Chapter Four Idris #3
“Idris.” Father turns to me. He looks steely, but there’s still a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Why don’t you rest here while we put everything together?”
I’m not sure if he thinks I’m already dying and too frail to pack a bag, or if he thinks leaving me alone with Princess Catharine will lead to a proposal after all. Perhaps he’s hoping for a grandchild before I perish. He’d have better luck rearranging the engagement to replace me with Abram.
Nonetheless, I nod. Anything else would be obstinate. Father leaves as soon as he sees that I mean to stay.
“Can I get you any tea, Prince Idris?” Catharine asks. True takes a sniff at her hem, and she edges away from him.
My stomach remembers suddenly that I haven’t had any breakfast. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”
Catharine steps out of the room to speak to a servant.
She returns almost immediately with a tray of tea things and a plate of the dense cookies popular in this part of the mainland.
True lifts his head in interest and begins wagging his tail pleadingly, but I take Abram’s seat by the spinning wheel and tell True, “Down.”
With a sigh, my dog obeys. Princess Catharine gives a wan smile and begins to pour the tea. Her every move is measured, cool, and controlled. I think of the young woman on the dock and her sudden, unguarded laugh. The way she buried her hands into True’s fur with a grin.
“I hope you’ve found your visit enjoyable,” Catharine says.
I give the required compliments. She converses about the weather I might expect as I travel home.
I make some observations about our horses.
Soon we’re into a conversation so polite, romance wouldn’t be possible even if I did hope to propose.
King Byrne and Queen Mari join us before too long, the king self-assured and pleased, and the queen her cool and quiet self.
Her gaze tracks Catharine the way a hound might watch a rabbit.
Abram and Father return, and the farewells begin.
The queen keeps glancing impatiently toward the door.
I’m not sure if she wishes us gone, but then someone comes hurrying inside.
It’s the girl from the dock, wearing her plain pale-brown dress and her dark jacket.
She’s taken off her bonnet, and her hair frizzes free of its braided bun.
A maid trails behind her and slides into the hallway.
The girl flushes and comes forward.
King Byrne chuckles. “Just in time. Tell our guests goodbye, Princess Katherine.”
Princess Katherine—Kit—the stepsister. I feel like a fool for not realizing it sooner.
But then, she hadn’t been at the dinner when we arrived.
I’m not sure she was ever formally introduced to me, which seems odd.
Or—perhaps we were, when we were surrounded by noise and movement?
As the guests were coming in last night, maybe?
Kit silently crosses in front of the king to reach her mother. If the queen watched Catharine like prey, the king’s lingering gaze on Kit is more like a gambler gloating over his winnings. Kit seems to shrink in front of him.
“We hope you have calm seas and a strong wind,” King Byrne continues, as if he hadn’t just invited Kit to speak. “And we eagerly await our next meeting.”
“You and your family are welcome to the Islands of Skyare any time,” Father says in a distracted tone. “We would be honored to return your hospitality.”
“I’m sure there will be occasion for that soon enough.”
My father and Byrne continue in this way for another few minutes.
I find myself watching Kit. Her carefully composed expression is so far from the genuine ease she showed when we were outside.
While Catharine stands with faultless poise, there is something fragile behind Kit’s carefully compressed lips and downturned eyes.
The kings finally finish their leave-taking.
I kiss the queen’s hand, and then Catharine’s.
No words are spoken between us. I wonder if Catharine is disappointed, but there’s nothing but gentle politeness in her voice when we say farewell.
No regret or sorrow at our parting. I feel little pain at going either.
I think, in another life, we might have been friends.
But I don’t think it could ever have turned to romance, and now I doubt I will ever see her again.
I turn last to Kit and lift her hand to plant a parting kiss on her knuckles. Her wrist is still bound in my cravat. Quietly, releasing her, I say, “I hope you heal quickly, Princess.”
Her gaze darts toward the king and then drops to the floor. She has gone colorless, the way I found her last night. Almost without noticing, she lifts her bound hand and taps her collarbone with her fingertips. “You are kind to say so, Prince, but there is no need for concern. I am hardly hurt.”
King Byrne watches us with keen interest. Kit moves ever so slightly back, ever so slightly behind her mother. My mind flits to last night, to King Byrne dancing with his stepdaughter, holding her hand too tight, then leaving her alone and in pain.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure the injury was a mistake.