Chapter Eight #4
Diara understood that, and she agreed with him, but the result was that she didn’t know her future stepdaughters at all. She didn’t even know how much she should say to them, or not say to them, so she quickly wiped at her face and tried to force a smile.
“I am well, thank you for asking,” she said. “You are Lady Dorian, are you not?”
Dorian nodded. She was a tall girl for her age, with dark hair and her father’s blue eyes. “Aye,” she said. “Are…are you hiding up here?”
Diara sighed faintly. “Mayhap a little,” she said. “Do you ever feel like that? Like hiding?”
Dorian shrugged, sort of, as if unsure how to answer. “I will leave you if you want to hide.”
“Nay,” Diara said quickly. “Please do not go. Will… will you come up here and sit with me? We’ve not had a chance to talk since I arrived.”
Dorian debated on that request for a couple of moments before finally climbing to the top of the ladder and into the loft. She sat down near the ladder well, crossing her legs and looking at Diara with some uncertainty.
“Your father told me that you like horses a great deal,” Diara said, trying to make conversation. “Do you have a favorite horse?”
Dorian nodded. “Her name is Hildr.”
Diara cocked her head curiously. “That is an interesting name,” she said. “Is she named for someone?”
“A Valkyrie.”
“You know about Valkyries?”
Dorian nodded. “I learned about them,” she said. “When I lived at Pelinom Castle, they had many books, and I was taught to read. I read about the old gods and the Valkyries.”
“Are you interested in reading about things like that?”
“I am,” Dorian said, seemingly warming up to the conversation a little. “I like stories.”
“Do you have your own books?”
“Some,” Dorian said. “But I… I like to tell stories, too. I like to write them down.”
Diara smiled faintly. “What do you write about?”
Dorian shrugged. “Things,” she said, either embarrassed or shy about it. “I wrote a story about a fae named Flit.”
“Flit? I like that name.”
“She lived in a bluebell and rode on the back of a bee.”
Diara’s smile grew. “I think that’s lovely,” she said. “Will you read it to me someday?”
Dorian looked at her, shocked. “You want to hear it?”
“I would. But only if you want me to hear it.”
Dorian seemed encouraged by that. “I wrote another story about a lass who falls into a well and shrinks to the size of a bug,” she said. “She lives in the well with the other bugs, and they crown her the queen of the well.”
Diara laughed softly. “How wonderful,” she said. “Was she happy there?”
“She loved the well, and when it rained, she would dance on the water like the other bugs.”
“What is her name?”
“Echo.”
“That is an interesting name.”
“It’s because her voice bounces off the sides of the well when she talks.”
“I think that is very clever,” Diara said. “Your father did not tell me he had such a clever daughter.”
Dorian’s smile faded. “My father does not know about my stories,” she said. “I do not think he would like them.”
“Why not?”
“Because he is very busy,” Dorian said. “He does not have time for things like that.”
“Have you ever asked him if he would like to hear your stories?”
Dorian simply shook her head and averted her gaze, and Diara sensed a very timid and lonely girl.
Diara didn’t know what Roi’s relationship with his daughters was like, and, truthfully, he didn’t seem like a disconnected father, but she did notice that he let his mother take charge of his girls.
He had since Diara had known him. Perhaps it was because he simply didn’t know how to raise girl children, or perhaps it was as Dorian said—he was too busy.
Whatever the reason, Diara felt a little sorry for quiet, lonely Dorian.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I will listen to your stories whenever you wish. I would like to know what happened to Flit and Echo. Will you tell me sometime?”
Dorian nodded. “I will,” she said. “If you really want to hear.”
“I do, very much. Do you have more stories you wish to write?”
Dorian was flushing, having difficulty looking at Diara because they were on a subject she never spoke of for fear of ridicule.
“I… I want to write a story about a lady who rides lightning and chases horses in the clouds,” she said.
“I even drew a picture of her, once, but the priest found the picture and told me it was wicked to draw such things.”
Diara’s smile faded. “What priest?”
“At Pelinom Castle,” Dorian said. “That is where I fostered. He came to give mass every Sunday, and he spent hours talking to us. Some of the other wards fell asleep, but I drew a picture. The lady who rides lightning is called Helen. If I ever have a daughter someday, I want to name her Helen.”
“A true and lovely name,” Diara said. “And the priest was wrong. It is not wicked of you to draw those things. It shows that you are bright and extraordinary. Would you like for me to send him a missive and tell him so?”
Dorian’s eyes widened. “Are you not afraid of priests?”
Diara shook her head. “They are simply men,” she said. “And, between you and me, men can be wrong sometimes.”
She giggled, causing Dorian to grin. After a moment, Dorian moved from where she’d been sitting next to the ladder and came over to plant herself next to Diara. As they gazed at each other, Dorian slipped her hand into Diara’s.
“Would you like me to tell you about Helen and her cloud horses?” she asked.
Diara squeezed her cold, soft hand. “I would, indeed. Please tell me.”
Dorian, the lonesome little de Lohr, did.