Marigold screeches and jumps down. Pika circles, but she must crouch low to fit, and her wings still catch on the trim. Finally she lies down, stretches out, and breaks into a loud and inappropriate purr. Danver, thrilled to have his friend with him, joins her, snuggling against her furry chest.
Marigold turns from the glasseln to glare at me. Her expression is murderous, but then she sees the arrow sticking out of the side of my leg.
“Anwen!” she exclaims. “You’ve been shot!”
I sit on the bench, trying not to bleed on Rosie’s things. “I have to get back out there,” I say, realizing I must break up the fight.
Marigold cocks her head to the side, listening. “I think they’ve stopped.”
Sure enough, seconds later, Galinor throws the door open. For a moment, disbelief shadows his features as he sets eyes on the lounging glasseln. He quickly forgets about her.
He rushes to my side and kneels down, examining the arrow. “It’s not as bad as I feared.” He exhales loudly and rests his head in his hands.
“It still hurts,” I snap.
He looks up, his expression angry. “You’re the one that jumped in front of an arrow!”
I motion to Pika. “They were going to kill her.”
“Better her than you!”
We stare at each other, neither of us relenting.
I give in first. “It happened so fast. I just didn’t want her to get hurt. I wasn’t exactly thinking of sacrificing myself.”
His blue eyes narrow. “You didn’t think at all.”
I’m about to say something nasty, but luckily Irving rushes in. His eyes widen when he too sees the glasseln on the bed. “We need to leave,” he says, still eying the cat. “The castle steward just paid us a visit. His and Her Majesty want us gone now.”
“Now?” Marigold exclaims. “It’s the middle of the night, and Anwen’s injured.”
Irving clears his throat. “Apparently if we’re still here by the next bell, they’ll hang us for the disruption.”
Slim chance of that. They wouldn’t hang four princes and two ladies—they’d have a war on their hands with no less than three kingdoms. Rosie lingers by the door. She looks pale and scared.
They would hang her.
“Tie my horse and Anwen’s to the cart,” Galinor tells Irving as he studies the arrow sticking out of my leg. “I’ll have to take care of this on the way.”
“I can ride one of the horses,” Rosie volunteers.
They agree, and soon the cart is jostling out of Lenrook’s castle gates. Each bump makes the pain all that much worse.
I grit my teeth. “Can’t you just pull the arrow out?”
“No.” Galinor’s voice lacks emotion. “This will hurt for a moment.”
He snaps the shaft in two, and I yelp, surprised by the intensity of the pain.
He cringes. “Sorry.”
A short finger-length piece of the shaft protrudes from my ruined gypsy skirt. I was beginning to like this skirt, too.
Pika is at attention again, her eyes pinned on Galinor. Irritated with the disruption, Danver stands and stalks to the edge of the bed before he curls up again.
“I’m fine, Pika,” I say, exasperated.
She settles back but continues to watch us intently.
Galinor ignores the cat. “I need to pull the dress loose of the arrow.” He motions to my gown. Using great care, he slides the fabric over the short stick.
Modesty is the last thing on my mind at the moment, and I pull the skirt up over my knee, exposing the wound. I feel a little sick when I see the arrow embedded in my leg.
Galinor sighs, and he sounds relieved. “It could be worse.”
Worse? Does he not see the arrow in my leg?
He chuckles at my expression. If he was not the only one here to remove it, I’d probably give him another black eye where the first has finally faded.
“Calm down,” he says, his voice soothing. “I just mean it isn’t embedded very deeply. It’s barely in there at all, in fact.”
I look down at my leg. Once I get past the horror of the dripping blood and ripped open skin, I realize I can still see the end of the arrowhead.
“It’s all that fabric.” Galinor motions to the layers of skirt. “And the fact that gypsies can’t make a decent bow or arrow to save their lives—much less shoot one.”
“Just get it out,” I snarl, irritated with his manner.
He grins, obviously finding my irritation humorous. “I don’t suppose you have any herbs on you? Something to numb the pain?”
He busies himself, heating his knife over the candle flame.
I keep my eyes locked on the blade. “Do I look like an herbalist?”
He cools it now, waving it to speed the process. “Anwen,” he says, his eyes bright. “You’re fine.”
“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
The twinkle leaves his eyes. He leans in and wraps one hand around my waist. He cups the other behind my neck. “When I saw you jump in front of that arrow, I thought it would kill you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but my mind is blank except for the nagging pain.
“When I realized it was in your leg, I thought it might have hit an artery. If it had, you would have already bled to death.” His fingers twine in the hair at the nape of my neck, and he’s close enough I feel his breath on my lips. “So forgive me for being relieved it was neither of those things.”
He smells like campfire and summer evening. My heart pounds in my chest, and if it weren’t for the arrow in my leg, I think I would lean in a little closer to see what would happen.
I think I might lean in a little closer anyway.
“This is going to hurt.” He looks down. “Remember to breathe.”
Galinor completely ruins the moment when he begins to remove the arrow. My vision blurs, and I press my forehead against his shoulder.
“Just a few moments more,” he says, but his voice sounds somehow distant.
