Elodie of the Sea

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “One word at a time.” Archer slaps me on the back and turns to Pippa. “Are you ready?”

  They excuse themselves, promising they’ll see me tonight, and head toward their horses. The pair of mares are currently nibbling tufts of grass that grow just beyond the shore.

  I raise a hand in goodbye as they ride back toward Saltwreath. Once I’m alone, I turn toward the cottage with a fair amount of trepidation.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Elodie

  It’s the look on Bran’s face that makes me nervous. His eyes are troubled, and there’s an edginess to his movements. I watch him, still wrapped in the blankets, fearing the worst.

  “We need to talk,” he says, turning toward the hearth. Bran didn’t have a chance to light the fire this morning, and yesterday’s coals are gray and lifeless. His shoulders slump as he stares at them. He looks like a man defeated.

  Whatever it is he wants to tell me, it’s not going to be good.

  “I haven’t been completely honest with you.” He finally turns, and his eyes meet mine. His gaze is earnest, tempered with trepidation. “I’m not a sailor.”

  I pull my legs to my chin and loop my arms around them, hugging myself. I only nod, not sure what to say.

  Shadows play over his face, but then he hardens his expression and closes the distance between us, eating the space with several long strides. Once he reaches me, he kneels at my side.

  “I came to the sea cottage because I needed time,” he begins. “Time away from people, time to hear myself think. My life—it’s chaotic and tiring, and it’s about to get much worse.”

  I swallow and rub my hands together. They were freezing before, but they’re much colder now.

  Bran’s eyes drop to my hands, and he begins to stand. “I should start a fire—”

  I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. Softly, I command, “Finish your story.”

  He pauses, unsure, and then nods once as he lowers himself yet again. “There’s no simple way to explain this.”

  “Then just spit it out.”

  A flicker of a smile passes over his lips, but it’s quickly snuffed out by worry. “I am the crown prince of Triblue.”

  It takes several moments for the words to soak in, but when they do, I move closer to the wall. “If that’s your idea of a joke, it wasn’t amusing in the least.”

  “Elle,” he says, reaching for me.

  I shift away, silently warning him to keep his distance. He winces as if slapped.

  My mind wanders to what the red-haired woman said—that I was well enough to join them for the coronation eve feast.

  Putting the pieces together—the way his clothes smell of expensive oils, how fine my new dress is, even the cultured way he speaks.

  He’s not who I thought he was at all.

  “You lied to me,” I whisper.

  Bran shakes his head, leaning closer but keeping his hands clasped at his waist. “I didn’t—but I let you assume a falsehood, and that was wrong.”

  “Why?” I demand.

  He looks hesitant, as if answering is painful. Finally, he sits back on his heels, his eyes locked on mine. “Because you’re the only person I’ve met in the last few years who looks at me and doesn’t see a crown.”

  The man is either an excellent liar, or he’s telling the truth. But the truth is almost worse because it means this gentle man, the man who pulled me from the sea and cared for me when I was too ill to take care of myself, has a whole life waiting for him.

  A life that in no way could involve me.

  “I take it you’re leaving now.” I glance around the cottage, wondering where I’ll go. My stomach feels hollow.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  I scoff under my breath. “You’re going to take the girl who washed ashore back to your castle?”

  He shifts, his expression easing. Apparently, my irritation settles better than my sadness. “You’re not staying here, not alone. Even if I left you, Pippa would come back and nag you until you relented.”

  I don’t want to ask, not really. But I find the question on my tongue, demanding to be set free.

  “Who is she?” I look at my hands, reprimanding myself. Surely if they were together, she wouldn’t have been pleased to find him holed up in this shack with me for a week.

  “She’s Lady Pippa of Errinton—a princess of Lauramore.”

  A princess.

  As if reading my thoughts, Bran nudges my shoulder. “And married to one of my good friends.”

  Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet his. He watches me, his brown eyes shielded.

  “Your coronation is tomorrow?” I finally ask.

  He sets his hand next to mine. If any closer, our fingers would brush. “Yes.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No.” The way he voices the word makes me pull my attention from our hands to his face.

  His eyes briefly drop to my lips before they meet my gaze again. It happens so quickly, I might have imagined it.

  And if I did, I should stop. What is wrong with me?

  “But I am awash in a sea of guilt because I would rather stay here in this cottage than wear the crown.”

  My stomach flutters like yesterday, and my skin tingles as if it’s been asleep for years, and now it’s finally awake.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says softly. “And I cannot make you come with me, but I truly hope you will.”

  I think about it, knowing I have little choice. Where else would I go? Until my memory returns, I’m all but stranded here.

  He meets my eyes. “Please.”

  Slowly, I nod. The concern falls from his face, and the tension eases from his shoulders.

  Bran is quiet for several moments, and then he lifts his hand, taking it from its resting spot next to mine, and taps a finger on my ring.

  “Though it may not feel like it now,” he says, his voice rough, “someone out there loves you. I’ll help you find your family. I swear it.”

  I have the most inexplicable urge to throw the ring across the cottage. It vexes me, taunts me with what I don’t remember.

  “It’s going to be a long day,” he says when I don’t answer, pulling himself up to his feet. Then he offers me his hand. “We should be on our way.”

