Footsteps. No whisper of slippered feet. The creak of leather.

Honore stiffened shoulders that had begun to convulse before she heard the chapel door open. She had not minded the interruption of prayers so fumbled even the Lord might have difficulty putting together pieces scattered all around, for it was not truly prayer that caused her to seek the chapel. It was privacy in which to cry, certain if she could do so whilst her emotions were so near throat, lips, and eyes she might empty them.

One long ugly cry, she had told herself, then nevermore. But it was as if the one who came within sought her. The abbess? Beneath her mantle had she worn winter boots? Possible, but these footsteps seemed to carry the weight and stride of a man. Moments later, they halted outside the confessional.

Not Elias, she told herself. Her words had too deeply wounded. Were he not astride, soon he would be. Had Sebille sent their brother?

The door by which a priest entered the other side of the confessional opened, and through the screen with its fingertip-sized holes she saw the backlit figure of a man of familiar height and admirable breadth.

Though the light was not overly intrusive and the screen provided cover, it was impossible to go entirely unseen. Still, she retreated to the bench’s far corner.

“Honore.”

She pressed herself more deeply against the confessional’s walls.

Leaving the door open, Elias lowered to the bench on the other side. “The abbess sent me.”

Breath rushed from her.

“I come armed with her explanation of why my missive was put to flame, her apology, and her blessing.”

He could not speak true. But how else could he have so soon found her?

“Honore?”

She unstuck her tongue from her palate but could not think how to use it.

“Very well, listen. And recall when last we were in a chapel.”

Her first kiss. A longing for life beyond these abbey walls.

“That was not the only time I thought of you in rhyme and song,” he said, “but it was then I began to want more than the Honore made of ink and words and parchment. And wish I did not, believing you were out of reach.”

She could not get her hand to her mouth quickly enough to muffle a sob.

He leaned near the screen. “Come out that you may see me and I may see you.”

She shook her head.

“Then give me your hand.”

“What?” she whispered and saw him press his left hand to the screen.

“Give unto me, Honore.”

She hesitated, but as if of its own will her hand reached and set itself against the screen. When her fingertips encountered the warmth of his on the other side of the holes, she caught her breath.

“Do you wish to know the words I wrote which the abbess persuaded you to set aflame?”

“I do not want to hurt more than already I do.”

“They were not meant to hurt but give hope—better than hope.”

Was it possible? Non, never would his father accept her. The matters of legitimacy and nobility were resolved, but still she was of an age unlikely to provide many, if any, heirs, and then there was the possibility her affliction could be passed to children she bore.

She shook her head. “The words are gone, Elias. And methinks it for the best.”

“They are not gone, and were they it would not be for the best.”

“They are ash.”

A huff of laughter. “This troubadour spent too much time composing them not to know them by heart. Now listen, and I will speak what I inked whilst moving as little as possible to sooner chase you across the narrow sea.”

Another sob escaped.

“Are you listening?”

She nodded.

“Pray, come closer.”

She pried herself out of the corner, scooted to the bench’s edge, and set her brow on the screen.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“I want you to see our camp in the wood, see me across the fire as I saw you, feel my hands in yours as I felt yours in mine. Dance with me again.”

She closed her eyes, and not for the first time remembered. “We are dancing.”

When his breath moved the hair on her brow she knew his face was also near. “Here is Song of Honore.”

Not just words—a song. For her.

His heat against her fingertips she also felt against her brow when he pressed his forehead to the screen.

“By honor bound, to seek the found,” he began, “here begins a tale, of raveling and traveling beyond the moonlit veil.”

Honore was transported from the dance before the fire to the night she answered Finwyn’s summons. And from out of the trees had come Elias in search of Hart.

“The arrow flies, the dagger plies, beware the mists of dream. A swing of rope, the snap of hope, the broken unredeemed.”

The sorrow that slowed and deepened his voice made her throat tighten as she also recalled Lettice in the cottage.

After a long silence she knew had naught to do with performance, he righted himself with a deep breath. “Look not behind, thou will not find, plucked petals without bruise. Moments in time, loss feeding rhyme, see what the Lord now strews.”

Hope and wonder infused those last words coming off his tongue with greater speed, as if amid the foul he found something lovely.

“So fair is she, humble beauty, the heart she doth provoke. Her eyes, her eyes, her lips deny what truth the blue hath spoke.”

At the realization she was the something lovely found, she gasped, “Elias!”

Pressing fingertips and brow more firmly to hers, he said, “Pray do not hide, be by his side, and breathe the air he breathes. And let him kiss what he shall miss, if heart he seeks to sheathe.”

