Page 77 of Beacon

“I’m remiss to disturb your morning, but I’m left with no choice. Despite my generous offer to pay for you to step aside and allow the union between my daughter and Prince Owen to go forward as planned, you’ve insisted on staying.”

I frowned. I didn’t understand why she was bringing this up with me rather than Owen himself; her doing so negated Owen’s ability to speak up on his own behalf.

“I can’t comprehend the reason for your refusal,” she continued, frustration creeping into her voice despite her obvious efforts to remain poised. “As a common girl you’d be much happier with a husband from your own world whereas Prince Owen would be more suited with a woman from his royal world who can fulfill the role that marrying him would require of her. Surely you must understand this.”

I sighed, just as frustrated by our impasse as she seemed to be. What she didn’t understand was that whatever world I inhabited—whether a royal one or the most simple of circumstances—would be absent without the love I’d discovered with the prince. Our understanding had developed not from a shared background but from hours of patient conversation as we’d both learned one another’s language word by word.

The words to express this burned on my tongue, yearning to be of service—yet the all too familiar fear held them back. Now that my voice had returned there were so many things I ached to express…but try as I might, I couldn’t say any of them. The guilt I felt at my inability to help the Lycerian Queen pushed the words further down my throat too far away to snatch them back.

The queen was right: as a common lighthouse keeper’s daughter I had no business associating with the prince, but that didn’t change the fact that our fake relationship had grown into friendship and eventually, for me, developed into the sweetest love, and no amount of her spoken wishes could ever change that.

But which words were more powerful—hers, or my own that would convey these tender feelings?

I wished that I could express to her my internal struggle, but she didn’t give me enough time to find the words that would adequately convey my feelings while acknowledging her own dilemma. After only a few moments she stood with a disappointed sigh and departed.

It was only a moment later that Owen found me sitting at my favorite balcony overlooking the ocean. His smile in greeting seemed brighter than usual, as if the memory of the evening before only enhanced the pleasure he already found in such a beautiful day.

“Good morning, Marisa.”

I ached to return the greeting—his name was on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to be spoken—but whatever bravery that had allowed me to finally breach my silence seemed entirely absent today. Some courage might have survived the night, but it had been snatched by my frustrating encounter with the Lycerian Queen, leaving nothing to penetrate the wall once more heavily guarding my words. His look was expectant as he waited to hear his name…but as much as I yearned to speak it, I couldn’t.

I didn’t understand why my voice had retreated so quickly. Perhaps the night had acted as a shield for my usual fears, granting me the bravery needed to speak again. But that protection had vanished with the dawn, as if the cheerful golden light illuminated all the vulnerabilities that had caused me to lock my voice away in the first place.

Owen glanced towards the door where the queen had departed. “What did she speak to you about? Was it about my arrangement with Princess Lavena?”

I nodded helplessly but offered nothing more, not even through my usual signs. My unusual silence was enough to alert Owen that something deeper was wrong. He settled in the seat beside me, his expression all gentleness.

“Marisa?”

He waited a moment, a silent invitation for me to speak should I desire it. I struggled to push past my fears to say his name, yet despite my best efforts, no words escaped. With a sigh I snapped my mouth shut and lowered my eyes.

Although he was undoubtedly disappointed, he remained understanding. “It’s alright, you don’t have to speak.” He rested a gentle hand over mine bunched in my lap, encouraging me to relax…but the feel of his touch had the opposite effect, causing my heart to flutter to life.

I yearned to explain how desperate I was to speak to him and to hear his ideas about why something I’d managed to do yesterday felt so impossible now. Once more I felt the full implications of my limited communication, more unbearable now that I’d been gradually overcoming it.

I peeked up to find Owen’s kind blue gaze fixed on me. Heat warmed my cheeks and I hastily looked away—only for my gaze to yank back up when he suddenly stood and left without a word.

My heart twisted as I stared after him. Was he upset I couldn’t talk to him? Hurt warred with my disappointment, but I didn’t have time to dwell on either of these emotions weighing heavily upon my heart when he suddenly returned and handed me the slate we’d been using during our reading lessons.

For a moment I could only stare at it before lifting my astonished gaze. How had he known about the silent war raging within me as I fought to find a way to share my burden with him? Even without words, he’d not only somehow sensed it but had heeded the request that I’d had no words to make.

The memory of Princess Seren’s words from the day Prince Ronan had attended to her own silent desires returned, along with her tender expression as she lovingly stroked the reports her husband had brought her:I didn’t even need to say anything.

Those words had remained with me long after they’d been spoken. To think one could know someone so deeply that communication proved unnecessary…and now Owen had done the same thing, granting my heartfelt wish even without my needing to say anything.

How had he understood? Unlike the princess’s relationship with Prince Ronan, Owen wasn’t my husband, but instead…well, I wasn’t entirely certainwhatwe were. Friends certainly, as well as comrades working towards a common goal. And yet also so much more.

I accepted the slate but was too touched to immediately use it. I simply stared at it and stroked its frame with my thumb, all while a swell of tender emotions worked on my heart.

I startled when Owen’s fingertip gently brushed across the furrow marring my brow. “What are you thinking so intently about?”

I ached to share myself with him, a desire that grew with each passing day. But though my spoken words currently remained trapped, I now had another means to fulfill this wish. I took up the slate and carefully formed each word, ones I was certain were spelled wrong but I hoped would be enough to convey a semblance of my thoughts.

How you know?

Owen’s brow furrowed. “How did I know what?”

I tapped the slate before pointing to myself. His confusion cleared and he brightened.

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