Chapter Text
Ridgeway was just as Ginny had left it.
A thunderstorm had passed through the castle, which stood mightily atop the Green Mountains, not long before Ginny arrived with the Anderson house—most importantly Sir Jeffrey the knight, for whom she had squired in her youth, and until recently—and their accompanying neighbors. They came on horseback, bearing flags with the Anderson coat of arms, all the way from a settlement miles northeast of Ridgeway named Balincrest. Ginny had not been to see her birthplace since before she came of age. Clearly, she had missed very little.
She dismounted her horse, watching as two guards shut the heavy gates behind her. The stone brick castle walls and gravel paths of Ridgeway were an unpleasant, rain-dampened gray hue. Mud stuck to Ginny’s leather boots and each splash of a puddle threatened to stain her blue linen tunic with grit. Unfit for the mission of diplomacy that was ongoing, the castle did not inspire a pleasant mood in travelers or inhabitants alike. Ginny especially (though she was biased, and had been for a long time) felt her emotions dim greatly in the shadow of those gates.
Her father, Joseph, had been a wine merchant. Though he had traveled the kingdom often, Ginny used to resent him for never taking her with like he did for her brother Chet. Joseph’s death had been of little surprise, given his advancing age and deteriorating liver; Ginny did not attend the burial at Ridgeway. As far as she knew, Chet had moved elsewhere with their mother Janette, and he had told Ginny nothing of it. She could not hate his choice, however, as she had done the same, and her childhood jealousy had long since dissipated.
Nevermind all of that, because it wasn’t the estranged Danburrys nor the gloomy castle that had brought Ginny back to Ridgeway. When she caught wind of financial negotiations between the Andersons and Ridgeway’s resident nobility, the Noel family, a long-lost something was dug up from the packed earth of her heart. For she had never said goodbye to Chris Noel, and the abruptness of leaving Ridgeway had soured the memories Ginny had of their friendship, if it could even be called that, close and steadfast as it once was. So she convinced Sir Jeffrey to ask his father if they could lead a mission to Ridgeway, reasoning that business was always better done face-to-face. And she packed her best clothing, cleaned and shined her armor, waxed her boots, mounted her horse, and set out for Ridgeway with something of a fantasy at the forefront of her mind.
She was a knight, after all. She could fight any battle and conquer any fear.
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Perhaps the known was too great a fear to conquer. Ginny remembered the castle so well, she could nearly put on a blindfold and walk the perimeter, mapping out the entire thing with her footsteps. It was eerie how familiar she was with every nook and cranny, like a labyrinth she had built herself, not a place she hadn’t been within ten miles of in countless years.
Now with the travelers under the protection of Ridgeway’s guard, Ginny’s purpose on the mission was all but nonexistent until they left. She kept wandering, passing Todd Anderson sitting by himself next to one of the water wells, and he spared her a shy wave, to which she responded with a smile. They had lived in close proximity to each other for years, and she would consider him a friend; even so, Todd was difficult to converse with at times. Be it the insecurities that his parents had lodged in him since birth, or something else more innate, he was a puzzle Ginny could not manage to fully solve. But he was kind to her, and his companionship had kicked off the string of events that led to her knighthood. For that alone, Ginny thought quite highly of Todd.
The color of his hair in the light led her mind down a spiral, emerging in distant memories: blonde, intricately-braided tresses, the ends curling in the dip where one’s waist meets the lower back, palms meeting fine fabric tailored to those curves, the humid air of summer nights, kisses planted anywhere but the lips… was Ginny sixteen once more, melancholy as she felt in this moment? An amnesiac had come to roost inside her head, diminishing her triumphs since, insisting that the latter chunk of her life had not yet passed and Chris was the now, her presence the only thing that would ever matter.
She opened her eyes, not knowing at what point they had closed. Oh, how ridiculous, she thought, slowing her pace to bore a hole through a rather large rock on the ground with her vision. Ridiculous it was that she had escaped a drab life in the kingdom’s peasantry, but sometimes felt as if the climax of her life had happened behind the gates of Ridgeway.
The sudden thought of ale began to tempt Ginny—what she wouldn’t do for a cup to still her thoughts. Heavens, why was she moping around when there were casks to be opened? Surely at least one of the travelers from Balincrest had thought to bring ale, for there was nary a man or woman alive who would not crave a substance like it. Even the pious folk each week sought wine to quench their spiritual thirst. Gravel crunched under her boots as the soles of her feet led her back to the gates, but the Balincrest party had dispersed. The castle kitchen was her next thought. No doubt she’d be staying in one of the fancy bedrooms as would the Andersons, eating fine suppers by candlelight in the spacious hall instead of nabbing leftovers from the kitchen and bringing them home to her father’s rickety wooden dining table. Ridgeway’s best provisions would be hers—not the wine that her father couldn’t sell nor the stale crusts from last week’s batch of bread—and she would sleep on pillows of goosefeather with a gossamer canopy above her head.