Such beautiful words she had put to flame. Though naught could come of them, a fool she was. They did burn themselves into her heart, but more than pain her to her end days as the abbess warned, surely they would sustain her knowing this man felt enough for her it could be named love. And had she not destroyed the parchment, his words would have been with her forever, even if she grew so old she forgot them. When the ill of the world drew near, closer she could have clasped them.

“Do not weep, Honore,” Elias rasped, and she startled at the realization she did cry, and he had interrupted his tale to console her. “This ends well, I vow.”

Swallowing convulsively, she nodded against his brow.

“Forgive the fool who cast the jewel, sweet petals stay the stem. Bruise not, bruise not, that which is sought, come dance through life with him.”

Once more she found herself in the camp, savoring the sight and feel of Elias.

“Love lost now found, by Honore bound, one word is all it takes. Do trust the knave, his life to save, brave maiden he awakes.”

Struggling to contain further tears, she whispered, “Could I, I would dance through life with you.”

Once more leaving off his tale, he said, “One word. That is all it takes.”

He was wrong, for just as he had given his father his word, so had she—twice. If Elias could not keep his, she must keep hers or she would be responsible for the rift between father and son.

When she did not speak what he wished, he said with what seemed chagrin, “Dramatic me. I ought not have started with Song of Honore, but let us finish.” Then once more he gave volume to his voice. “Thy love doth slay, turns dark to day, here begins our tale. Of raveling and traveling. Dear Lord, pray bless us well.”

So much certainty amid finality. And more so when he said, “And there ends the first part of Song of Honore so the second may commence wherein smitten Sir Elias and fair Lady Honore wed.”

The title might be her due, but she would not claim it lest it expose her brother and sister to speculation over a secret best held close. Too, of what use when her life was with her foundlings?

“My sire told he required you have no contact with me,” Elias said, “in person or by way of missive.”

She had not expected Otto De Morville to reveal that. Lifting her brow and hand from the screen, missing the warmth of his, she sat back and looked into his glittering eyes. “He did. And after the injuries you sustained and that I am no match for the heir of Château des Trois Doigts, I cannot begrudge him.”

“You are my match, Honore. My only match.”

“Elias—”

“As told, I ought not have started with Song of Honore.” He cleared his throat. “You know the missive I entrusted to the abbess was of two parchments?”

“That I saw.”

“And now you know how the second read. What you do not know is what was told in the first.”

“Elias, though I am much moved you would break with your sire to be with me, and I do wish to be with you, we have promises to keep. Thus, I cannot be part of your tale.”

“Honore—” he began, then growled, “This is absurd.” He stood, and when he turned away, her heartache surged. Just as when her deception had been uncovered at Château des Trois Doigts, this encounter also ended with anger. No touch of hands, no sweet words, no fond farewell, no look behind.

She lowered her chin, whispered, “I love you. That truth the blue hath spoke.”

The door was flung open, and she snapped up her chin as Elias dropped to a knee on the threshold. “This is too important for there to be anything between us. Give me your hand.” At her hesitation, he said, “Pray, trust me.”

Slowly, she raised her right.

“Your left.”

She gave it to him and trembled when he took it in his own, slid a thumb across her knuckles, and straightened her fingers.

“If you wish to dance through life with me, once the banns are read, here this shall be evermore.” Onto her finger he slid a band of silver in which was set a sapphire. “Though my sire will not rejoice as much as I, he shall be glad his son and heir has someone to love through the ages.”

She looked up. “You truly believe he will accept me now it is known I am legitimate and full noble?”

“Already he accepts you. As written on the first parchment, he has given me leave to wed where I will, fully aware it is you I shall take to wife.”

She blinked. “But why would he allow it?”

“His young wife is wiser—and more persuasive—than thought, he is more fond of this knave than believed, and he likes you more than he will say.” He smiled, raised his eyebrows. “One word. That is all it takes, brave maiden.”

“Elias,” she choked and came off the bench and landed against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her. “Not the word I was looking for, but it will do.”

For minutes neither spoke, then Honore dropped her head back. “I wish I had not burned the parchments.”

“For what do you need the written word when you shall have them spoken to you any time you wish?”

“You are right, but… When you and I are done with our raveling and traveling in this world, such beauty ought not be lost—especially to our children does the Lord so bless us.”

“Then I shall write them for you again.”

She smiled. “I love thee, Elias De Morville.”

“So the blue hath spoke, but I like it better come off your lips.” He lowered his head, breathed into her, “I love thee, my humble beauty.”