Page 12 of The Prince or the Bard?
Well. She's Prince Ruairí's problem now.
On the ship, the prince—who of course had to come with us—supped with her every night. It's not as though she kept her interest in him any secret. Even he cannot be that oblivious.
And good riddance. I had no need for his attentions, or to put up with his sulky glances my way at the rare dinners Fiadh has been able to attend. Especially with Cillian gone—stillgone, with nary a word—Oh, but don't think of that now! You have the sea before you, and your troubles at the castle behind you.
Yet as I make my way down the beach, breathing in the sea air, a single glance at the line of struggling courtiers is enoughto sour my mood. I have the feeling my troubles have come right along with me.
I vow it then and there: The very moment I can, I'm going to get my royal cousin away from these people. I'll whisk her away to the one place none of them can follow.
Into the sea.
The day after wearrive, Fiadh's parents come to visit from the next town over, a few miles inland from here.
I wish I could say it raises her spirits.
It’s clear Fiadh's family is uneasy with the courtly trappings around her. Every wall of the rented house, which once belonged to her other grandparents and has clearly seen better times, is hung with tapestries, to "keep the chill of the sea air at bay," at the traveling physician's urging.
As if that isn't what we've come here for.
The entire time Fiadh's parents visit with her, they never once sit still, using the excuse of this once being a family home to look everywhere but at the high queen. They look petrified that they'll say or do something wrong. And I can't blame them. Even more than at court, there seemed to be scrutinizing eyes everywhere.
And in Fiadh's, there is sadness. Sure, I'm no queen, but if I went back to Diarmuid's Row tomorrow, I'd settle back into my old life as if I never left it. But now, with royal porcelain from the far east courts, and the bricks of tea leaves—enchanted to preserve their flavor, but just barely—broken into cups, andher still-fine gowns despite her dressing more demurely for the setting, she looks out of place.
I'd hazard she feels it, too.
And I feel sorry for her then, my royal cousin. She didn't ask for this. Swept up in a fairytale, courted by the high king himself, she couldn't have ever thought her new life would make her old one this ill-fitting.
Her parents can see it; I can tell from their nervousness, and the shifting of their eyes, and the way they never fall into easy, comfortable talk with her.
There's no way Fiadh doesn't notice it, too.
Chapter Eight
When the door closesbehind her parents and they begin their hasty retreat down the slate walkway to the house, Fiadh lets out a heavy sigh. Her eyes are the lusterless brown of brined seaweed left for days on the beach. "Sit with me, Laoise," she says, and it almost doesn't sound like a command.
I do as she bids me, taking the seat across from her. I can tell she is waiting for something, so I search for something to say, something meaningful to soothe her after the crushing disappointment of her own family's treatment.
Of course, I find nothing. What can I possibly say? Family means a great deal to púcaí. Even though she has a bit less of it than most, she surely feels its loss.
For once, in my months of service and despite the misery of my parting with Cillian Cloudtongue, I'm glad to be here as her maid. Almost glad enough to reach across the table and offer her hand a reassuring pat, or even to hold it.
I don't do either of those things. It just isn't my way. I hope she senses my sincerity all the same.
After a minute more of pure silence but for the clinking of dishes being taken away, her eyes find mine, searching. And that's when I know.
She's waiting for the staff to leave.
Until the last of the serving staff disappear into the kitchen, she remains quiet, her eyes brighter than they've been in weeks. The kitchen lies in the back, set up reasonably well for nobility, though it is only the house of the town mayor and her family these days. Once they're all away, there ought to be enough distance for the queen to speak privately.
Personally, I think it strange, there being such a setup, and quarters for servants, in a púca town. But this house was volunteered by the mayor herself, and I have the sneaking suspicion the modest upper rooms were meant for children and not for maids.
Even without the royal trappings unloaded from the ship, it's clear this town went to some effort to make their homes look suitable for a visit from the high court. Yet I hear nothing but complaints among the courtiers, about sand, about the hardness of beds, about quaint houses they whisper about, calling them "stables."
If it wouldn't shame Queen Fiadh, I'd like to slap every one of them. Or perhaps to shift into my púca form and kick them with my rear hooves.
"Laoise," my royal cousin says at last, "I find my home court much changed. Changed in how they see me. Even this house, that I remember so clearly from when I was a young girl, is no longer the same. Everything is very small now, and all shuttered to me. As if I was never from here at all."
"I know, ma'am." I swallow, my gaze drifting to the table. "I'm sorry for it."
