Cameron To Candy

The mare’s breath came in little white ropes in the evening chill. Leather creaked, the small family carriage shook itself awake, and Marcus tightened the traces one more notch to stop the rattle. They had stopped hiring rides to save coin. Tonight, the old box would earn its keep for the first time in months.

Candy climbed in and smoothed a seat cushion that had lost the fight with time years ago. The lantern on the dash made a small lake of light, enough to find the road, but not enough for her liking. Marcus set the brake, swung up, and took the reins.

“It’s on the far side of the city, past the statue of Disciplinus,“ he said with a steadying tone, like listing landmarks could shrink the night. “Just over two hills, one pass, the little stone bridge, then we are on Trevain’s lane.”

“Perfect,” Candy said. “Plenty of time to rehearse how to be a pot with a smile drawn on.”

He clicked to Hearthwind, his old mare. The wheels began to turn and found their rhythm, hooves ringing sharp on the cobbles before softening as the road gave way to dirt. Candy’s gaze slipped to Marcus’s hands, steady on the reins. She wondered if he hadn’t asked if she wanted to drive because it was his horse, or because he was the man. Either way, her own small, soft hands were folded uselessly in her lap.

“All right, rules,” he said. “Speak only when spoken to. Give short, polite answers, no jokes unless he makes one first, and even then, keep it small.”

“Define small.”

“If he says he is training his dog and his wife, and the dog is learning faster, you can say the dog sounds very clever.”

“That’s not small. That's microscopic.”

“Microscopic is ideal here.”

They rolled past a hedge that looked like it cost more to maintain it than a week of Marcus' pay. The road narrowed into the pass. Candy pulled her cloak closer as the lantern brushed the rock walls, shadows crawling with each sway of the box. The mare’s ears flicked forward and back, measuring the dark.

“If his wife taps you to come into the kitchen,” Marcus said, “do not actually touch any food.”

“I am thrilled to comply.”

“Offer to carry plates, pour water, fetch napkins, compliment the crust on the pie. Anything safe.”

“And if she says, 'Please chop these onions?'”

“You are, tragically, allergic to onions… and knives.”

Candy burst out laughing despite herself. “Noted.”

Marcus loosened one hand from the reins to count on his fingers. “Default face, pleasant. Keep your eyes on the speaker. If he pats your head and you have trouble keeping a calm face, you can pretend you thought he was reaching for your hairpin, lightly adjust it, tiny smile, then redirect to something harmless. Weather works. Dogs work. Avoid wives.”

“If he calls me girl?”

“You answer 'yes, sir, ' then you pass the ball back. Would you like more tea? That sort of thing.”

“Do I curtsy?”

“Only at the door and at the table when you take your seat. No curtsying for jokes.”

“Even if they demand it?”

“They won't demand it.”

“They could.”

“Oh, haha,” he responded dryly but with a smirk. “No, but seriously no curtseying for jokes.”

She huffed, then watched the mare’s ears flick again, lantern light catching the steam off her shoulders. The pass pinched tight, stone close enough to scrape the box. Marcus kept his eyes on the track.

“Do you answer for me,” Candy asked, fighting a sense of disgust, “if he asks me what I think of something?”

“If he asks you directly, you answer. You agree with the last thing he said or you admire his insight. If he says women talk too much, you say, I try not to.”

“And if he says, women are not as intelligent?”

“You say that is interesting, then you ask a question about his business. Men love answering questions about themselves.”

Candy made a face at the darkness. “You've done this before.”

“Ha, yeah. Too many times. It’ll be the first time with a wife though, so that'll be different. But I've seen my parents do it plenty of times. My mom can really work a room. Anyway, tonight, we put in the annoying extras that get jobs.”

Candy pondered that, then looked at him in profile. “You are worried about the cut.”

“If he notices, I’ll say my hand slipped because my wife called for help. He’ll enjoy that sentence way more than I do.”

The harness jingled. Hooves drummed steadily against stone, echoing off the pass walls. A wheel clattered in a rut, jolting them, then steadied again.

Silence, then Marcus said, almost casually, “Why do you care, really?”

“About what?”

“The woman part. The general statements. He says women this, women that, but it doesn’t really apply to you. You know that. You’re not really a woman. You have male bits and were pushed into this role by law. If we were in Cleavendale, you could be walking around as Cameron, and no one would pause. I mean, aside from the, well, you know.”

Candy watched the lantern throw its shadow against the rock, two long figures jostled by the road. Her first reply came hot and useless, so she swallowed it and picked one that would not get them both in trouble.

“It sticks to me in that room,” she said. “Whatever I am, I’m the one he’ll aim it at.”

Marcus nodded once. “Fair.”

“And also,” she added, quieter, “it is wrong even if it didn’t land on me. But mostly it’s the landing on me thing.”

“Fair again.” He breathed out, a little fog in the cold. “We will get through it.”

“We will,” she said. “With microscopic dog compliments.”

“Exactly.”

A fox cut across the track, a flash of pale under the hedge. Its brush tail caught the lantern-light like copper thread before vanishing. The mare flicked an ear and kept on. The pass opened to a stretch of meadow that would be gorgeous as spring advanced. A farmhouse lantern winked far off, then was gone behind a stand of black trees.

“Test me if you're worried,” Candy said. “Go ahead, throw something at me.”

“All right,” Marcus said. He put a bit of Trevain’s drawl into his voice. “Girl, will you bring my pipe?”

“Yes, sir,” Candy said sweetly. “Would you like tea as well?”

“Good. Now, girl, do you cook?”

“I am learning,” she said, keeping her face neutral. “Your table looks wonderful.”

“Girl, do you have thoughts on politics?”

“Only what my husband tells me,” she said. “What do you think of the new tariffs, my lord?”

“Girl, you speak too much.”

“Apologies, sir. I try not to,” she said, and stared at him until his mouth twitched and he let the game drop.

“Good,” he said, actual warmth now. “And if he makes a joke about his wife again?”

“The dog sounds very clever,” Candy said, deadpan. “Also, I hope the dog bites him.”

“Inside voice for the second part,” he said.

“Inside voice,” she agreed.

The stone bridge appeared, low and practical, the sort of thing that looks like it has always existed. The mare’s hooves rang sharply, doubled by the echo underneath, before the road began to climb.

“One more,” Marcus said. “If his wife, in the kitchen, says, you stir while I check the roast.”

Candy lifted her hands like a surgeon about to scrub. “I am honored, but I would ruin your beautiful meal. Let me fetch the gravy boat.”

“Perfect.”

“And if he pats my head.” She mimed adjusting a hairpin, smiled a fraction, then looked out at the trees. “The weather is crisp tonight,” she said to the air. “Do your hounds like the cold?”

Marcus smiled into the dark. “Very good.”

They turned beneath the pines. Up ahead, a house glowed in squares, cheerful and sharp at the same time. The mare tossed her head once, as if to say, this again. The smell of pine came sharper in the chill, resin and damp needles, as Marcus eased her down to a patient walk.

“Three hours,” he said softly.

“Tea, plates, weather, dogs,” Candy said. “No onions, no knives, no opinions unless asked.”

“And if asked,” he said, “admire his brilliance, then ask him about himself.”

She rolled her shoulders, settling the costume on her bones. “Let us go be perfectly, perfectly boring and obedient.”

“For coin,” he said.

"For coin," she agreed, the words settling heavier than the carriage wheels as Hearthwind bore them toward Trevain’s door.