“Get off as much of that charcoal as you can, Dearie,” she whispered. “His Haughtiness is in a mood.”
Aisling snatched up the cloth and gave an appreciative smile. “When isn’t he in a mood?”
Marta and her young granddaughter, Elrie, cast looks of sympathy as Aisling hurried past, scooping up the tea tray along the way.
In the formal dining hall, the lord of the manor house, Deaghan, and his two sons awaited their breakfast.
“Father! Did you see this?” Deiric, the eldest of the two young men, asked.
He held up a leaf of paper, a periodical list of news and advertisements sent out every morning.
Deaghan blinked over at him, frowning.
Deiric’s brother Greagoire looked on as well.
“It says Cernunnos’s eldest son is coming to our arm of the Weald with the intent to settle in the old, ruined castle and keep a watch on his father’s lands. It also says he wishes to establish an art academy, right here in Arbeine.”
Deiric set the paper down and blinked at his father. “Father! You could apply to be an instructor, and Greagoire and I can be your assistants.”
Aisling, who had been passing out teacups, tried not to appear too interested in the news. What a shame her uncle would never allow her to attend, let alone pay for an art education for his orphaned niece. No, she was far more valuable as a servant to him.
For the remainder of the breakfast, the three Faelorehn men discussed the impending arrival of the son of the Tuatha De lord of the Wild, but Aisling remained silent until it was time to gather the dirty dishes. Once her chores were complete, she fled back upstairs to fetch her satchel. Inside, she placed her sketchbook and pencils, then a pouch containing lavender soap and finally a folded drying cloth. She finished off her packing with a set of freshly laundered clothes to change into after washing up in the creek. On the way out the back door, she grabbed some cheese and bread for lunch then fled the house as if it were on fire, ready to begin the more pleasant part of her day.
* * *
The water in the creek was cold, but it felt so nice to get clean. As she dried her hair, Aisling gazed at her reflection in the water. Staring back at her was a young woman with bright, pale brown eyes and blond hair curling just a little at the edges. She grinned, glad to see joy on her own face for a change.
The weather was warm and pleasant, so Aisling gathered her things and left her hair loose to dry as she traveled deeper into the woods, seeking the place she considered her refuge. At the top of the hill, she spotted the break in the trees where the old castle sat a half a mile or so away.
So, this is where Cernunnos’s son wishes to settle down, she mused. Well, so be it. Just as long as he doesn’t keep me from my alcove, I don’t care.
Aisling continued on down the hill, following the hidden trail until a familiar beech tree rose into view. Just behind its thick trunk and beneath its low sprawling branches lay a small culvert sheltered by several large, fern and moss covered boulders. She had found this place by accident five years ago while out looking for wild herbs to restock the pantry. Secluded, secret and protected from the elements, it was the perfect place for her to hide her creations from her uncle’s jealous eye.
Ever since she was young, Aisling had exhibited a unique talent with her glamour. She could pull her magic into thin tendrils and guide it along the surface of stone, etching out fine details no sculptor’s tool could ever match. Too bad her uncle exploited those talents by using her skill to supplement his own. Not a single sculpture of his was seen by the public until her glamour passed over it, improving any imperfections and making each piece a stunning work of art. But she never received a speck of credit.
Brushing aside dismal thoughts of her cruel uncle, Aisling glanced around. The surrounding wood was, as always, abandoned, so she climbed up the knotted trunk of the beech and slipped through the burned-out hollow about halfway up.
Just on the other side of the tree, her sanctuary awaited. The small culvert housed a treasure trove of all her tireless work. Sculptures created from river-polished rocks and branches stood guard over smooth stone walls bursting with the colors drawn from mud paint and charcoal. Chimes constructed of bits of colored string, shells and discarded metal hung from the branches of the beech. And intricate designs carved into the softer stones standing sentinel over Aisling’s art studio only added to the magic of this sacred place.
Aisling sighed in pleasure and traipsed over to an old log she used as a bench, then pulled out her sketchbook.
“Finally!” she breathed with a great smile. “Peace and quiet.”
* * *
Aisling sketched in her book until she was certain the images were complete, then stood and approached a blank space along one of the stone walls. She took a few deep breaths, then pressed her hands to the cool stone, drawing on her source of glamour. Carefully, and very slowly, she trailed her finger along the rough surface, her power cutting into the rock and leaving behind the pattern she envisioned.
She was close to finishing the last details of her current project when a voice ripped her from her concentration.
“So, you are the one responsible for all of this artwork.”
Aisling gasped and fell onto her backside, the quick release of her concentrated glamour snapping back against her finger with a loud crack.
“Ow!” she hissed, shaking her hand out then examining her finger tip.
“Forgive me!” the voice called out. “I did not mean to startle you.”
Angry and shocked, Aisling whipped her head toward the hidden entrance to her alcove, ready to shout accusations at the person who dared enter her sanctuary. But the moment her eyes fell upon the stranger, her brain screeched to a halt and her mouth gaped open. If she were ever to sculpt a statue of the perfect Faelorehn man, she would carve from stone the figure that stood before her now. High cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw . . . He was tall, well-muscled with golden brown hair that fell in soft waves to just above his shoulders. And his eyes. Green, green eyes dancing with mirth and just a speck of concern. And something else. Laughter, life, compassion. Aisling couldn’t decide which emotion won out, and she wasn’t about to try. Such a task might take her days to complete.
