Lora of Two Worlds

The two needles Lora was about to set mattered enormously. She didn't say so, but Norton knew it.

Norton had been unlucky, and lucky.

On a snowy night in his infancy, the wet nurse holding him had been stabbed to death. Because he was deaf and mute, the one-year-old hadn't cried. He'd lain quiet in her arms, and so the killers passed him by.

By sheer chance, Coltrain and a column of the Odenheim household men-at-arms had been passing on the road. Coltrain had glanced at the carriage tipped into the ditch, and that one glance had saved the boy.

When they brought him to House Odenheim, the Countess had just given birth to Lora. The whole family doted on the little poppet, wet nurses and maidservants clustered around her in a flock.

Norton, a year older than Lora and a year younger than Carl, had been a quiet baby. He'd fallen right into that circle of feminine affection.

If not for his deafness, Coltrain would have taken him in properly, he'd have grown up the Count's godson, a sixth son of House Odenheim.

Fate was a crooked turn of the road.

When Norton was six or seven, he'd gone missing once. When he came back, he couldn't explain clearly, two tall men had taken him, and once they'd confirmed he was deaf and mute, they'd sent him back.

In House Odenheim, the family was kind. Norton was happy. Even Master Weber's petty cruelties hadn't struck him as anything much.

Now he sat with his eyes closed, head tilted slightly forward, the nape of his hairline exposed.

The young lady's warm fingers rested on the pressure point at the nape, a point that demanded precision. The slightest error could harm the patient.

Lora pressed her lips tight. She didn't blink. First she felt for the point with her fingertip. Then she placed the Rose Needle on it.

The Rose Needle raised no objection. It followed her hand, sliding in a fifth of an inch, no more. She held it for a few breaths and withdrew it.

Next came the point before the ear. Two points needled, and behind Norton's closed eyes, he seemed to hear a faint pop.

Lora leaned close to his ear and called:

"Try to make a sound!"

He couldn't hear it clearly, but he knew he'd heard her voice. Muffled, dim, and yet it filled him with a soft, joyful warmth.

He turned to look at her. Her face was all encouragement, smiling, gesturing and speaking at once: "Say 'Papa' with me!"

He had a godfather, naturally, that was the first word to learn.

Norton mouthed the shape, timidly. No sound came. Margaret and Lucy, watching from the side, deflated:

Two needles and he'd talk? Besides, when had the young lady learned the needling craft? They'd had no idea.

But Lora hadn't given up. The first needle was about waking a long-dormant instrument. More importantly, it was about building his confidence. That was the root of the cure.

"Say it out loud. Next time you see your godfather, if you can call him 'Papa' to his face, think how happy he'll be."

Norton steadied himself. Swallowed. Opened his mouth, nothing. Lora feigned anger. She packed up the needles and turned to leave:

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from NovelPhoenix. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Can't say it, can't treat it. Margaret, we're going."

"Papa!"

Norton lunged after her, and the word that had been rolling in his throat finally broke free: "Papa!"

Margaret clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing: "The young lady can't even be your mother, how's she going to be your father?"

Watching Norton's jubilant fluster, even Keane, up in the tree, couldn't help laughing: Who would have thought it? The young lady, touched by the Light? A mute, speaking!

"Nobody outside this court can know, not for a month. Once Norton can put a full sentence together, we'll call Coltrain back and give him a surprise."

Norton's face flushed crimson with excitement. He darted inside, grabbed the leather needle-roll from the table, and thrust it into Lora's hands. He couldn't wait for the next session.

The tower chamber came alive with a joyful secret. Everyone who passed Norton treated him the way you'd treat a child learning to talk:

"Norton, this is a broom. Say it with me: broom!"

"Norton, these are shears. Shears!"

After only two days of needling, his ears could pick up all sorts of sounds. True, he heard like a hard-of-hearing old granny, but compared to the silence he'd lived in before, it was dazzling.

On the other side of the wall, Lyle was the first to notice that something was off next door.

"My lord, you were absolutely right!"

"About what?"

"You said the little mute next door was odd, shouldn't be left beside the young lady. Did you ever tell Lord Roland?"

"Forgot."

"How could you forget something that important? The last couple of days, he's been fawned over by the whole household over there, everyone shouting at him like, I swear he's learning to talk!"

Lyle, seeing Leon still reading without taking the bait, lowered his voice:

"Just now... I nearly got into a fight with the covert guard next door."

That made Leon look up. He set the book down: "Why on earth would you fight their guard?"

"I just wanted to get close and see if the little mute had actually been cured. That guard came out and blocked me "

Leon picked the book back up, but his eyes weren't on the page. He asked, idly:

"And they stopped you?"

"Of course not! The two of them together couldn't match me at arms. But, I couldn't go jumping over walls. That dog of theirs, Chance, fights with no honor."

"Bring a meat-filled bread roll next time."

"Right!"

Leon said nothing more. But in his mind's eye he saw that bright, clever little cousin.

Roland had told him: on the night of the great fire, she'd sent people to warn him, don't be fooled by the south-side fires, hold the Crown Granary, whatever you do don't open the gates.

Later, they'd intercepted several hundred men outside the walls.

The men had claimed to be Yorvik refugees, no weapons, no insignia, so they'd been sent back to the March of Yorvik. Only Leon, with his memories of a former life and his knowledge of a rejected officer's grudge, had guessed they were marcher troops in disguise.

But how had his little cousin known?

This girl understood strategy?

He was still staring at his book when Captain Green came in: "My lord, the new house is fully refurbished. When would you like to inspect it? If all's well, you can pick a day to move."

"No rush. Go tell them to plant the gardens, jasmine and paeony for spring, rose and hollyhock for summer, marigold and mallow for autumn, winter jasmine and red rose for winter. Hannah grove, lily pond, pomegranate, not one of them missing.

"Linn's already gone to the hiring fair to pick out bonded servants. They'll need training before they're any use, you expect me to live among untrained staff?"

Leon made it sound perfectly reasonable. He was of royal blood, building a fortune was hard; spending one, anyone could do.

When he'd left Augustburg, the King hadn't granted him a household guard quota. But there was no limit on servants. A barony was an empty title, no real domain. His income was a royal annuity and benefice lands.

Though a baron of the same rank drew more in Lohenheim than in Augustburg, perhaps because in Augustburg you had more chances of seeing the King and receiving his bounty.

Linn had set out early that morning.

The lord had told him to take his time, visit every hiring fair in the area. Green had assigned two men to go with him: Armand, who'd caused the trouble with Grace Venn's gown, and Claude Sheffield, the man Green could least stand.

This Claude Sheffield had been dumped in Lohenheim by Valentin Voss.

Three years ago, he'd been the King's own tourney champion, a commoner of humble birth, but with a head full of strategy and skill at arms to match. He'd wanted nothing but to serve on the frontier and die for the crown.

But the King had wanted to cultivate military men at court. Claude Sheffield became a pawn in the game between the King and Voss.

The pawn, alas, was solid through and through. He had no idea what it cost to cross the royal chamberlains.

So when Voss picked ten men to go with Green and keep an eye on Leon, his hand had "slipped", and picked the tourney champion. He'd also ordered that no more royal tournaments would be held, lest the King get ideas:

"Some clay will never hold a shape. Since he's gone to Lohenheim, let him stay. No need for him to come back and clutter up the King's sight."

If he wasn't coming back, he wasn't one of them. So, give him the work.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!