Thistledown

A story for Taco Tuesday and Odd Prompts

The hedgerow around grandmother’s garden seemed eternal. It had always been there, it would always be there. If there was a fence structure buried somewhere in the mass of neatly-trimmed bushes that lapped into the masses of flowers, Genny had never seen it. Happily, she wriggled into it, secateurs in hand, looking for just the right blooms to arrange. 

“I do wish Granny would move,” her sister’s voice was somehow both bored and whiny. 

Genny tried to ignore her, but Myra went on. “Genevive, dear, I saw an ad for a fabulous London flat. Three bedrooms, imagine!” 

“And how are you going to pay for that?” Genny stretched out an arm, carefully. For all it’s beauty, there were many thorny things in the hedgerow. She had asked her grandmother once, not long after she and her sister had come to live at Thistledown, why. The best things have a little pain to them, her grandmother had replied, and then she had given Genny a basket to match her own, and taken her berry-picking across the field at the edge of the wildwood, where the blackest blackberries grew in profusion. 

“I’m not. Granny would get enough selling this place. They say a developer is staying in the village.” 

“What?” Genny stood bolt upright, somewhat unwisely, as a York rose hooked her in the shoulder for her impertinence. Gently, she disengaged the thorn and cane it was attached to, while her sister burbled on, much more cheerful when encouraged in her favorite topic. 

“He’s staying at the Dog and Dragon, Mary said, a perfectly elegant old man, with suits that shout money. His shirts are lilac silk, imagine!” 

“You said that already.” Her sister reminded her drily, having retreated far enough from the hedge to move easily again. “And all purple shirts seem... eccentric.” 

“Oh, pish,” Myra waved a lazy hand above her where she half-lay in the hammock chair, dismissing this label. “When one is filthy rich, one is entitled to these little quirks.” 

“When one is not,” Genny stood looking down at her. “One must remember that she is due at work in an hour and her hair is standing out like a salsify puff.” 

Myra gasped and sat up, sending the chair swinging, as she put her hands to her head. “Beast! It is not!” 

Denial aside, she scrambled inelegantly out of the chair and headed indoors, presumably to the nearest mirror. 

Genny, having won the day and the chair, set her basket of flowers aside and sank into it. She only had a few moments, but the day was perfect and she meant to look at it, hard, before she went back to the chores which would shut her in and away from it. 

There were a few puffs of cloud in the sky, calling to mind the cottage’s name in appearance and the way they floated so lightly. She looked at them for a moment, then turned her gaze to the distant wood across the field. There were no blackberries yet, it would be a few weeks before they were ripe and lush for the picking. Here in the garden, she would gather strawberries soon, and currants were pinking up nicely. With a sigh, Genny levered herself out of the chair and picked up her basket. When she stood, she was looking at the hedge and beyond it, in the lane, his silver hair gleaming like silver, stood a man. 

Afterwards, Genny would deny vehemently that she did any such thing, but she let out a squeak like a startled field mouse, and then, for some reason, she ran inside.

 “Gran! Gran!” She shouted as soon as the door slammed behind her. 

“What is it?” her grandmother, breathless, ran out of the kitchen, holding her floury hands away from her body. “Are you all right?” 

“There’s a man... in the lane.” Genny stopped, abruptly. She went on, her voice calm again. “How strange. He didn’t do anything at all except look at me, and I went all rabbit for some reason.” 

Now her grandmother yelped, and ran for the front door, forgetting the mess on her hands. 

“Really, Genevieve.” Myra drawled. “You are such a child sometimes.” 

Genny took a deep breath, schooled her countenance, and went for the kitchen. Myra hated cooking and cleaning and never entered this sanctum if she could help it. Myra’s voice followed her. “We wouldn’t have peepers in a London flat!” 

***

Violet Crowe was halfway to the gate when she belatedly remembered the state of her hands. She slowed to a walk, dusting them off on her voluminous apron, and then reached for the gate latch. The man stepping around the rose to get it for her didn’t surprise her at all. 

“Leofsige...” She breathed, barely a sound at all. 

He heard her, and his eyes smiled in a face that didn’t seem to move at all. “I go by Nico now.” 

“Nonsense, you will always be Leofsige to me.” She stepped through the gate he was holding open. 

“Did I frighten the girl?” He asked, falling into step beside her as she walked out into the lane. 

“No, I don’t think she realized why she reacted. After a moment she returned to her normal calm. She is my stoic.” 

“Ah.” His stride was much longer than hers, and she remembered other times they had gone on together, when he had been faster than she. 

“Why did you come?” Violet demanded. She didn’t look at him. Her hands were deep in her apron pockets, curled into fists. “You are far too late.” 

“I wasn’t sure you would still be here, among the thistles. I had to see, if you were yet... you.” 

“I’m still me.” She stopped and pivoted, putting her hands on her hips and looking up at him in defiance. “Are you still you? Nico, the victory, without the beloved now, are you?” 

