Once more her nature had betrayed her.
Joan had thought her and her human husband would search for the spread, but once out and into the bailey she was reminded once again that animals knew too well what she was.
Past the fountain and bakehouse stood the stables where mounts, at her approach, started to thrash in their stalls. And even when they calmed, for her to just approach her hand to one would cause its renewed panic.
They would not let a beast on their back.
Corentin was already on his saddle, waiting for her and losing patience.
"Do you intend to follow me on foot? With those boots and that skirt?"
She grunted and stepped back, humiliated. He smirked and turned his horse around.
"Enjoy our keep then. It is as far as you will go. Who knows, you can always convince father to spend some time with you!"
He hit the flanks and trotted toward the gate, leaving her fuming.
It wasn't just the horses. There was no lack of life around, hens, cats, some cows and goats and a pen of pigs that she approached until they noticed her and made a ruckus.
The drizzle had all but stopped.
There she stood, while guards and servants, craftsmen and villagers went about around her, all busy with a thousand tasks. In that sea of life Joan might as well not have existed.
Of course, there was no lack of eyes on her, people who wondered who this beauty was but just a glance from her had even the bravest turn away.
She returned straight to the guest room, furious.
There, in the silence and quiet the werewolf considered why the cursed man had not manifested. At best he had just died of his wounds after all; at worst some force was hiding the curse from her as it spread. But she considered a third option.
The victim was new, wounded and the moon weak. Even then, she could not really believe a human to keep her cursed blood at bay. A man, beating the beast through sheer will? But if that was the case, then tomorrow without fail he would succumb for certain.
Either way, that gave her the whole day to wait.
First she abandoned the clothes that slight rain had touched. In the chest was still the scarlet dress from yesterday, with its black surcoat. She laced it herself, closed the belt and remembered how the brothers had looked at her in this attire.
Certainly this dress was a little less shy, or they would not have ordered her to change it, and she noticed some dry blood remained on the skirt, gone unnoticed during the night.
And so, without a care to give she went looking for lady Mirabelle.
The lord's wife had not moved from where she first saw her, hunched on her spinning wheel in the corner of what was, she now understood it, the lords' bedroom.
The lady turned her head at this intrusion, seemed worried a moment before a stern, annoyed look washed over it.
"They let you loose I see."
And she returned to her labor.
Joan approached and knelt.
"Milady, I would request an audience with you."
"You are already in my room, do as you please."
"I have asked your sons, I have asked their mistresses, I only have you to turn to. Milady, teach me about love."
The woman in front of her didn't even twitch, but simply focused on the thread rolling slowly, endlessly.
"Milady," Joan insisted, "I have become your son's wife. If only for his sake, won't you share that secret with me?"
She might as well have addressed the wall itself.
It irked her, to be so ignored. Her pride yelled to lash out, to leave and she kept thinking how good it had been to be in the lord's company. There was an undeniable desire to seek him, which was why she had sought her.
How could his wife, she wondered, hide in that corner willingly?
Out of tricks, Joan went on both knees and put her head on the floor.
"I beg you, help me."
Only then did the wheel stop, but Joan would not budge. She could almost feel that woman's eyes on her now. At any moment they could turn away and so, she just waited.
"Love..." The lord's wife mocked. "There is no love to be found in this castle. I don't think there is any left in the realm. Only mud and sweat."
"Even so, you are not heartless like me! If you were you would seek his lordship's presence, not seek to distance yourself!"
She heard the woman get up from her station, pace toward her and crouch. An old, used hand forced her chin up.
"What game are you playing, I wonder... Suit yourself, let us see how much love you can feign."
She got up and gestured for Joan to do the same. Then, she walked to a window and hid her face, even though the day was tame.
"I heard you could tell my sons apart. How do you do that?"
"Abelard is the leader," she dutifully answered, "he is directs, gives orders and says 'me'. Corentin follows him: he is evasive, gives observations and says 'us'. Abelard's eyes are a hook that doesn't let go; Corentin's are always fleeting."
"How observant of you." She smirked, her back to Joan. "But that lacks heart. Tell me about their feelings."
"Their feelings? Abelard tends to be more ill-tempered..."
"No, no."
And she turned to face her with renewed annoyance.
"Let's begin with empathy. Find out how my sons feel, this will be your first lesson. If you can't do that, just carry heirs in silence."
"So love is based on empathy?"
The mere thought of that made the lord's wife sincerely laugh.
"Of course not! Love is the most selfish feeling you will ever experience. Now do as I say."
They separated soon after, with Joan closing the door and walking back to her room. She did not even understand the task and would not question it; knowing nothing about love, anything was worth trying.
At its simplest it meant being more perceptive, nothing else.
But come noon she still struggled. Or rather, she had answers, too many of them without knowing which one to pick. People felt many things and changed mood all the time.
Abelard came to escort her to the great hall. The lord would be absent, as would Corentin. She sat with the servants and ate in silence, after which the twin offered her a lute.
"Learn to play it. It will keep you busy if nothing else."
Joan picked the instrument, not knowing how to hold it at first. She plucked a chord, another and one more before her hand followed the tone of the rain to bring out a melody. Slow and timid at first, quick and harsh once her fingers had grown confident.
They were astounded.
"Slower." The noble noted. "Or it's just noise."
This was how he kept control, she noted, but he had not expected her to learn so quickly. She had not expected that crude instrument to work that well. It was old, a bit broken, something to do with the strings.
She stopped and mused aloud.
"I would prefer a flute. But if it can please my husband, I will master this instrument."