Chapter Five Kit
Chapter Five
Kit
Four days have passed since the princes left, and Byrne is no less determined to believe that Prince Idris and Catharine are engaged.
From what I understand, an arrangement has been made between the two kings. But according to Catharine, the prince himself said nothing that would make her believe he even cared to propose.
I scoffed at this. “Why would anyone balk about proposing to you?”
“I don’t mind,” Catharine added hastily. “I am only saying what I think.”
But regardless of what she thought, or indeed what might be happening in the prince’s head, Byrne remains no less set on having the match made official in every way. The guest suites had barely been cleaned before the king started talking about the next steps.
“We cannot expect them to return any time soon,” he says to himself over dinner one evening.
“We must press the advantage: Send Catharine at once. King Hugh extended an open invitation to our family to visit the Islands of Skyare whenever we pleased, and of course he meant that particularly for Catharine.”
I glance across the table at my mother, wondering if she will point out how desperate this makes our whole family look. Catharine herself studies her plate with a twist to her mouth that shows her embarrassment. But my mother only watches the king quietly, her eyes bright with calculations.
“We could send Catharine by the end of the week,” my stepfather goes on, caught up in his own plans. “That is plenty of time to prepare and send word. If she stays at least a fortnight, she must have a proposal by the end of it.”
“Won’t such travel impact your session with the council next Thursday?” my mother asks.
He dismisses this with a wave. “I cannot be spared. You will have to accompany Catharine.” He glances from his daughter to my mother, then his gaze lands on me.
I drop my eyes quickly, but not before I see a new idea bloom in his expression.
“Kit should stay here to manage the household while you’re gone. ”
My hands clench in my lap involuntarily, and my chest squeezes my lungs.
A new brace binds my wrist, a stark reminder of what King Byrne is capable of even when we are not alone.
But a fortnight with no one between me and him?
No one to buffer or distract him? I can’t help casting a desperate look at my mother.
To my surprise, she seems pleased. “Yes, that would be an excellent arrangement.”
I stare. I cannot breathe. I cannot follow the conversation as the specifics are sorted.
I hardly seem to be at the same table anymore.
My hands ache as I spread them over my knees.
I concentrate on the fabric of my dress—the fiber of the linen in its tight weave.
I trace the small rise and fall of the threads, trying to feel out a path, trying to find a way to connect each tiny piece.
The dinner ends after an everlasting time. I murmur something about a headache and excuse myself from an evening of reading and piano in the drawing room. My mother follows me out and kisses my forehead on the pretext of checking for a fever.
“Trust me, my darling,” she whispers. “I will keep you safe.”
You haven’t before, I want to say.
“There are greater powers than even a king’s.” She tucks back my hair. “It has only taken me some time to find them. You will be all right.”
I want to ask how in the world she can promise that when she’ll be as far north as land reaches, and I’ll be here.
With him. But before I can venture a question, Catharine steps out to join me.
She pauses, glancing uncertainly at my mother.
As always, Mother immediately turns to stone, stiff and cold as she faces her stepdaughter.
“Catharine, be of some use and help your sister to bed. You might as well retire for the evening, too, as we’ll have no need for you.”
Catharine dips a curtsy. I think my mother means sending Catharine to bed to be a punishment—I don’t know what for; my mother is always reprimanding her—but I am silently grateful. Catharine takes my injured arm gingerly.
I still have Prince Idris’s cravat hidden in one of my trunks.
It was foolish to take and more foolish to keep, but knowing that it is there …
It reminds me of our moment in the ballroom, our own little clearing amidst the chaos.
The shelter we shared together. His kindness to a stranger—his gentleness to me—still sits warm and bright in my chest. And, though it may be silly and improper, I haven’t been able to give up the memento he left with me.
“Are you well, Kit?” Catharine asks as we walk. She rubs my sleeve. “You hardly ate.”
I pause, unable to settle on the right words. Eventually I manage, “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Catharine takes me to my room and stokes the fire while I change into my nightdress. For someone who hadn’t made a fire in her life before we met, she’s become skilled at it. I wrap a blanket round my shoulders and hesitate. I should let Catharine go and rest, but I can’t bear to be alone.
