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“And now, somehow, we're back in Rattay in one piece.” The entire tale had somehow only taken the afternoon, even with the occasional melodrama or flourish to amuse Theresa. “And Sir Hans is set to be wed.”
“Yes, indeed. We were forewarned about the increase in orders to come down from the castles in a few weeks’ time.”
Henry pulls his legs up to his chest and hugs them, resting his chin on his knees. “He's so unhappy about it, Tess.” A rider descends the hill from the upper gate, dust clouding in their wake. “He knew it was going to happen eventually. We just…thought he had more time.”
The breeze carries the faint smell of freshly cut wheat and looses a few hairs from where Theresa’s tresses are tied at the nape of her neck. A few errant leaves drift down from the branches above them, early pilgrims.
She catches one and turns it over in her hands. “You were never quite like this with Bianca.”
It's said on an exhale, barely a breath, and yet Henry’s world completely flips on its axis.
Theresa’s looking at him. Her face is calm, eyes bright, a small smile on her lips. No disgust, no anger. The same long-suffering, wise-beyond-her-years Tess she's always been. He doesn't know where to look so he stares down at his interwoven fingers, knuckles whitening.
“I mean, yes, you were sheepish and talked about her to me incessantly.” She knocks her shoulder into his arm. “But it almost always sounded like you were asking me if you were doing it right - falling for her, I mean. Everything was a question.”
Henry remembers the first time Bianca ever touched his arm. How curious it had made him, and how much more curious each touch or murmur made him after that. No quiet certainty ever came of it, just growing anxiety about whether or not he was supposed to want her in the ways he did.
“Not with Lord Capon, though.” She plucks a few wildflowers where they grow at the edge of the blanket and braids their stems together as she speaks. “You speak so firmly about him. As though you are the authority on whatever might be going on in that silly yellow head of his.”
Henry remembers the first time Hans touched him, a rude kiss of knuckles against his jaw. No guessing, no anxious dance of couth or expectations. Clarity.
Speech still mostly beyond his grasp, Henry asks the question with his expression: eyebrows furrowed and raised, mouth forming the shape of the word ‘when.’
“When you left on your ill-fated message ferrying adventure, I wondered. When you arrived home last week, I knew.” She pats his bicep, leaving her hand there to ground him. “You have never looked at me like that, Hal. But you mooned after Bianca, and you're mooning after Sir Hans.” Quirking a conspiratorial eyebrow, she leans close and casts her voice low. “Is he mooning back?”
Their armored shoulders knocking while on watch at Suchdol, before. Hans in his arms in that high, dark room in Maleshov. Sharing a meal. Sharing a bath. Hans’ hands under his thighs last night, the moonlight coming through the window.
Henry feels his cheeks redden and bites the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning.
Theresa’s eyebrows fly towards her hairline and she shakes Hal’s arm where she still holds it. “Good. Good.”
“Good?” he asks, fear coloring his voice.
“You are happy, Henry.” Tess leans up and kisses his cheek. “That will always, always be a good thing to me.” She finishes the circlet of flowers and crowns Henry with it.