The comforts of life awarded to a woman with a title were plenty, and Ginny was grateful; but she would always be equally enthralled with the sky and stars as her roof, spongy moss as her pillow, the thrills of life known to a lowborn girl. Gladly the kitchen had not changed—here the entrance lay, here the hearth emitted its warmth, and—ah-hah!, she thought upon finding a pyramid of casks, the bottommost already tapped. Would the ornate silver mugs still be stored upon the same shelf as they once were? Ginny’s question was answered a mere moment later, her right hand curling around the cold metal finery and bringing it back to the cask to be filled. Foam grazed her upper lip as she drank, barely letting the fizz settle in her gut before greedily swallowing more ale, abating the stress that had whirled around her head all day.
Loosely hanging the empty mug from her fingers, she left the kitchen, traipsing about the halls until she found an alcove with a window that overlooked a valley. Even behind glass, the height made her dizzy—or perhaps it was the alcohol that had begun to obfuscate her senses—perhaps she had drunk too much, too fast, having been teetotal for the week-long voyage from Balincrest. She turned her head to stare at a painting she had noticed across the hall, but no sooner did her neck crease than her eyes met instead a familiar face.
Ginny sobered instantly while Chris Noel stood before her, radiant as she had always been, the past eight years settled comfortably on her person like the plum-colored silk gown she wore. Her hair was braided in a crown upon the top of her head, and uncovered were the collarbones that Ginny had once kissed, now adorned at their center with a necklace of gold. Her perfect mouth hung open in a silent oh; but shortly after Ginny had faced her, she closed her lips, swallowed, and seemed to regain her senses.
As Ginny very nearly lost her bearings again, Chris spoke.
“Virginia.”
Harsh. Ginny had never liked it—her full name—and Chris had never been a stranger to this preference. Chris, with her ever-sharp memory, could not have forgotten it. And being the bastion of pettiness that Ginny was, neglecting to meet the formality for which her once-friend was currently setting the bar would be unthinkable. She would sooner seem unfeeling than appear the desperate creature she was, and always had been, for the likes of Chris Noel.
“Lady Christine”, she responded, setting down her cup and standing only to sink into an exaggerated curtsy. “You take me for a commoner, but I am no longer beneath you. I have a title now.”
She could be wrong, in assuming such a formal, even cold, tone; but the curt expression on Chris’ face was consistent with her behavior towards the end of Ginny’s time at Ridgeway, something artificially distanced from their bond that had once been.
Chris sneered. Ginny had not been wrong in the least.
“Embellish all you like, Virginia, but you’re not of noble birth, and I will not bend my knee to a lowborn storyteller—”
“I was knighted last year”, Ginny interrupted, “in case you haven’t heard.”
“I haven’t. Forgive me”, said Chris stiffly.
Ginny sighed in outward frustration; internally, she was shaken still. “In the future, would you be so considerate as to keep up with the events of this kingdom?”
“One woman’s status hardly matters in the grand scheme of things. Also, how do I know you aren’t lying straight to my face?”
Because you know me, Ginny wanted desperately to say. Because when we were girls, I could never withhold a secret from you.
“Do you have so little faith in my word? I was knighted by Sir Jeffrey Anderson—I implore you, ask him yourself before our visit ends in a fortnight—and my rightfully-earned title is Dame, thank you very much. Dame Virginia Danburry to you and every other citizen of the kingdom that I shield.”
Though she aimed not to boast, Ginny couldn’t help but take pride in the words that left her mouth. Here she stood, sword at her right hip and breastplate covering her tunic, a living emblem of the ideals she had sought to codify since her earliest gain of consciousness; and in front of her, the woman who had last seen Ginny nearly a decade ago had undergone no such transformation. Chris had clung to her nobility, to her home, to traditions that Ginny had long since abandoned after leaving Ridgeway, and a thin gold band around her ring finger suggested that—
“Fine, Dame Virginia it is, then. Have you just now taken notice of my betrothal?” Chris’ eyes followed Ginny’s gaze to where it fixed on her left hand, that damned gilded cuff.
Ginny’s heart sank. “It must take a man of steel to love you in entirety”, she snarked.
“You would know better than most, wouldn’t you?”
Faltering in momentary embarrassment, Ginny flushed. “At least tell me who you’ve been betrothed to.”
“If you insist. I’m promised to Lord Neil Perry, but I wouldn’t expect you to know of him”, Chris said.
“Of course I know of him”, Ginny scoffed angrily. “Neil Perry of Welton? Lavender bouquets will fill every sconce in the hall of your wedding. You know he’s slept with Sir Jeffrey’s brother, right? Can you read a room, or do your eyes open for nothing but your own reflection?”