“Names don’t always mean things.” He looked down at her, his eyes hooded and dark in shadow, but a slight smile on his lips. 

“They do to a dragon.” 

“I am but a man.” He put a hand on his heart, the ruby ring on his littlest finger glowing in the sunshine. “Today.” 

“I am a woman, in all days.” She bit her lip and turned her head. “You left me.” 

“I had to.” He dropped the mask and stooped, holding both his hands out to put over hers, which were still fisted on her hips. “I had to go, and I could not explain. Now, it is done and I am free.” 

“Free?” She echoed, a bitter twist in her lips. “A child did not bind you, but you say you are free, from what?” 

“Violet.” His hands were very warm over hers. He was close enough she could look into the glow of his yellow-brown eyes, the fires banked so deeply they were nearly human in appearance. “I could not stay.” 

He wasn’t going to explain himself, she knew. He hadn’t then, and he wasn’t going to now. With a wrench, she twisted away and hurried back towards the cottage. 

He didn’t follow her. She couldn’t hear his footsteps behind her. Nevertheless, she didn’t slow down until she swung through the gate and pulled it latched behind her. 

Genny, holding a vase full of flowers, stepped out onto the stone slab that served as door step to the cottage. 

“Gran? Is everything all right?” She asked, her eyes looking over Violet’s shoulder at the gate. 

“An old...” Violet searched for the right word. “Acquaintance. I don’t think he will return.” 

“He’s at the gate.” Her ever-practical granddaughter lifted a hand and waved. “Why didn’t you invite him in? Myra thinks he’s a developer here to try and buy the cottage.” 

Violet stopped dead in her tracks, her back straight and stiff. She couldn’t think what to say in response to that outrageous rumor. Instead, she spun yet again on her heel, her face clouded with anger. She marched towards the gate. 

“Leofsige.” She stood at it, looking at him, standing there leaning towards her, a strange look on his face. “Why have you come here?” 

“Not, beloved of my heart, to make an offer on the cottage. Why on this earth or any other did you name it for... those things?” He made a face, with a shiver of a wink at the end of it. 

She remembered now his playful side, the humor that had thawed her resolve. She became even more rigid. “It turns out, dragons do not like thistles.” 

“Not when you are picking them out from between your scales after a moment of, ah, vulnerability, no.” This time the face was much more genuine, the pain still a bright memory. 

“I’m not the one who decided a fallow field was the perfect locale for a discreet tryst.” She reminded him, trying to keep the smile off her face. She’d used pliers on some of the prickles, but she hadn’t felt them herself, having been on the upper side of that encounter. “Nor am I the one who shifted in pain and then found it only made things worse.” 

Behind her, soft footsteps approached, then stopped a short distance away. She could tell who it was by the way Leofsige’s eyes flared, a spark of his fire. 

“Gran?” Genny’s voice was uncertain. “I put tea on...?”

Tea was always the answer. Of course. Violet put her hand out and touched the latch. Leofsige stood up, his face eager as he looked down into her eyes. 

“This is polite hospitality.” She informed him tartly. “Nothing more.” 

“Nothing less,” he agreed quietly, and she lifted the latch to him. 

“Genevieve,” her grandmother indicated the young woman, no longer holding a vase, “This is Nico...” 

“Radoslav,” he filled in when Violet left him a gap. He ignored Violet’s hard look at the use of a name meaning roughly ‘eager glory.’ “Delighted to meet you, young lady. I’m afraid I alarmed you earlier, and I am deeply sorrowful.” 

Genny, charmed as he meant her to be, lifted a hand which he adroitly took and rather than a simple handshake, cradled in both of his and lifted to his lips. Violet cleared her throat.

“Would you like,” He shot her grandmother a look sideways, his eyes laughing, “Me to tell...” 

“What she would like, as would I, is a nice cup of tea.” 

Violet stamped back up the path to the door of the cottage, meeting Myra as she stepped out, neat in her slacks, blouse, and cardigan, carrying her lunchbox in one hand, and notebook in the other. Myra’s eyes got very wide. 

“Myra, you’ll be late for work.” Her grandmother ruthlessly dismissed her. “Gen, bring the tray into the parlor.” 

Leofsige followed her meekly into the small room, his head slightly stooped to keep from hitting beams. “This house suits you.” 

“It should, I’ve been living here for nigh on forty years.” She sank into the Queen Anne chair, giving him no opportunity to sit next to her. He sat on the chesterfield, looking at her. 

“Can you forgive me?” He asked, his voice low. “Not will you, but can you?” 

“You...” She bit off her words as Gen came through from the kitchen carrying the tea tray. 

Leofsige stood, reaching for it. “May I help?” 

“Er,” Gen relinquished it, her eyes a little starry. “Just there on the table, please?” 

He obliged, looking at the three cups arranged around the little green teapot, and the plate with biscuits on it. “Charming.” 