I feel as if the cart is spinning circles instead of traveling down a road. Then the world goes black.
Galinor is bandaging my leg when I come to.
I blink. “Are you finished?”
Pika sleeps, no longer watching us. Danver is once again cuddled up to the glasseln. I don’t hear voices outside, but we continue to bump down the road. It’s not many hours to the Lenrook border, and once we cross I’m sure we’ll make camp.
I struggle to sit, and as I do, I notice Galinor has made a pillow out of blankets for my head. I watch him finish with the bandage, his hands careful and sure.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He meets my eyes and gently pulls my bunched skirt down. That stretch of leg is far more than Dimitri ever saw, but Galinor doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable like Dimitri did. He treats me as if I’m something rare and valuable—the way Father handled the changeling stone.
The thought of the troublesome crystal irritates me. I should have known it would only bring trouble.
“I hated that awful stone,” I say.
Galinor’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised. “The changeling stone?”
I nod and scoot up so I’m sitting with one leg crossed and the other still extended. “Father would never let me touch it,” I admit. “When I was young, I’d slip in his room at night to sneak it away and play with it.”
Galinor moves so he’s sitting next to me. He wraps his arm around me, and I settle against his shoulder.
“It’s horrible—I know—but it would give me a measure of pleasure to use it and bring it back without him noticing. It was as if I had to prove that I could be careful with it, even if he never knew.”
He doesn’t say anything but waits for me to continue.
“I had no idea why he was so protective of it, why he was so obsessed.” I turn to face Galinor. “It was just a thing, you understand? A possession. I hated the way he loved it.” I look away. “Why didn’t he tell me, do you t
hink?”
He runs his hand down my hair. “He probably didn’t want you to know. When you were young, it might have scared you, and now that you’re grown, he may have thought you would have been disgusted.”
“I wouldn’t have been.” I turn back. “I love him. I know that I haven’t shown it—and I made a truly terrible decision when I took it—but I do. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”
Instead of answering, Galinor leans his cheek against the top of my head. “You need to rest.”
I appreciate that he doesn’t answer just to make me feel better. He doesn’t pretend to know my father; he doesn’t pretend to know if he’ll forgive me.
“What do you think he changes into?” I murmur.
Now that the excitement is over, I’m getting drowsy.
“A gnome, most likely.”
I smile at the amusement in his voice. I start to feel fuzzy and warm, and I let myself drift. Then, quite suddenly, I notice the strange taste in my mouth.
I shake off the sleepy sensation and look up. “Galinor, did you give me a sleeping draught?”
I sound horrified.
Galinor’s eyebrows knit. “Rosie had some tea. We stopped when you passed out, and she gave you some.” He strokes my hair. “It that a problem? We thought it would help.”
The panic I’m feeling is irrational. This is Galinor, not Dimitri, but still I feel like I can’t breathe. “Please don’t leave.”
How ridiculous, I sound like a scared child.
Understanding dawns on his face, and he holds me tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Unable to fight the tea, I lean into him and let sleep come. As I slip away, I feel the softest brush of his lips against my hair.
***
I stretch. There’s a kink in my neck, and my leg aches. I open my eyes to see Danver stretched across my lap. I’m still perched against Galinor’s shoulder. I glance up at him.
He stayed with me, just as he said he would.
Pika is no longer on the bed. Whether she was kicked out or left on her own, I don’t know, but Marigold and Rosie are there now, asleep. Sunlight streams through the cracks in the shutters, and birds chirp outside.
I sit up, hoping I won’t disturb Galinor, and pull back the wrap to examine my leg. The wound looks funny, but it’s closed.
“I cauterized it when you passed out,” Galinor says, his voice thick with sleep. “Be grateful you weren’t conscious for that.”
I am.
“Will it scar?” I ask, more curious than concerned.
He nods. “I’m sorry, Anwen.”
I shrug. It’s better to be left with a scar than bleeding to death. Wondering how bad it is, I stand up, testing my leg. I gasp and fall back to the bench.
“You’ll want to stay off of it for a while,” Galinor says.
“Can I ride?”
He thinks about it. “Most likely, though only for short stretches. Most of the time you’ll have to ride in the cart.
I glance at the sleeping gypsy and whisper, “Rosie won’t like me stealing her place.”
Galinor leans in. “Right now I think Irving and Rosie both would like some distance from each other.”
Apparently Rosie hasn’t forgiven Irving yet.
Galinor stretches. His hair is rumpled from sleep, and a shadow of stubble lines his jaw. My mouth goes dry. He looks good.
Very good.
I must stare a bit too long, because his eyes meet mine in question. For a moment, I forget how to breathe. He’s too handsome. He’s too close.
I bite my lip, trying to control my racing heart.
“Stop that,” Galinor says, his voice low.
He runs his hand up my arm. When his fingers graze my neck, I know it’s not the sweet, non-romantic move it’s been so many times before.
I lean toward his touch. “Stop what?”
Galinor groans softly. “You’re always biting your lip—when you think, when you’re nervous.”
I lean in. “I’m not nervous.”
His breath teases my lips. “Then maybe you’re thinking?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe we should stop thinking?”
