintly of her mother's voice when she used to sing lullabies or read stories—like home.
One man explained how he weaved the wool yarn from Shearwold and she could hear Karsyn selling his region's wares in her town's fabric shop as if it was only yesterday.
Then when she turned next, there he stood, as if the thought of him alone was strong enough to conjure him. Karsyn wore an easy grin as she closed the distance between them.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, hands wrapping around her and they were almost dancing again—almost.
Her sharp tongue played behind her teeth and he knew she was going to say something sharp and playful—like the beach.
"Looks like I'm just in time," a new voice said, and they both turned to the man emerging out of the crowd.
"Tor?" Rhosyn blinked at him, bewildered to see him again after so much time.
Karsyn glanced between them as if confused to how she knew the man.
"Your Graces," Tor bowed, beaming at them.
"What are you doing down here, I thought you were away?" Karsyn asked.
"Caught a boat back, Verena wasn't my cup of port," Tor replied. "Too hot and too many posh sounding aristocrats."
The duke chuckled, something deep and satisfied.
"But enough about my travels, I see you've got married in my absence." Tor winked at her and Karsyn held her ever so slightly closer, which only made Tor grin wider. "I thank you for your consideration of losing my wedding invite, I wouldn't have been able to put up with that many southern lords."
Tor was sour, in all the right ways and he had a harsh humour she could appreciate.
"I hear you like to dance Lady Rhosyn," the man continued and she couldn't help but wonder how many in the north knew of her family's involvement with their duke's family's deaths. He deliberately refrained from using her family name, and she realised so had Karsyn.
"And when did you learn that?" she queried, amused.
"When you became a northern lady."
And she couldn't help but laugh along with him.
"May I, Your Grace?" Tor asked, hand offered, eyeing Karsyn as much as he eyed her.
The duke's fingers played circles around her spine, sending a tingling sensation running through her as he contemplated. He looked reluctant and Rhosyn wondered why he hesitated.
"One?" She quirked a brow at him, enjoying his indecision.
"Fine." His eyes locked with hers for the briefest moment, his lips skimming her ear. "Then, you're all mine," his words quiet and they travelled through her.
In that moment they breathed the same breath. And just as quick, he pulled back. But something held her chest and made it hard to take a full breath.
Rhosyn almost forgot what she was doing until Tor lightly took her hand, a wicked glint in his eyes, as he led her to an area the crowd designated for dancing. A small band played at one end, locals with their personal instruments.
"You know how to dance like a northerner yet?" he asked, tugging her into the moving bodies as he did.
It was a group dance, where people would trade partners and the music took in the tune of a fiddle and the beat timed to the stomps of feet. It was something that Rhosyn learned from her brother when he came back from a journey with her father.
The steps were hazy, but most of the fun was letting the music take you. Tor took her expression as confidence and they joined the clamour of stomps and palm turns.
"So," he called when they met with palms. "How are you fitting in, Your Grace?"
They turn clockwise and change hands.
"I don't think I do, in all honesty, Tor, I'm not an equal here."
After turning anticlockwise, he guided her under arm, skirts flurrying out.
"You and Leoric are too similar for you not to belong 'ere, believe me."
"And why should I?"
Then she snagged on how informal Tor was with the duke. He might be improper with southern lords, but not that of his own.
A wry grin took his face and they turned again.
"Are you a lord, Tor?" she questioned, yet she couldn't think of any Wyke lords.
"Ah." He spun her. "I'm Duke Caldren's nephew."
Which meant at one point they had probably lived under the same roof. Clearly Tor wasn't direct enough to inherit Caldren's duchy, which probably explained why he became a merchant. Rhosyn just wondered how much the man knew about Karsyn and the deal.
They stood next to each other, their toes tapping the beat, hands held criss-crossed.
"I saw how interested he was in you—" Tor whispered to her, pausing only when the dance turned back to palm turns. "—after Winter Festivities—never seen him so distracted."
He spun her.
"Let's put it this way, Your Grace." The song stopped and Tor fell into a graceful bow, before straightening. "He wouldn't have accepted that deal of yours if you hadn't put in your hand."
Rhosyn pondered that thought. Wondered how true it was. She always assumed that he wanted justice for his family's murder. That the secrets locked in her uncle's safe would be the one thing he desired. But he knew she was the woman from the stony beach long before he told her...
"You're thinking, Your Grace." Tor grinned, probably knowing where her mind went. "It was nice dancing with you, I'm sure I'll see you around soon."
With that, he disappeared into the crowd and Rhosyn found herself mostly aimlessly wandering. Her mind was elsewhere anyway, caught on thoughts that she failed to navigate.
Then she stumbled across a little girl, maybe five, talking to the duke. He was kneeling in the mud, one gentle hand steadying her elbow. Rhosyn couldn't hear their words yet, but the image welcomed her. Karsyn's soft eyes and warm smile. He was always so tender, though she remembered his harshness the first few days she met him.
Wide eyes glanced up and the girl clutched her doll closer. "Is that your wife?"
"Is she the beautiful one?"
The girl nodded. "Yes."
