The Sable Moon by Nancy Springer Read Free Book Online Page A

her baggy frock and heavy peasant boots, the old seamstress looked her up and down without smile or comment.
    â€œWhat does the Prince like best in you?” she asked. And, although Trevyn had never told her, Meg knew the answer at once. “I make him laugh,” she replied. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and the old woman glanced into her eyes. In an instant the Gypsy saw what Megan had so carefully hidden from everyone else.
    Without a word she got her tape and carefully measured every part of Megan’s slender body. Trevyn had already chosen the goods: a soft silk, dusky rose with a thread of gold, well fit to bring out the color of Meg’s thin cheeks and the lights in her muted hair. The old woman held it up, and Meg stroked it speechlessly. “What sort of dress do ye want out of this, now?” the seamstress asked her.
    â€œI know nothing of it,” Meg faltered. “I have never had such a dress.”
    â€œWill ye leave it to me, then?”
    â€œAy, surely.” It did not matter, Meg thought, what sort of dress she wore. She had never known a dress to flatter her.
    â€œYe will trust me in this.” There was something gentle in the Gypsy’s voice, and Meg looked at her and smiled.
    â€œAy, indeed I will. But you will have to work hard, Grandmother, to have it done in time.”
    â€œAy, even so. But ’twill be done, little daughter.”
    The evening of the dance, Trevyn rode Arundel out through the frosty night to fetch Meg. The stars glowed clear as a thousand candles, and the night was full of whispering, jostling light. Over the snow the square of the cottage window shone like a beacon, near even from afar. At long last Trevyn reached it, and beams from within picked out Arundel’s form, silver as a spirit of the night. Trevyn found the door and stepped inside. Then he stopped, thunderstruck. A shining sprite awaited him.
    Meg’s dress made no effort to conceal her thinness; quite the opposite. Tiny tucks drew the fabric snug over her small round breasts, then released it to fall in soft, clinging folds over her waist and hips. Her skirt swept the floor, and long sleeves embraced her slender arms nearly to her fingers. Only her neck was bared, and the tender curve of her collarbone below. Somewhere she had got delicate slippers to peep from under her skirt. She was lovely, and she knew it. Her eyes glowed as warm as the firelight. She met Trevyn’s stare almost merrily, then turned to fetch her old brown mantle. He stopped her and took off his bright cloak of royal blue, putting it around her shoulders and fastening it with his golden brooch that bore the Sun Kings’ emblem.
    â€œYe must be the hard one to keep in cloaks!” whispered Meg. Trevyn restrained his smile.
    â€œI will have her back to you before midnight,” he told Brock Woodsby, and they departed.
    Meg moved through the evening in a happy trance. Any girl in Lee would gladly have taken her place, but their envy could not taint her with foolish triumph; it was Trevyn himself who lit the flame of her joy. He watched her, talked with her, danced only with her, guiding her through the circling patterns of the courtly carole. Megan could not hide her love this night. It glowed in her wide eyes, misty brown as a forest vista. Trevyn looked, and saw, and Megan felt quite certain that something answered her gaze in his. They drifted away from the dancers to the dim reaches of the great hall, and they scarcely noticed at first when the stately notes of lute and viol faltered to a stop.
    â€œWhat bard is that?” Trevyn murmured.
    A dark, feral voice was singing, chanting out a harsh ballad that rang like a blast of wintry air through the warm room.
    â€œOut of shadowed Lyrdion
    The sword Hau Ferddas came;
    By Cuin the heir Dacaerin won
    For Bevan of Eburacon,
    To win him crown and fame.
    And won him fame, and won his land,
    And nearly dealt Cuin doom;
    And Bevan