The sentries were happiest of all, once Celine had shown them how to convert leather wine flasks into hot-water bottles: they filled them with water and a few embers from the fire, and wore them inside their cloaks to keep warm while patrolling the walls.
She found the lack of electricity frustrating but not insurmountable. A few of the things she had in mind—like gaslights and central heating and running water—would just take longer to figure out. She explained all of her “inventions” the same way she explained her cooking skills and the fact that she preferred to wear a tunic and leggings rather than a gown: she insisted it was all quite normal at her convent in Aragon.
Most people were too pleased to question their good fortune. A few still harbored ill will, but others were starting to call her brilliant.
Brilliant. That was quite a novel sensation, having people respect her not for her looks or her wealth or her pedigree—but for her skills and intelligence. She had always been the underachiever in a family of geniuses, always the one who never quite measured up.
Here she could really make a difference. Change people’s lives. Make things better, easier. It was irresistible, being needed. The more she helped, the more she wanted to help.
Maybe she had gotten a little too carried away by the feeling, but now she was turning her attention back to her own problem. There was someone she wanted to meet.
Snow sifted down from the sky as she crossed the bailey, sparkling like the sugar she had dusted across an angel food cake for last night’s dessert. Yolande had given her the afternoon off, and Etienne—the Eternal Shadow, Celine was starting to call him—had granted her request to take a walk alone, as long as she agreed not to go near the gate.
Celine moved briskly, heading for the huts at the rear of the chateau where many of the servants lived. With a few subtle questions over the past days, Celine had learned just who in the castle might have knowledge of astronomy or the moon. Always the answer was the same: Fiara.
The name was always whispered quickly, as if it inspired dread, and people weren’t willing to elaborate more than to say that Fiara was a mystic of great knowledge and power. Celine hadn’t even been able to find out if the person was a man or a woman, only that Fiara lived in the servants’ quarters. Which was exactly where she was headed now.
But as she made her way through the snow, a noisy disturbance near one of the outbuildings drew her attention. It was caused by a group of children. Celine almost hurried past—until she noticed what they were doing: they were gathered around a little girl of about ten, who faced them with a tear-streaked face while they taunted her.
“Thickhead,” one called.
“Heathen,” another shouted.
“Hag,” a third put in.
“Stop it!” Celine cried above the noise.
The children quieted instantly, turning to look up at her as she stalked over, drawing herself up to her full height.
“You wouldn’t like it if someone called you such awful names, would you?” That logic had always worked with her nephew, Nicholas. She might be seven hundred years in the past, but kids, she suspected, were kids.
“But she is a heathen,” one little boy insisted.
“We do not want her here,” another chimed in.
“Well, since she is here, don’t you think it would be better if you all tried to get along? No matter what her beliefs are?” Celine crossed her arms. “I don’t think I could teach new games to boys and girls who weren’t nice to others,” she said lightly.
That seemed to make an impact.
“No more friz-bee?” one asked in dismay.
“No more glissades et echelles?” another gasped.
There were soon many chastened and worried little faces in the group. Chutes and Ladders had proved to be a special favorite. Ping-Pong had also gone over well. Celine was considering an indoor version of miniature golf.
“I was going to show you something called Pictionary tonight.” She shrugged. “But not if I hear of you being unkind to someone again.”
The little girl who had been the object of the kids’ teasing soon found herself surrounded by a chorus of apologies. One by one, the children left, promising to be good and pleading for more after-supper games.
Celine sent them away with pats and reassurances. When they were gone, she went over and knelt beside the little girl, who kept her face lowered and didn’t move. Tear-tracks streaked her red cheeks. She had blond hair, tied in a long braid down her back, and a blue dress and mantle that were patched in places.
Celine felt her heart turn over. “I don’t think they’ll bother you anymore,” she said softly.
The girl sniffed, her lower lip quivering.