#rosaleen

Not quite the truth though, that sad, weary response to Mr. Carver’s proposition all those weeks ago. Father has always been dramatic, playful and hammy when times are good, wallowing when they dip below his expectations. Leaning into his grief then as Rosaleen eavesdropped from outside the window of their small home with her fingers deep in the earth of the kitchen herb garden. Grief over the loss of his middle child and now the prospect of losing his youngest too. But not the only one left to him, no.

In the now, Rosaleen sucks in a bracing breath and clutches her last note from Alice between numb fingers, feeling the weight of the good paper her eldest sister had used when writing to her. Funny how their relationship had blossomed once Alice had moved away. No longer sniping at each other or stealing little trinkets from pockets and bedsides, with poor Chrissy stuck in the middle, all sweetness and light while trying to referee between two fighting wildcats. Once they were no longer under the same roof, Rosaleen’s newly married eldest sister had kindled a relationship in her letters that neither they nor their parents could have expected, and Rosaleen had risen to it, embraced it, cherished it. She wonders now how Alice’s monthly letters will reach her. If she will ever have the chance to meet her merchant brother-in-law or her new chubby niece. Suddenly Rosaleen’s family feels very far away, even with a parent sitting pressed up beside her on the ponderous cart.

She risks a glance at her mother, sucking shallowly on her lips, trying to piece out the question that she wants to ask. Her mother apparently doesn’t even need her to voice it before she issues a response. “I did it. Alice did it. Your Granny too. It’s the way of things, for young women to leave the families of our birth and cleave ourselves to our new families once we’re married. Especially for those of us who marry outwith the village of our birth. You’ll be fine.” Her volume drops, lips twisting with amusement. “Better than if your father had had his way and you’d been paired up with Carver’s boy.”

Rosaleen finds her lip curling into a little moue of distaste at the prospect of entertaining Jason Carver as her husband. While Chrissy had the grace and patience to guide his strain of pompous authoritarianism into something potentially useful to both herself and the village, Rosaleen is quite certain she does not have the same skill. They would come to blows that might lead to the injury or death of one or both of them if she was forced to spend more than a few hours in his presence. She could have tolerated him as a brother-in-law for Chrissy’s sake but that was as far as she could go. Not to mention that in the time it has taken Jason Carver to overcome his grief over her sister’s murder, he has started walking out with the Penn’s daughter. A much better, more docile prospect for him, Rosaleen thinks. One less likely in a fit of pique to clip him round the ear or kick him up the backside.

Truth be told, Rosaleen’s other prospects within the village haven’t been much better than Jason. She is unsuited to a match with any of the remaining village boys. If she had been, she would have found one already. But she’s wilful and difficult, and the only boy who had shown interest in her had ended up with a bruised ego and a twisted ankle for his troubles when she had run away from his clumsy kisses in the forest. In the two years since then, her prospects have not changed, except to worsen as the pool of potential husbands has been reduced by betrothals and marriages and slaughter. She has had 18 summers now and remains a poor match for any man who would want an easy home life. Not that she cares. Clowns are what the village boys are. And she will not be married to a clown, but a wolf.

Ignorant of her musings, her mother continues. “And don’t worry about us. The village will rally round, now that you have all flown,” Mummy’s voice catches on the last word and for only the third time in her life, Rosaleen fears she may see her strong, practical mother cry. But the woman pushes through. “The Sinclair’s youngest has promised to visit your Granny and help me with the house.” Rosaleen dwells on that. They are thoughts that had not occurred to her, that her contributions would be lost to them. Meagre contributions in her mind compared to those that Chrissy bestowed. The sister who was going to be the one who stayed close to their parents, who would lend them her strength and selfless attention. Alice was always going to leave, and Chrissy was always going to stay, and Rosaleen was always going to… what? She doesn’t know. Never has, although she can feel it in her bones that the village is too small for her. Maybe she would have ended up like her Granny, living alone in the woods, free from suffocating expectations she couldn’t meet.

Feeling her mother shiver beside her, not knowing if it is because of emotion or cold, she reaches out and grasps a hand, drawing it back under her cloak with her own to clasp and hold and hopefully warm a little. She is rewarded with a smile, knowing and appreciative. Meagre contributions but contributions nonetheless.