The beautiful stranger approached her, doing his best to avoid the chime sculptures hanging from above.
“I am sorry to bother you, but I happened by this place the other day and have visited it since, hoping its creator might make an appearance.”
He smiled, a brilliant flash of straight white teeth and pure joy, and offered a hand to Aisling.
Not wanting to be rude, and not knowing what else to do, she took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.
“H-how did you find this place?” she managed, brushing off invisible dirt to avoid his assessing gaze.
“I felt a pull, on my glamour,” he murmured, placing his hand over his heart. “It has happened to me before, with other artists, but not so strongly as this place.”
Aisling blinked, once again at a loss for words.
“You are the creator?” he pressed.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And what were you just working on?”
Aisling shook her head, trying to break free of whatever spell he had placed over her, deliberate or not. “I’m sorry, but I don’t even know you.”
The young Faelorehn man slapped a hand against his forehead. “Where are my manners? My name is Kiernan.”
Aisling arched a brow, and he chuckled. “And you are?”
“Aisling.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Aisling. So, are you willing to share your work with a fellow artist?”
Clearing her throat, Aisling said, “I suppose.”
Before too long, Aisling had crawled out of her shell, and soon, she and Kiernan were conversing like old friends. She showed him her many creations - the carvings in the stone, the chimes, the sculptures, the charcoal sketches.
“I am newly arrive
d and have few friends,” he said. “I hope you will let me come visit you again?”
Feeling giddy, Aisling smiled. “I would like that. Though I can’t promise I’ll be here every day.”
Kiernan smiled and bowed his head. “I will check each morning, just to be safe.”
Her cheeks heated a little, but she gave him a weak smile before he turned and disappeared through the secret entrance.
* * *
That evening, Greagoire returned from town with news that the prince of the Weald had finally arrived in Arbeine.
“He plans to visit town as often as he can,” Greagoire said over dinner. “And there will be a festival in two weeks’ time to celebrate the presence of our new, prestigious lord.”
Deaghan, who had been brooding over his roast beef, rolled his eyes.
“How are we to know for certain he is who he claims to be?”
Deiric whispered in a conspiratorial voice, “He has antlers. How many Faelorehn men can claim to have antlers, besides the god of the Wild himself?”
Deaghan merely grunted in reply, unimpressed.
“He is to tour the studios and galleries during the week,” Greagoire added.
“Then, we’d best plan to spend most of our days in town. We’ll want to be present in the studio should he choose to drop in.”
* * *
The next morning, after breakfast had been served and her uncle and cousins had left the house, Aisling sought out her retreat in the hopes of finding Kiernan there again. She was not disappointed for he arrived a half hour after her, a brilliant smile on his face and a bag full of art supplies thrown over his shoulder.
Kiernan set up an easel and leaned a blank canvas against it while Aisling took her customary seat on the fallen log, sketch book resting against her bent knees. She was even more tempted to draw her new friend today, for the light pouring in through the beech leaves above was perfect for contrast and shadows.
“May I sketch you?” she blurted in a moment of bravado.
Those flashing green eyes flicked to hers, and Kiernan grinned. “With or without the shirt?”
“Without, if you don’t mind,” she murmured, her face heating.
“Not at all,” he replied, as he pulled the garment free of his torso. “Shall I strike a pose?”
Aisling laughed lightly and shook her head at his question. “No. Continue what you’re doing. I can manage.”
“May I paint you since you are sketching me?”
“That only seems fair,” she replied with a smile.
For the next hour or so, the two of them worked in near silence, sharing thoughts and opinions pertaining to the world from time to time. Aisling found Kiernan very easy to talk to, despite her initial awkwardness, and by the end of their session, she felt as comfortable around him as she did around Marta, Elrie and Bardan, her uncle’s groundskeeper.
“May I see your sketch?” he asked.
Aisling scrunched her lips together. “Only if you promise not to laugh.”
He nodded, and she showed him. She feared he might disapprove, but his warm smile and the slight tilt of his chin was answer enough. He liked it.
“Would you like to see my portrait?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Kiernan turned the painting around, and she sighed in appreciation. He hadn’t just captured her, but the entire scene around her. A beautiful, abstract swirl of light and shadow.
“You ought to enroll in the art academy,” she murmured, as her eyes drank in the colors and brushstrokes.
Kiernan lifted a brow at that.
Aisling gestured towards the canvas. “I can almost feel your soul in that painting. It is different. Fresh. Unique. If I were the prince of the Weald, I would definitely notice this and wish to nurture and encourage more.”
“Prince of the Weald?” Kiernan asked, brow raised as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“It’s what my uncle calls him. He is a very prideful man and pretends to be more important than he is.”
The two of them didn’t stay much longer in the alcove gallery, for they both had prior responsibilities to attend to.
“I enjoyed this time spent here with you,” Kiernan said, as he left her that afternoon. “It is a pleasant break from my normal, mundane life.”