Catharine unties her silk shoes and stands, brushing ash off her skirt. She nudges a few bricks nearer the heat. “Why don’t I call for some tea? Would that help?”
“That sounds nice,” I admit. The tension eases out of my shoulders.
She intends to stay a while longer. I sit on my bed while she rings for the servants.
My insides still feel unsettled. Cold, small.
I can’t decide. I only know that I can’t remain here for two weeks alone.
Absently, I tap my collarbone. “Could you ask your father whether I might come with you?”
“I did,” she says, looking puzzled. “At dinner. Are you sure you’re all right? Should I send for a doctor?”
“Oh,” I murmur. “I must have—been thinking of something else. What did he say?”
“He felt that the house needed your management, and he didn’t think that you would enjoy the travel.”
“Could you press him?” I ask, my voice growing fainter.
“Of course.” She tilts her head, concern clear across her face.
She wants to ask me why this is so important, and I want to say something true.
I want her to suspect. I want the secret out.
But how do you tell your sister that her father makes your skin crawl?
That the man who raised her is a monster?
Would she even believe me? I don’t want to know.
“Is it the princes?” Catharine asks conspiratorially. She perches on the edge of my bed. “You can tell me if that’s why you want to come.”
It is such a simple, sunny idea compared to my reality, I almost laugh.
“You like one of them!” Catharine grins and pokes me in the ribs. “I knew it!”
I long to wrap myself in her world. So I shrug and say, “Believe what you will.”
The servant comes with the tea, and Catharine fixes it for us. She takes the hot bricks and slides them under my blanket.
“Come on then,” she says. “I’ll read a bit.”
I shift back against the pillows. Catharine ducks into her own room to get a book, then returns and climbs up beside me.
Catharine is a great reader. I once enjoyed reading, too, but after my father’s death it became hard somehow.
He always used to read with me, or to me, and once he was gone I just …
didn’t do it anymore. I was out gathering herbs and food.
Or, when I was home, I was spinning wool and helping my mother balance accounts.
By the time I had finished all my tasks, it was dark, and the candlelight on the pages hurt my eyes.
Even when I had time to read, I was always studying almanacs or housekeeping guides.
But Catharine, who grew up with servants to do most of those tasks for her, had much more leisure to read whatever she pleased.
She grew fond of folktales from a young age, and she constantly pulls out some book or other.
I spin faster than her, so when we are left alone to do our work, she often reads while I spin for both of us.
Catharine runs her hand over the leather cover of her book.
On it an embossed silver seal or selkie sits atop a rock in the middle of a troubled sea.
She flips to the first page and its simple map.
The very tip of our own kingdom rests at the bottom.
Aberloche’s highlands are noted with symbols of triangular mountains.
Then there is an expanse of sea, and above that the cluster of the Islands of Skyare.
Skyare, the largest, sits about in the middle.
The outliers—Verron, Glett, Twinehallow—scatter out in mismatched sizes, some as small as dots.
“This is new, isn’t it?” I ask, looking again at the cover. It is well-worn, obviously much read, but I have never seen this volume on her shelves.
“I wanted to read about the northern isles,” she says, looking sheepish. A blush rises in her cheeks. “I mentioned it to Prince Abram and he, ah, left me this.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Oh, did he?”
“He said it was just his travel copy,” she adds hastily. “Nothing important. Meant to be creased and such.”
“Hmm.” It would be easy to tease her further, but I just tuck my cheek against her shoulder. “Go on, then.”
Catharine clears her throat and begins. “The goodman of Kelda in Twinehallow had always mistrusted women, and swore he would never marry …”
I sip my tea, relishing the warmth against my fingers and the hot brick radiating comfort against my thigh.
Catharine reads on, and the story unfolds: An arrogant young man has sworn off women.
He lives only to plow his fields and fish the sea.
His eyes are ever to the task at hand and never on the horizon. Until one night.