Free The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton Page A

me,” I said quickly, alarmed at the prospect of spending another afternoon with Susannah.
    “Nonsense. A dose of female activity will do Susannah no harm for once. The two of you may have the sunroom. The light is good in there. Susannah, show Miss Eames the contents of your sewing basket.”
    “Yes, Mama. Come on then.”
    She stomped away, and I followed her with dragging step. Lady Penwyth’s intervention prevented me from exploring the walled garden. My insides felt unsettled, and within beat an unnatural urgency to be outside.
    The thought made me pause at the sideboard, despite Susannah’s quick step, to take a cupful of water. I was always thirsty these days, as if trying to fill up a void.
    As I gulped the recently drawn well-water, fresh and still cool, I reflected that had I been able to sneak away to the ruined garden, I might have met Tom Pyder again. The old gardener would have long years of gardening secrets that I might coax from him, carefully. One had to be cautious when dealing with the caul-born. And I had grown curious about the exotic flora that his twin tended, in a hothouse at Lyhalis.
    The sunroom was pleasantly lit by windows on three sides that could be opened to catch the shifting winds from any direction. Susannah plumped herself down on the window seat, and jerked her sewing basket open. I sat in a lattice-backed cane chair as far from her as was polite.
    She withdrew a mangled sampler from the basket, and threw the rest at me. “You may take what you like, I don’t care much about it. Sewing is such a bore. Oh, why is Mama so heartless! I’ve just got the colt ready to try a bit.” Viciously she stabbed her needle into the linen.
    “You like to ride?” I said, uninterested in the answer as I reached for the basket rolling at my feet.
    “Lord yes. It’s far more interesting than being cooped up with--than being cooped up.”
    “Yes.” I agreed with her on that point, for I would much rather be in the garden than enduring her laments, but again, I also enjoyed simple indoor pursuits like needlework.
    I opened the birchwood lid of the basket. Tangled skeins of embroidery floss jumbled together, and loose needles ran through the threads like prickly thorns. Gingerly I picked out a piece of grubby unworked linen from the hazardous mess.
    In no time the silence began to close in on us. “Mr. Roger Penwyth’s spotted horse is very fine,” I said at random.
    “What’s that?” Susannah dragged her gaze from the window and fixed her almond eyes on me.
    “His horse, the one of unusual color, white as snow, and spotted with great plashes of black. Its pace was very even, I think, though I know little--”
    “You rode Roger’s horse?” Susannah interrupted.
    I gave her a level look. “He found me yesterday on the moor and brought me home on it.”
    “On the piebald?”
    “Yes, piebald.” I said slowly, remembering Tom Pyder’s words rather unwillingly. “That is the name of the color.”
    Her face flushed. “Oh Persia, aren’t you the lucky one. To ride Roger’s piebald!”
    “I did not feel my luck at the time,” I replied dryly.
    She hardly heard me. “Avallen is the finest mare in the Hundred. I’ve seen Roger ride her to St. Ives and back in a morning, and then hunt in the afternoon, and she goes as fresh then as she did when the sun rose. I wish he would let me ride her.”
    “Why won’t he?”
    “Because Roger is Roger,” she replied, and stabbed the needle again.
    I carefully selected a red thread and held my tongue.
    “I haven’t been thrown from a horse since I was twelve,” she burst with touchy pride. Then her glare wavered, lowered. “But the piebald . . . they do say piebalds are enchanted by the knackers.”
    “Knackers?”
    “Ghosts of the mines,” she replied absently, her mind elsewhere. “Or spirits of long-dead tinners. Depends who you ask.”
    The hair at the nape of my neck began to rise, imperceptibly so, and I shivered.
    A sly look crept