Aisling couldn’t agree more.
“Until next time, then,” she said with a grin.
Kiernan took her hand, planting a chaste kiss to the back of it, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the deep green of the Weald.
* * *
Just as he promised, the handsome Faelorehn man met Aisling every day, sometimes bringing a satchel of food and things for tea. She would laugh and share stories with him as he built up a small fire for the kettle, and then, the two of them would sip tea sweetened with honey and share their ideas. Together, they painted the walls of her alcove, sculpted figures from wood and stone and sketched on the parchment Kiernan brought with him.
At home, Aisling kept her head low and listened to the growing drama acted out between her uncle and her two cousins. The prince of the Weald was making quite an impression on the people in Arbeine. Artisans who had lost their spark for creativity were suddenly producing new crafts that their patrons purchased the moment they were set down upon the shelves or hung on gallery walls. People from as far away as Erintara were journeying to the small art colony to see the new creations and even to get a look at Cernunnos’s enigmatic son.
One day, two weeks after meeting her new friend, Aisling arrived at her gallery to find Kiernan arranging paper on the ground. Her uncle had kept her up late the night before, insisting she use her glamour to improve his latest sculptures. As she moved closer to her friend, she realized it wasn’t paper he worked with, but leaves. And flower petals, pebbles and colored sand.
Puzzled, Aisling crept even closer until Kiernan heard her approach. He turned, his green eyes lost in concentration, lighting up only when he recognized her. A smile, warm and gracious as the sun, crossed his face, and he stood with the grace of a deer.
“I was hoping you would come.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. What is this?” she asked, gesturing toward the pattern on the ground.
It looked like a face, one that was vaguely familiar.
Kiernan sighed. “Another portrait. I am not finished, and when I do finish, it will last only as long as the elements allow it. But I was compelled to create it, for it is the beauty and light which occupies my mind.”
Aisling reached out a hand and placed it on his forearm. He turned to her, his emerald eyes bright with some emotion she had not seen in him before. His hand covered hers.
“Who is this a portrait of? This creature who brings you light and joy?”
Kiernan turned completely to face her and lifted his free hand to place it gently against her cheek, a touch so similar to the one the other day when he brushed away some stray soot she hadn’t caught before leaving the house.
“It is you, Aisling,” he murmured, his voice a caress.
Butterflies burst forth and took flight in her stomach as he lowered his lips to claim hers. For a split second, she stood frozen, unable to move. Unable to breathe. And then, the whirlwind of her own emotions tore loose, and she returned the kiss, holding nothing back.
Before she was ready for it to end, Kiernan pulled away, his breathing ragged. He held her by the arms, reluctant to let her go, and pressed his forehead against hers as his thumbs gently caressed her skin.
“I cannot stay. I have obligations this afternoon. I wanted only to wait until you got here. To see you. To make sure you were still real.”
Aisling’s breathing matched his, and she took comfort in his touch, leaning into him, shifting just enough so that her temple pressed against the hard planes of his chest.
“I am real,” she managed, her tongue finding it difficult to form words.
“Tonight is the festival. Will I see you there?” he asked, pulling aw
ay from her again.
Aisling looked up at him, her brow furrowed. She had forgotten about the celebration planned to honor the prince of the Wield. “I will try to go. If my responsibilities at home don’t keep me in.”
He grinned and brushed her blond hair behind one ear. “I will look for you, then.”
Kiernan pressed another gentle kiss to her lips, then climbed back through the beech tree, leaving Aisling alone to gather her senses.
* * *
Evening fell upon the manor house and with it arrived some semblance of peace. Uncle Deaghan and his sons left for the festival and, after helping Marta and Elrie with the dishes, Aisling crept from the house wearing her dark cloak. It took her half an hour to reach the edge of town and another ten minutes to make her way to its center.
A great bonfire leapt in the middle of a large crowd, the red and yellow flames as animated as the people gathered around them. Laughter and music tainted the air, and the scent of spiced foods and wood smoke teased her nose. She stayed low, not wanting her uncle and cousins to notice her, but all the while keeping an eye open for Kiernan.
A sudden, raised voice cried out above all the general ruckus, and Aisling froze, turning her attention towards the noise.
“The prince of the Weald has arrived! Welcome, your grace, to Arbeine! We look forward to the opening of the art academy and are honored by your presence!”
Aisling stood on her tiptoes, waiting for the people to part just enough in front of her. A man stepped to the side, creating a small gap, and the prince of the Weald, Cernunnos’s highly regarded son, flashed into view.
Shock struck Aisling like a blast of icy wind. She fell to her knees, pivoting as she desperately searched for a place to escape. There. An abandoned alleyway just beyond the edge of the cheering crowd. Aisling darted for it. Only when she had flung herself into the shadows of the buildings did she let loose her despair. The man dancing so merrily with the young women of Arbeine was handsome, and those antlers made him even more so. In her eyes, at least. But, those antlers were the only unfamiliar thing about him. The son of Cernunnos, the prince of the Weald and the young Faelorehn man considered royalty by everyone in town, was Kiernan.
Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales Page 24