I search his eyes, which are as dark and hesitant as my own thoughts. “Maybe you should stop thinking first.”
His eyes drop to my lips, and my heart all but stops.
The door swings open, and Irving strides in. Galinor and I jump apart. I can tell from the look on Irving’s face; we look as guilty as I feel. Irving scrutinizes Galinor. It’s the same look he gave Teagan when the prince was speaking with Marigold. “Anwen, your glasseln just ate our breakfast,” he finally snaps.
“What?”
“I walked away from the fire for a moment. When I came back, she’d swiped the two rabbits I trapped.”
“I suppose she was hungry?”
“Tell her to catch her own food.”
What is it they think I can do with these animals, exactly?
I sit back. “It’s not like I can strike up a conversation with her, Irving.”
Irving glares at me; he glares at Galinor; he glares at the sleeping gypsy. He then turns on his heel and leaves the cart. The door slams shut behind him.
The moment is broken, and Galinor stands. “I better appease him and hunt something for breakfast.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders.
He glances at Rosie. “This is going to be a long journey to Triblue if those two don’t make up soon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Triblue
A dead stag drops at my feet, its blood seeping into the earth where it falls. I blink at the creature. I’m so horrified; I’m not sure what to do.
Pika watches me with expectant eyes, and then she lowers her head and nudges the deer toward me with her nose.
“Good girl,” I murmur, realizing she’s simply a stable cat offering a mouse to her keeper.
Only Pika’s mouse is much, much larger.
This morning, Irving yelled at her when she once again swiped his kill from the fire—this time a trio of grouse. Apparently, she is trying to redeem herself.
No one is nervous around Pika anymore. Even Marigold will absently scratch the glasseln’s head.
“It’s about time she makes herself useful,” Irving grumbles as he begins to quarter the animal.
He tosses Pika the entrails, and I have to look away so I won’t be ill.
Bran sits down next to me. “Tomorrow we’ll be in Triblue. It will be good to be home.”
I’m happy for the distraction from Irving and the stag. The stars shine bright in the sky, and the evening air is warm. It feels like mid-summer again, even if the first day of autumn is only a few days away.
“How long have you been gone?” I ask.
I stretch my leg. It still aches, but after the two weeks it has taken to travel this far, it’s healed enough I don’t have to be careful with it anymore.
Bran’s eyes are on the fire. A log splits and sends a cascade of sparks into the sky. Danver wakes at the noise and stretches. His eyes are bright, and his ears are alert to the night sounds. He joins Irving, sniffing at the deer. Irving shoos him away.
“Since early summer.” Bran prods the coals with a long stick, lets it catch fire, and then draws on the ring of rocks circling the flames. “We missed the summer season.”
“I’ve been to Triblue,” I say. “But our trips were focused on Father’s goods. I’ve never had a chance to explore. What’s your kingdom like?”
Bran runs his hand through his hair. “It’s warm, and you can always hear the ocean. I miss that more than anything.”
“And there are fish,” Dristan adds from across the fire, his voice dreamy. “I think I’d rather starve than eat another rabbit.”
Galinor steps through the brush, several hares hanging from his hands. “You won’t be eating breakfast then, I assume.” His eyes drift to the stag. “Where did you get that?”
“Pika,” I answer for Irvi
ng.
Galinor raises his eyebrows and tosses the rabbits at Irving.
“I’ll just take care of those for you,” Irving grumbles.
Galinor grins. “Thanks, Irving.”
The blond prince pauses. “Aren’t the women supposed to prepare the meat?”
Marigold looks up from her book—I can’t imagine how she reads by firelight—and scrunches her brow. “The only dead animals I’ve touched have been properly cooked.”
Irving looks at me and laughs when I cringe. Still smiling, he turns his attention to Rosie. She meets his eyes, challenging him to ask her to take care of the stag. He only smiles wider and then continues his task. Her eyes stay on him for several moments after he’s looked away.
The two are still at each other’s throats, but they’ve learned to keep their arguments to themselves. Every time Irving raises his voice, Pika corners him. It’s hard to have a good, cleansing fight when the glasseln insists on interfering.
Galinor sits across the fire, next to Dristan, and I try not to think of the empty space next to me. It’s been two weeks since he almost kissed me, and ever since he’s been keeping his distance. It’s just as well because every time he’s close I become distracted.
Galinor rests his elbows on his thighs and leans down by the fire. When he looks up, he catches me staring at him. He smirks and raises an eyebrow in question.
I flush and turn back to Bran, desperate to think of something else. “What will we do when we reach your castle?”
“You will be our guests,” he answers. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore before the festival starts. The whales migrate through this time of year, and there are always pods of dolphins not far from the shore.”
I’ve only seen a dolphin once when I was young. I’ve never seen a whale. One of Father’s ships happened upon a sea serpent once on our way to Ptarma, but that isn’t an experience I wish to repeat.
“Thank you,” I tell Bran. “You all have been so generous.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “You’re most welcome. It’s certainly been an experience.”
Pika cleans her paws. Now that her belly is full, she’s content to stretch by the fire and watch Irving tend her kill.
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