That coaxed a fleeting look of panic from Chris’ face, which she swallowed almost as swiftly. Ginny watched her breath quicken.
“Keep your voice down. Not everyone marries for love”, Chris said. “But Neil is committed to me, and I to him. Could I have ever said the same for you? Fleeing Ridgeway in the night as if it wasn’t your home?”
“Balincrest is my home now”, said Ginny. “And ‘fleeing’ is too strong a word. I—”
Ginny cut herself off. She knew it wasn’t yet time for Chris to hear the truth, that Ridgeway had never fully been a home to her; but this was a subject still tender enough that she refused to breach it. They had just reunited, after all. Bitter though she was, Ginny would prod at Chris, but never hurt her outright.
Someday, perhaps she would seek to mend the wound rather than hide it.
“It takes devotion to be a knight. Sir Jeffrey would not have granted me knighthood had I been unfaithful”, concluded Ginny. “And though I serve all of the public, my priorities lie with the people of Balincrest. So—” again she bowed, this time pulling her sword from its sheath and touching it to the ground before Chris— “I bid you a good day, as I’m off to find where I’m needed.”
“But weren’t you just—” Chris began to protest. “Wait, are you certain about Neil?”
Ginny paused, lingering at the slightest wistfulness in Chris’ voice. “He’s a good man. Bold, but caring still. I don’t know him well—Todd Anderson tells me of his righteous qualities.”
“They are many”, Chris agreed.
“Lady Christine…” Ginny’s eyes met the floor, and she worried the inside of her mouth. “He won’t give you children. He won’t show you affection. You would be better off marrying for love than status.”
Chris pursed her lips. “I appreciate the concern, Dame Virginia, but I’ve made my choice”, she spoke after a long time. “Good day.”
“I’ll see you around”, Ginny said under her breath, and quietly slipped away.
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“Betrothed?”
Ginny nodded in empathy. “I wish it was a rumor.”
Todd fiddled with his hands, not quite meeting Ginny’s eyes. “Why do you think he didn’t tell me? I mean, we write—he writes to me about everything. You’d think he would have the grace to tell me he’s promised to a lady”, he spat.
“At least he writes to you about most things”, Ginny contested. At least he writes at all, she thought to herself greedily.
“But not about one of such importance. Why?”
“Perhaps one of his letters was intercepted before it reached Balincrest?” supplied Ginny rather unhelpfully.
This, much to her relief, coaxed a faint smile from Todd. “You’re absurd”, he said lightheartedly. “Suppose he hadn’t been promised to Chris Noel.”
“Why suppose?” Ginny asked, her eyebrows furrowing. “It’s not as if you would have married him.”
“No, but…” Todd drew a deep breath. “I should have—moved, maybe, I don’t know. I could have visited Welton more than once a year. Taken an opportunity there. I mean”, he angled his head toward Ginny, “you did so at sixteen, I could’ve at twenty.”
“You’re nobleborn, though. It’s different”, Ginny said. “Far easier to settle down in a new place when there’s not a family name to make proud or disappoint.”
“But you’re not a commoner, either. Not now, at least”, said Todd.
“Precisely. I was knighted, and look—one year later, I find myself right back where I began.” Ginny motioned to the walls surrounding them. “I don’t know what I was thinking, asking your family to accompany you here.”
“What do you mean?”
Ginny sighed. “Lady Christine was my best friend. I thought she would take kindly to my visit, but I thought wrong. She’s become quite the cold woman.”
Todd looked at Ginny thoughtfully. “Best friend?”
“Once upon a time, we were like this—” Ginny crossed her middle and index fingers— “believe it or not. Sometimes I wish I had taken her with me when I left. I mean, it never would have worked—”
“—nobility and all, sure”, Todd agreed.
“Yes. Then her father died, and suddenly there was talk of courtship and marriage, all these newfound responsibilities of hers that would set her apart from me…” Ginny said. “The last few months I lived here, she was distant. Not as much as she seems to be nowadays, but it was enough that I couldn’t bear it. I was losing my best friend—my only friend, really, so what point was there to staying here?” She swallowed a lump in her throat which threatened to well up her eyes.
“If it helps”, said Todd, “I’m glad you left. And I’m glad you’re here now, if that’s worth anything to you.”
Ginny smiled in spite of herself, blinking unfallen tears away. “Whatever would you do without my loud mouth?”
“I’d bore myself to death. Or I’d have died on the way here. Remember the wolf howls we heard on the second night?”
“Noises, Todd”, Ginny rolled her eyes. “Those were just noises.”
“But if the pack had been any closer to us…”
“They weren’t”, Ginny said. “I’m glad you’re here, too. Your word is worth a lot to me.”
