Chapter Two
W hen I rise early the next morning to tend to my royal cousin, my head feels as though I partook of far too much faerie wine instead of none at all.
It's still the pre-dawn hours. I want nothing more than to crawl back into my warm bed and sleep off the aftereffects of my headache. But other than the lone hour just after midday, these early mornings are the only bit of time I have to myself. After that, duty calls.
I hate it here. I hate everything about castle life. I hate that the bloody thing sits in the middle of the country, on a river completely devoid of salt, and with the sea too far away for comfort. I hate that everyone I meet distrusts púcaí, and whispers that we secretly owe allegiance to the sea fae, who have no ties with the high court of the Connor kings.
And I really, truly hate that I must keep my face neutral as all the fun goes on around me, as if on these midsummer nights when we're the most fae of all, I must be the least. I should be basking in the sea spray, or riding the surf in my puca form with my sister Unagh and merfolk friend Niamh beside me.
I miss them, miss my whole family, and everything in quiet little Diarmuid’s Row, so much that it physically hurts me. But there's nothing I can do but write letters to Unagh and my parents nearly every morning to keep them close. Despite my throbbing head, I'm determined this will be one of those mornings.
Lighting a candle to push back the deep blue of what's left of the night, I immediately spot something light-colored on the floor stones. A sealed note, bearing my name. Whoever shoved it under my door did so with such force, it nearly made it to the lone narrow window of my chambers.
It’s in far too pristine shape to have come from my family back home. I pick it up, startled by the thick blue wax.
Only the royal family uses blue wax.
I break the seal hastily, shocked by the pristine handwriting that adorns it. Even the high queen doesn’t write this prettily. When my eyes jump to the signature at the bottom, I could swear I'm still asleep.
It’s from Prince Ruairi.
I read his name a good dozen times before I can convince myself of what it says.
Why would the layabout prince be sending a note to me ?
Dear Queen's Maid Laoise,
It would honor me if you would accompany me to the star garden this afternoon for an intimate performance by the bard Cillian called Cloudtongue. The performance shall occur promptly following the queen’s luncheon.
I pray that you will accept, so that I might make up for my behavior of the previous night.
Yours,
H.R.H. Ruairi Connor
My cheeks begin to burn at the very thought of hearing the Cloudtongue perform again. And an intimate performance! Doesn’t that mean I would be sitting so much closer to Cillian? Close enough, even, for him to notice me?
Then reality douses me with frigid waters and I’m left shaking my head. Why would the high king's younger brother invite me to a musical performance? With all he drank last night, I’m shocked Prince Ruairi even remembers he tried to kiss me.
That he tried to kiss me and somehow made a fool out of us both .
This makes not a lick of sense. But it's true: Prince Ruairi does owe me.
My heart beats a little quicker when I realize how well this has been planned. The hour after the queen dines with her ladies-in-waiting, when she retires to her rooms for a rest, is the only other time I have to myself until after she goes to bed. Did Prince Ruairi know that? Was he asking about me?
Still filled with unease—and, I’ll admit, a bit of excitement, too—I hurry to light a candle so I can pen my reply. I write it in haste, having no time for careful penmanship as the prince evidently does.
Just before I reach for my own, colorless wax, a prickle creeps up the back of my neck.
The prince couldn’t have written the note himself, could he? Not only for the care such handwriting takes, but for his indulgence at the revel. He should be abed, drooling onto his silken pillows.
Unless he never went to bed.
Everyone at the high court knows Prince Ruairi’s reputation. A heavy drinker, a late sleeper and an indulgent person through and through. He must have used a scribe.
Why do I even care? It's just odd . Prince Ruairi and diligent penmanship—diligent anything do not go together.
I won’t say I’m not intrigued by him or his invitation, either. But none of that matters.
I’m only accepting his invitation to see the bard.
P rince Ruairi wasn’t exaggerating when he said this would be an intimate performance. Counting myself and the prince, there aren’t even a full score of people here in the star garden. Unheard of, with the popularity of Cillian Cloudtongue.
My heart beats double-time. Cillian will have no choice but to notice me in a crowd this size. I wonder if I can even bear it, having his gaze upon me so closely!
A little titter shoots past my lips as I think, It really will be like he’s singing to me personally.
I search the little gathering in the treeless garden, peeking around the leafy paths for a sign of the Connacht Bard. Only a sliver of guilt darts through me as my eyes pass easily over the waiting prince. It’s not as though I’m here to see him , after all.
So why does his face light up when he spots me? And why is he striding this way, the very picture of health instead of irritable and squinting after a night of so much faerie wine?
“Queen's Maid Laoise. I’m gratified to see you here.” He bows in response to my unsteady curtsy, my jitters over being so near the Cloudtongue getting the best of me. “And, might I say, a touched surprised, too.”
My brows shoot skyward at that. “Did you not receive my reply? I said I would be here—”
“Of course, Queen's Maid, of course. It’s only—well, I suppose you have no love for me, particularly after last night. You must allow me to apologize again—”
At that precise moment, Cillian Cloudtongue steps into the fore of the star garden as if out of the ether, his lanky limbs already sliding onto the chair that’s been prepared for him. He carries a lute this time, as well-worn as the guitar.
This is what I picture the ancient fae gods looking like. I bet they’d sound like him, too.
In an instant, I forget the prince and find myself drawn deeper into the garden before Cillian can test a single string of the lute. I hear Prince Ruairi speak my name—perhaps I even register a bit of stunned confusion on his part—but I keep walking.
And I take the seat squarely in front of the bard. The one that was probably meant for the prince hosting this performance.
And I don’t even care.
My eyes are still locked on Cillian Cloudtongue, on every perfect curl at the ends of his long, thick hair, as Prince Ruairi settles into the chair next to me. The soft conversation of the other attendees falls away immediately. Skirts rustle as the ladies settle into their own chairs.
I bet they’re jealous of me. I hope they are. Just once, it’s nice to have something these nobles don’t have: the best seat in the garden.
And as the bard looks up, an almost shy smile flashing across his face, I gain something else these fine High Fae ladies lack: the Cloudtongue’s attention.
The moment his eyes find me, it’s like a waterspout dances over my heart. Cillian’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes me in, acknowledging me in a way I almost forgot was possible after so many months in High Queen Fiadh’s service.
For once, I don't feel out of place here, or like a puca literally out of water. Cillian Cloudtongue makes me feel like Laoise of Diarmuid's Row again. And I love him for it all the more.