  “To the castle?” I ask, pushing away the confusing emotions.

  Bran rolls his head, stretching his neck, perhaps steeling himself for the inevitable. “To the castle.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bran

  Adjusting my doublet, my mind churning with far too many worries, I stride down the hall that leads to the private living area off my main chamber. Before I’m even through the door, I hear Pippa’s bright laughter and an assortment of chatter.

  As soon as I walk through the door, a dozen familiar faces look my way. Irving, King of Primewood, raises a chalice in my direction. “The man of the hour.”

  “I see you decided to finally grace us with your presence,” I say, grinning as I cross the room. I don’t see my old friend nearly often enough, though we used to be close. It’s difficult now that he’s king.

  Dristan and I traveled to his coronation last year. Rosie stayed in Triblue, using Belle as an excuse, even though Anwen and Marigold were there, and she loves the two dearly.

  Irving and I share a quick embrace. When I step back, I look up at him—which is odd. We’ve always been nearly the same height.

  “Are you taller?” I ask.

  Grinning like I’ve lost my mind—which pleases him greatly—Irving gives me an incredulous look. “The stress is wearing on you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “I swear you’ve shot up four inches.” I smack his shoulder with the back of my hand. “And what’s this?”

  He’s more muscular as well.

  Laughing, he shakes his head like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “What do they put in the water in Brookraven?” I turn, directing the question at Irving’s wife. The tiny kingdom she
hails from is known for their knights of heroic proportions, and apparently, Irving has somehow managed to join their ranks.

  Audette only laughs, just like her husband, but she gives me no answer.

  Brushing it off, I turn back to Irving. “How has Primewood possibly spared you?”

  He puts on a mock-baffled face. “You know, it’s the strangest thing, but my lords and advisors were eager to give me a holiday. Perhaps they think I’m overworked?”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  The rest of the group laughs at Irving’s expense, and I turn to greet the rest of my guests.

  It’s a fantastic thing, having this group all gathered in one room, someone from nearly every kingdom in Elden.

  Audette’s cousin Javid sits next to Grace, his wife. With Irving and Audette, they represent Primewood, Brookraven, and the island kingdom of Ptarma.

  Irving’s half-sister Marigold and Teagan, her husband, sit next to them, representing Glendon along with Anwen and Galinor, who are across from them on another upholstered bench.

  Archer and Pippa stand by the darkened window, speaking with Pippa’s brother Percival and his wife, Leonora. Those four represent Lauramore and Errinton.

  Dristan and Rosie are directly across the room from Irving and Audette. They don’t represent anything, but I’m glad to have them here all the same.

  And there are children everywhere, all being herded about by Percival’s oldest daughter, Heidi. The princess, who looks almost exactly like her lovely mother, must be nearing eight years old by now—how quickly time passes when you’re the only unmarried one left in the crowd.

  “What’s this about you fishing beautiful women out of the sea?” Irving asks, drawing my attention back as he returns to his seat next to Audette. “If I’d known that was possible, I’d have chosen a different profession.”

  Without the slightest hesitation, Audette elbows Irving in the side—and quite hard judging from the way he yips.

  Grace shakes her head, laughing. “Never taunt a woman who can best you with a sword.”

  Irving’s face stretches into a rotten grin, but before he can respond, Audette slaps her hand over his mouth. “You’ll only get yourself in trouble.”

  He turns Audette’s hand, brushes a kiss over her knuckles, and then loops his arm around her shoulders. Very smooth.

  “Seriously, Bran. Who is this girl?” Irving looks around the room as if Elle will magically sprout up. “And what have you done with her?”

  I glare at my brother and his loose mouth. Dristan shrugs, not looking the least bit repentant.

  Thanks to Irving, I’m now the center of attention. The only ones not paying attention to our conversation are the children.

  “She’s here, in the castle. I’ve given her a room in the eastern wing.”

  “That’s it?” Irving demands. “That’s all you’re going to give us?”

  I cross my arms, watching Pippa’s youngest as he slyly steals Galinor’s dagger from its sheath. To Irving, I say, “You know, for a man, you’re a horrible gossip.”

  He only grins and holds out his hands in a “what can you do” gesture. I roll my eyes, not wanting to talk about Elle.

  “People are going to ask questions,” Pippa says as she plucks the dagger from her son’s hands. “If you don’t want anyone to think she’s the reason you disappeared for a week, you might want to give her a history. People are bound to draw their own conclusions about the timing of her mysterious appearance unless you give them an explanation.”

  My mind wanders to the idea of spending a planned, secluded week in the cottage with Elle. I clear my throat and push the thought away. “History?”

  Pippa waves the dagger in the air as she speaks, nearly swiping Archer in the ear. “Where she came from, why she’s here.”

  Archer takes the dagger from Pippa and hands it back to Galinor. “Missing something?”

  “No.” Galinor frowns. He glances down at his empty sheath and does a double take when he finds it empty.

  “Yes, all right.” I cross my arms, thinking. “A history.”

  Belle, who’s been chasing the older children around the room, stumbles and falls on her rump. Her bottom lip quivers, and then she bursts into loud sobs.