And it was the truth, and a double entendre that she didn’t quite mean, but rang sincerely either way. Though Todd could be secretive, Ginny would not forget the tantalizing bits of his writing that he had entrusted her with. Even at seventeen, when the two of them first met, he seemed to possess an understanding of the world that few would ever mature enough to reach. Todd was honest and pure of heart, talented, wise in ways that his mouth could not always express; but his quill did not fail him.
Ginny always wished he would let her pick his brain more often.
“I loved her, by the way. I still might love her”, she said discreetly, with nobody but Todd in earshot. “I’ll decide soon enough.”
“I don’t think love’s something you can decide for yourself”, contested Todd.
Ginny was in no way opposed to his statement, other than the lack of agency it presented her with. Part of her wanted to choose Chris, in every life, of her own volition; part of her would choose to forget Chris, to love somebody else in her place.
“I guess not.”
She stood up, the backs of her thighs numb from the stone bench they had been sitting upon. The misty air had given way to a proper drizzle over the last few minutes, through it the encroaching sunset hardly visible. Goosebumps pricked at her arms. The scarce light became a blur and she did not know how far she had swayed until Todd’s hands caught her waist.
“Are you alright?” he asked, righting Ginny back on her feet. His palm met her shoulder as she turned to face him.
Mentally, Ginny recounted the hours that had come before. “Been a long day”, she replied, “which you know all too well.”
“I’ll be just fine”, she added after a second, noting the disquiet in Todd’s expression. “I think I’ll go take Sombra for a ride. Would you like to come with?”
Todd politely declined.
Sombra was Ginny’s horse, named for the dappled light- and dark-gray spots across her coat reminiscent of shadows cast by leaves in a forest. She was lean, and quite fast, though not as sturdy as Jeffrey’s stallion. Her mane was done into three braids, hanging down the left side of her neck and tied off with rough twine. Ginny thought Sombra deserved only the finest of ribbons, but expensive fabric was a scant item in Balincrest lately. This was a symptom of one of the many things that had brought Ginny back to Ridgeway. With rebellions and predictions of battle spreading throughout the country, the treasurers of Balincrest had allocated far more gold than usual to a mission of expanding the settlement’s guard, leaving little else to spend on luxury imports. But now, even Balincrest’s military budget was stretched thin. The Andersons had allied themselves with Ridgeway for decades, and now sought their contribution having given to them in the past.
The Noels, however, were stringent with their resources. They would not be quick to decide on sharing.
Knowing any one of these tedious details would have seemed preposterous to Ginny some nine years ago. So would owning a horse and braiding its mane; and yet here she was in the stables, with Sombra’s nose gently nuzzling the back of her hand. She led Sombra out of the stables and toward the gates, bickering briefly with the guards, who would not open the gates for her until she promised to be back within a half-hour’s time.
She mounted Sombra, swinging one leg over the dark leather saddle on the horse’s back and positioning her feet in the stirrups. Once upon a time, she had learned to ride side-saddle; having refused a skirt for years now, she rode the way that was easiest. Sombra was like lightning, weaving between the maples and occasionally dodging a branch so low that Ginny had to duck her way underneath. The rain poured more heavily now, wetting Ginny’s hair so that it lost its curls, and it would not matter had she been crying because her face was soaked all the same. Maybe there was an upside to the gloom, that Ginny felt freedom in how the weather concealed her eyes tearing up. The wind picked up and her shouts for Sombra to go faster disappeared beneath the sound of trees being whipped around every which way. A stray leaf hit her breastplate and stuck there as if it were a badge.
Ginny was alive and Ridgeway was rotten. Ginny was alive and Chris had not yet lived. Ginny was alive and so were Sombra and Todd. Ginny was alive and her father was deader than last year’s fallen leaves underneath Sombra’s hooves. Ginny was alive and…
She had drifted from the road, and was missing supper. Chris’ uncle was probably leading prayer right this very moment. Then there would be wine; a toast to the two great families and their stifling conventions that should not still be alive, but were. The servants would bring dishes of spatchcocked fowl and roast vegetables, sides of cakes glazed with honey and wild rice and nettle soup. It was a show of power, in the hands of men, the hunters who speared the birds and the merchants that sold the wine. Power and life in the hands of Chris’ uncle, Todd and Jeffrey’s father, soon enough Neil Perry and the ring that bound Chris to his care. Did anyone derive it from themselves but Ginny? Sombra gave her strength and companionship, sure, but her power—her sword—would, literally, always rest in her hands.
Ginny was alive and Chris had not yet lived, but instead clutched against herself an illusion of power. Was it any good when Ginny could travel and Chris could not? When Ginny could do what she wanted with her life—risk it, put her body in harm’s way, and Chris must guard hers no matter what? But was Ginny herself fully free when she would always stop to think of Chris, to second-guess her decisions if they would affect her, from here on out?
No. Ginny would never be free so long as she was a woman in love.