The cart rumbles onwards and Rosaleen drops deeper into thought. After a long pause, she broaches conversation again. “Granny says–”

Her mother responds with a scoff and a roll of her eyes, “Granny says… Granny says… You and your Granny, thick as thieves!” Rosaleen pauses, wondering if she should take offence until her mother digs a padded elbow into her side and prompts, “Go on, what does your Granny say?” Her voice is thick like honey and playful teasing.

“Granny says… the wolves that got Chrissy were hairy on the outside, but the worst wolves are hairy on the inside.” She fumbles for the exactness of what she is asking, unsure and worried about putting the wrong thought into words.

Her mother once again gets there before Rosaleen can get her mouth to work it out. “Your sister was killed by a madman and his followers. The wolves are not to blame despite what your Granny might say. And,” her mother pauses for a beat, “Rosaleen, if there’s a beast in men, it meets its match in women too… You’re a fearless child, I’ll say that. I doubt any beast, man or wolf, would risk his hide by getting on your bad side. You’ll make a formidable wife.”

Rosaleen chews on that, rolls it around in her head for the remainder of their journey to the meeting place high in the mountains between the two valleys. It drowns out the voice of her father, of her grandmother, and by the time the heavy wooden cart grinds to a slow halt, she is glad that it is her mother who has accompanied her on this journey. Her mother who came to her last night as she lay in bed to do her the same kindness that her own mother had bestowed on her, explaining in simple terms what she should expect from her new husband, explaining that the wolf tribe may do things differently but one crucial act would remain the same. Her mother who had kissed her father’s downturned mouth before she and Rosaleen had set off with Mr. Carver and the old priest this morning, and admonished him not to grieve. “Least said, soonest mended. Kiss your daughter, Father, and tell her that you love her.”

The cart pulls up, the heavy dray horse snuffling and pawing at the earth, and Rosaleen turns to blink owlishly at the large group of men that await them. A greying man steps forward, his countenance calm. He exudes an air of control, one that Rosaleen recognises those elders of her own village would pay a small fortune to embody. A man that people listen to naturally.

“Carver.” His voice is rough, low, and unbothered by whatever niceties Mr. Carver may feel are his due. Rosaleen finds her lip curling in a little grin despite herself, one that she hides behind her crimson shawl.

“Munson.” Carver nods once to the man, then turns towards Rosaleen and coughs awkwardly as a sort of summons. Rosaleen feels icy fingers wrap around her wrist and her mother hops down from the back of the cart, pulling the girl with her to stand before the assembled crowd. Rosaleen goggles, wondering how big of a tribe the wolves must be even now after all their battles with Vecna. Surely all their men are here this chilly evening.

Mr. Carver gestures vaguely to her. “Your payment as agreed for your handling of the scourge.” His voice dips low on the last word as if he’s afraid of being overheard, even though the scourge in question is well dead and, by some accounts, devoured.

Rosaleen’s attention snaps back to the man standing before her. He appears to her to be as old as her father, grizzled but strong with muscle. His warm hand encases her smaller one in greeting. This close, he smells of smoke and strong tea.

Is he to be her husband then?

The word ‘payment’ sits heavy on Eddie as his uncle greets the girl. Quick Munson eyes, both young and old, assess her. Pale skin like fresh milk, touched by the faintest hint of rose pink on her cheeks and lips. The tip of her nose too is cold in the frigid air. Dark, expressive eyes. A trace of a furrow in her brow. Annoyance? Curiosity? Not fear anyway, Eddie concludes. Her scent carries no trace of that. To his eyes, the hood of her shawl is a deep, blood red where it is pulled up to protect her hair. He longs to reach for it, to draw it back and release tresses as dark as her eyes, but it is raining a light drizzle and he does not want his first touch to bring her discomfort. He does not want anything he does to bring her discomfort. No pain, no sadness. Only pleasure. Only joy. He is pondering on how he may do that when the older woman with her steps towards his uncle and boldly asks, “Is my Rosaleen to be your bride?”

Wayne’s face splits in a grin, one that those close to him know as genuine, deep-boned amusement. He turns towards Eddie, has the audacity to wink (bloody Alpha! Eddie’s hackles rise unbidden, which only amuses Wayne further), and pronounces, “My nephew, Edward, will take care of your daughter, Missus.”