  Anwen’s off the settee and has the baby in her arms before the tears can leave the child’s eyes.

  “Come on,” Anwen says to the rest of the children, waving at them with her free hand. “Let’s allow the grownups to have a conversation. Maybe we can find Bridget.”

  “Your fox?” Heidi asks with wide, hopeful eyes.

  “No, that’s Danver. He’s old and grumpy, so he doesn’t travel with us anymore.” Anwen smooths Belle’s hair. Tears already forgotten, the baby hiccups. “Bridget is a ferret.”

  Irving rolls his eyes.

  I shoot Anwen a thankful look as she herds the children into the hall, which she returns with a reassuring smile before she closes the door.

  Pippa shakes her head after they’ve left. “My boys are going to eat her alive.”

  “Did you have something in mind?” I ask the princess, drawing her back to the subject at hand.

  Pippa stands and begins to pace. Her gaze lands on Irving. “You only arrived this afternoon—why don’t you tell them Elle is Audette’s cousin?”

  Audette shrugs. “I suppose.”

  “Now just a minute.” Irving clasps his hands and places them behind his head, smirking. “What do we even know about this girl? I’m going to need a few details before I accept her into my family.”

  “We don’t know anything,” I say, exasperated. “She hit her head and has no memory of how she ended up in the ocean or where she’s from.”

  “And she’s obviously had a run in with mermaids,” Pippa adds.

  Rosie, who’s been surprisingly quiet up to this point holds up a hand. “I’m sorry—mermaids?”

  “She wears their mark,” I explain.

  The gypsy raises an eyebrow, incredulous.

  “Believe it or not, there are some things you aren’t an expert on,” Irving feels the need to throw out.

  Marigold sucks in a breath, and the rest of us glance between the king and the gypsy, uneasy. Rosie and Irving have history—the messy, romantic kind that ended in turmoil. They’re friendly enough now, but it’s no mistake the two are seated on opposite sides of the room.

  Rosie narrows her eyes even as her lips tilt into a smile that anyone with half a mind would find intimidating.

  Of course, no one has ever accused Irving of having so much as half a mind. He shrugs, biting back a challenging smirk. As soon as Rosie looks away, Audette gives him another good nudge in the ribs. Laughing under his breath, he offers his wife a baffled grin—as if he has no idea what he did wrong.

  “All right,” I interrupt before this has a chance to escalate. “Elle is Audette’s cousin. If anyone asks, she’s had the mark for as long as she can remember. End of story.”

  The bells ring from the tower, announcing the top of the hour. I glance at the darkening sky beyond the window. “I’ll go tell her now.”

  “No,” Pippa says. “You need to get down to the feast. I’ll introduce her to Irving and Audette.”

  I want to argue, but Pippa’s right. I should have been there several minutes ago, ready to mingle. Ready to find my queen.

  Though I dislike it, I made a promise to my parents. I must honor it. Perhaps the best thing I can do is distance myself from Elle and quietly devote myself to finding her family so she can go home, and I can get her out of my head.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Elodie

  I sit at a table, parched like I’ve trekked through the desert. To make it worse, a chalice of cider sits in front of me, but I’m not sure I’m able to drink it. The music is festive—a combination of flutes and lutes and tambourines.

  Right now, there are tumblers in the middle of the hall, performing for our enjoyment. They leap off each other’s shoulders, landing in a series of im
pressive somersaults, and stack themselves five-high. Judging from the amused gasps, cheers, and applause around me, most are enjoying the entertainment. I, however, drum my fingers on the table, wondering when I can retire to my room.

  Next to me, Audette laughs at something Pippa just said. I wasn’t paying attention, but I smile for the sake of civility. My eyes wander over my evening companions. There’s Pippa, who’s stayed by my side since she introduced me to Audette and the all-too-charming King Irving of Primewood—my new cousins. Audette’s cousin Javid and his wife, Grace, have joined us as well. If I understand correctly, the Lauramorian princess is somehow related to Audette and Javid and was previously acquainted with Grace.

  They all seem quite happy to be united once more. I try to pay attention when they draw me into their conversation, but I am failing miserably.

  Bran’s seated with his parents and brother’s family a few tables from ours. With the way we’re positioned, I have a grand view of him and the lady at his side. She’s pretty, with flaxen hair and big blue eyes. She’s clearly elated to be seated next to the crown prince, and she flutters her lashes and blushes often. I try not to watch, I really do, but my gaze seems to latch onto him all on its own.

  Not once has Bran looked my way, which makes me think I was more than a little fanciful in the seaside cottage, imagining impossible things that weren’t there at all.

  It’s embarrassing, to be honest.

  “Does your head hurt?” Pippa asks quietly when she catches me rubbing my temples.

  I lower my hands to my lap. “A little.”

  That’s a lie. It hurts a lot more than a little. It’s a sharp pain, yanking, pulling—as if someone has marionette strings attached to my very being. It started earlier in the day, and it comes and goes.

  Pippa frowns, and her sharp eyes scan my face. I don’t like the way the princess looks at me as if she knows too much. Without thinking, hoping to draw her attention from me, I take a sip of the cider.