Gen poured out, and when Leofsige declined a biscuit, she looked at them regretfully and left them on the plate. She also had a moment of vacillation over taking her seat, before finally landing on her usual perch atop the pouffe next to her grandmother, where she could lean her head on the older woman’s shoulder when so inclined. Violet presumed her unease over this strange man had won out over her desire to appear more dignified. 

“I was just telling your grandmother this house suits her.” Leofsige was smiling, and it touched his eyes as well. Violet leaned back, teacup forgotten in her hand, and watched him. 

“It’s perfect for her.” The young woman was leaning forward, cup also forgotten for different reasons. “I’ve always thought so. She’s like a hedge witch in her demesnes.”  

He blinked, then the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Really?” 

“She makes all manner of potions, don’t you Gran?” 

“Genevieve.” Violet sat up straight. “They are not potions.” She addressed him directly. “I make perfumes, dyes, and other natural wares from my land.” 

“Oh, I see. Much less glamorous than being a hedge witch.” He lifted his cup to his lips, which were twitching with pent-up laughter. 

“Much more lucrative, anyway.” Her granddaughter was relaxing, and laughing herself. “Although it’s still not enough for Myra.” 

“The other young woman I met so briefly?” He prompted. 

“My older sister. She’d rather live in the city. We used to, until we came here, and she remembers it more than I, although frankly I think she’d got rosy glasses looking at the past, and she’d hate if we did go there, and I know I would, but Gran will never sell. Will you?” 

Big wet eyes were looking up at her suddenly, with a hand on her sleeve. Violet laid her own hand over the slender brown fingers, with their blunt garden-stained nails, so like her own. 

“Never, darling.” 

“The Thistledown has settled?” He interrupted, a thrill of laughter in his voice.

“Yes,” Violet looked at him, hoping to quell him. “And will not be moved.” 

“The last thing on my mind.” He waved his cup recklessly. 

Violet, reminded of her own tea, drank some of it. Genny had used the best chai, the smoked one she saved for herself as a rare treat. She blinked, the taste of smoke bringing other memories forward, given his presence so close. 

“But,” Genny had drunk most of her own tea now, with a tiny grimace as she did not share her grandmother’s tastes, “Why did you come, if not to develop land?” 

“I came to see Violet.” 

Gen had a blank look for a moment, until she remembered her own grandmother’s name, rarely used in her presence, and never by her. “Oh!” She looked up at Violet. 

“And you have seen me.” Violet stood and put her cup back on the tray with a clink of the saucer. “May I walk you out? I would have a word.” 

He was silent until the door had closed behind them. The sun, sliding lower in the sky, was shedding a golden haze over the treetops and field beside the cottage. The scent of roses hung heavy in the warm air. 

“Who are they?” He asked without preamble. 

“Your granddaughters.” She was equally blunt. “But your kind are never close to their progeny, are they?” 

“I’m afraid not.” His eyes were dark and hooded again. “Even if we regret that war calls us from their side.” 

She looked up at him, sharply, looking into his too-still face again. 

“Their parents?” His voice was very quiet. 

“Dead. Auto accident when Myra was twelve and Genny only ten. The girls were staying with me for two weeks, thank the sweet lord. They just... stayed on longer.” 

“I see.” His head drooped. 

“Leofsige Euldhaelm, never knowing your own son is a hard enough price to pay.” Violet sighed, her shoulders rising and falling again. “Come to dinner tomorrow and meet the girls properly.” 

He bent, drawing very near to her face as the light turned from gold to blue when the sun dipped below the distant trees. She tipped her head back and looked at him. 

“You asked if I thought I could forgive you.” 

“Do not answer in haste,” he begged her. “Wait a little, before...” 

“I can.” She interrupted him. “I haven’t, just yet. But it has been a good life, a quiet life and... you are not of my kind. I think I always knew our pairing would not be a traditional one.” 

“I do not plan to leave you again.” 

“Did you plan to leave before?” 

He shook his head. “I had no plans at all. I was drunk with joy and lost myself almost entirely, until I was summoned by a geas I could not break.” 

“Make me no promises.” Violet reached up and touched his cheek, lightly, feeling the faint scratch of stubble. 

“I shall tell you no lies.” He turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm. “I would be honored to accept your invitation.” 

Her hand dropped away. “I will serve artichokes.” 

He laughed, a sudden, surprised burst of joy that pealed out into the twilight that had drawn around them like a veil against prying eyes. “Dragons do not like thistles, madame!” 

******

*

This is my story for Taco Tuesday, and my prompt challenge response. I thought as it is short, I would make it freely available here on my blog, and perhaps later in the year I’ll collect up these stray stories and publish them as a special collection. I hope you enjoyed it! I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

My prompt this week came from AC Young with “It turns out, dragons do not like thistles.”

I prompted Becky Jones with “He needs to do the dragonoscopy test…”

You can read all of the prompt responses, and take part in the challenge yourself if that suits your fancy, over at More Odds Than Ends.

See you next Tuesday!

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