“Eddie,” he grumbles as he steps forward at Wayne’s subtle command. He sees his new bride almost smile at that, lips quirking in an entertained way at his frustration before her eyes grow large with recognition and her cheeks flush a deeper, hotter pink. She knows him then. He’d be a fool to think she wouldn’t, given how much he’d stared at her when their paths had repeatedly almost-crossed some years ago. She was always with a protective parent and sometimes with a slightly older, blonde girl too. Never alone, and he’d never figured out how to approach her like a normal boy would.

Rosaleen almost swallows her tongue when she recognises the younger man who has stepped forward at Wayne’s introduction. He is still the same mess of liquid eyes and long, shaggy hair as the boy she had spied in the market town her parents brought her and Chrissy to before Vecna had broken their peace. The boy that Chrissy gigglingly called ‘Rosaleen’s admirer’ in the quiet of their shared bed and threatened to write Alice about. The boy that has since become a man. And soon to be her new husband.

She hears his uncle sigh, a chest-heaving sound of tolerant exasperation. Nonetheless, he repeats his nephew’s preferred name, “Eddie. He fought and won your girl.” Her mother takes a sharp intake of breath at that, and before Wayne can say more, a brunette woman steps forward, slight and delicate, and somehow emerging from the group of men as if they have been hiding her.

She takes Rosaleen’s mother’s hands in hers. “Wayne’s nephew will take good care of your daughter, don’t you worry.” Rosaleen turns to find her mother staring shrewdly at the smaller woman. Her eyes flicker briefly to her daughter before returning to the woman before her, and Rosaleen realises that she is trying to determine how much she should trust this woman’s word. The woman clearly realises it too. “My name is Joyce. I married into the tribe, just like your daughter is going to. And like me, your daughter will be cared for and loved. She will have choices she’d never have with another tribe, another family.” She glances fleetingly at a large, bearded man at the edge of the group who meets her gaze with a gruff nod. “Eddie will be her protector. The whole tribe will, really.” Rosaleen knows that after what has happened to Chrissy, that reassurance does more to sway her mother than anything else Joyce could have said. It’s an oath, despite the lack of a bible to swear it on.

Mother and Joyce fall to talking in hushed tones, heads together, as Rosaleen turns her attention back to Eddie. She is intrigued by his rough, manly beauty. So different and yet so similar to the boy who had always been watching her when she spotted him from the corner of her eye over stalls stacked high with pies or cloth or woven baskets. She had been barely of an age to have boys noticing her and by rights she should have forgotten all about him in the years of pain and terror since then. And yet… the memory of soft eyes and softer lips had stayed with her.

Now he is still beautiful but bigger, grown into himself, his chest broader, his hair longer and thicker. When he drags a small, shaggy pony around to stand before her, the muscles of his forearms bunch and flex where they appear from the loosely rolled sleeves of his almost white shirt. His skin is as warm as his uncle’s through the sides of her bodice when he takes her waist in his hands and boosts her into the saddle. His lips twist a little in concentration as he fixes the length of her stirrups and makes sure that her boots are secure in them with a strong hand on her ankle. They still look soft, those lips, and she finds herself wondering if his voice now carries the weight of a man’s throat. She has nothing to compare it to though. He has never spoken to her before, and he does not speak to her now. Apart from the rumble of his name earlier, he is silent as he tends to her.

Her mother comes to her before they leave, reaching up to her in the saddle. “Follow Joyce’s word. She’ll lead you true. Your father and I will see you at the market next Spring.” Rosaleen’s eyes widen in surprise. She would see her parents again! Her mother’s answering smile is soft, comforting in a way that only a mother’s can be and were it not for the promise of seeing her again in half a year, there would be a great howling weight of loss in Rosaleen’s gut. “And remember what I said. If there’s a beast in men…” Her mother squeezes her fingers, both of them still chilled, and slips her hand free of her daughter’s.

The group depart, the men on foot, Rosaleen on her shaggy grey and Joyce on an equally small, equally sure-footed bay a dozen paces behind. Eddie keeps his hand on the pony’s neck just ahead of Rosaleen’s skirt-covered knee as they make their way and it is strangely touching, his connection to this animal. She regards him with a closer eye as the path turns downwards into woods she has never before traversed. Before this night is through, this man will be her husband. She will be his property and no longer a girl but a woman grown. He will have been over her and in her, and every time he wants her again, she will be expected to lift her skirts and spread her legs for him. Her stomach rolls at the prospect, though whether in excitement or fear she can’t say.