"Then, that's definitely her," he replied, turning so his gaze met hers and Tor's words rippled through her head.
Karsyn could read her on the best of days and so she turned to the little girl with freckles, just like Rhosyn and she felt an affinity. Settling next to Karsyn in the mud, unbothered, she softly smiled at the girl and saw how her eyes grew.
"Who's this?" Rhosyn asked, pointing at the doll she hugged—a miniature of herself.
"Elswyn," the girl whispered, her mousy disposition adorable.
The name snagged.
"That was my mother's name," Rhosyn murmured, almost sad.
"She was from the north too?"
She'd never thought about it, but she'd never met another Elswyn in the south. There were common names in different regions and Rhosyn never thought about where her mother was from.
"I don't know," she replied, fingers picking at each other again and she regretted leaving the pebble in her room. "I barely knew her," she explained and hated how she turned everything sad.
"Just like His Grace?" the girl asked, earnest and curious, as if they were merely talking about the weather.
Fingers slipped into her hand, warm and familiar, stilling their fidgeting. When Rhosyn glanced over, he watched with gentle sad eyes, sympathising and supporting.
"Kind of, yes."
"All of your family?" the girl implored, a little softer, a little more aware of the implication.
She never felt so alone. Before, she had Edrien, Caerwyn, Elin and Oswin. But that wasn't blood—family ties. For the first time, Rhosyn realised, when her uncle died, it left her as the last Valewyn, the last of a ruling family with roots in the land dating back to before King Avelar I.
Rhosyn didn't need to vocalise her answer, her expression said plenty. The girl threw her little arms around Rhosyn's neck and hugged her close. Rhosyn's hand delicately held her there and she hummed—she'd already decided she liked hugs.
Then, the girl whispered in her ear. "He said: he loves seeing you smile."
The words brushed on a memory, an echo of the same words, repeated in a different order—the crowd loves seeing you smile—and for a heartbeat she paused.
"Bertha," a woman called and the little girl pulled back looking over her shoulder.
"I need to go, my nana is calling me," Bertha turned back to Rhosyn. "I'll pray for all our mummies tonight."
Then she turned and ran off giggling as she called to her grandmother about meeting the duke's wife. Karsyn's hand still held hers and she was grateful. She needed the anchor, something to stop herself from slipping into her thoughts.
"You alright?" he asked.
"I think," she stumbled over the words and felt the honesty in the way they landed.
He stood and waited for her to join him, taking her hands and practically lifting her to her feet.
The sun already touched the rooftops, the sky cut into ribbons of burnt orange and a pale blue giving way, waves crashing in the form of rolling clouds. The day was giving way to darkness, a winter day never fully realised and Rhosyn felt the mix of magic it echoed.
"Well..." Karsyn stole her attention again. "What do you think?"
She looked out at the bustle of joy dancing in the square, the laughter that painted the scene warm and kids weaving through skirts, chasing things that only the imagination of youth could pursue.
"Family," she finally said and it felt right. It was how she remembered family, together and happy.
Her eyes snapped up to his and an unspoken whisper asked—family? He was a pull and an anchor, and she found it hard to resist the comfort it promised. An orchestra played within her, the song of strings resonating within her, tugging her closer and it tingled in her fingertips.
Before their heads bowed any closer, Rhosyn turned away. Almost shy, pretending she didn't hear the music and regretting the soft sigh from his lips.
"We should head back," Karsyn said, nothing in his voice that betrayed his disappointment.
Together, they turned and she let him lead her back through the crowd. People called the same congratulations again, but with more liquor on their tongues and intoxication swirling behind cheerful eyes.
Caerwyn breathed a sigh of relief when they were finally returning to him, standing with her horse.
But Karsyn halted and she turned to find him regarding an old woman. Wrinkled pale skin pulled taut over features shaped in a foreign way, bright icy blue eyes that almost seemed to shine and Rhosyn realised she was whispering words.
"...a dark cloud is forming on your border," her accent thick with a different tone of land—something Rhosyn had never heard before.
"Your Grace?" Rhosyn inquired, taking a step forward and the woman's eyes snapped to her.
For a moment, it was like falling into the sky. Her stomach twisted in resistance, an eerie feeling of danger creeping over her shoulder.
"Sacrifice—there will be blood spilt," the woman said, staring into Rhosyn as if staring into a sea of stars.
Karsyn turned to Rhosyn, a pensive look crossing his face.
"Thanks, Branelynn," he murmured and without another beat, he headed for their horses.
Rhosyn followed after him, too many questions to be ignored.
"Your Grace," she called, but he didn't stop. Her hand caught his arm, "Leoric," she quietly exclaimed and he halted, turning to her, surprise rippling through him as he blinked down at her.
"Who was that?" Rhosyn asked and she caught the way he stuttered on a thought.
"Branelynn, she's a seer who came from half the world away," he explained, but it only gave Rhosyn more questions.
"Seer?"
"She believes she gets visions of the future."
"And you believe her?" Rhosyn scrutinised, doubtfully.
"She hasn't been wrong yet." Karsyn held onto the words in the strain of his jaw and she wondered what future Branelynn saw this time.