Chapter Seven Kit #2
Byrne. I turn, stiffening. He has risen from his desk and is coming toward me with a smile. There is nothing but familial care in his gaze.
“You were gone a while!” he exclaims and leans forward to kiss my hair.
I step back without thinking, my pulse dizzy-fast. His smile wavers.
“We were—” My words sound unnatural in Catharine’s voice, more unnatural somehow now that I am speaking to someone who doesn’t know who I am.
I scramble for the way she would phrase it.
“We were delayed in getting Kit’s pelisse.
It still needs to be hemmed a few inches, and M—Her Majesty wished to have it done while we were there. ”
“And where is my stepdaughter?” he says, looking over my shoulder.
Mother is in the hall behind me. She sighs. “Kit has set off on a walk, though I told her not to. She will exhaust herself and likely go straight to bed when she gets home.”
“Hmm.” This seems acceptable to Byrne. He returns his attention to me, and I manage to not flinch away. I try to fix a comfortable smile on my face. It feels like a grimace. A knot of confusion draws his brows together.
“My head is hurting,” I say quickly. “I think I’ll just go lie down.”
“Very well.” This time, he places his hands on my shoulders before he leans forward.
I’ve no way to escape without jerking out of his grip.
It isn’t strong—I could easily break it; it’s only meant to convey gentle affection, not to imprison.
But Catharine would not shy away. Catharine would not shrink from the pine smell of him.
When he touches his lips to my forehead, I want to vanish.
To fold into myself until I am invisible.
But I hold myself still. Upright.
He leans back again. It must have only been a moment. I feel winded, as if I’ve just wrestled a horse.
“Rest,” he says. “And I will see you when you are better.”
“That may not be until tomorrow morning,” I say, my voice hollow. “I will probably have dinner brought up to my room.”
He nods. “Send word if you need anything.” He hesitates, then adds reluctantly, “We can delay the trip, if necessary.”
“I don’t think there will be any need for that.” Again, I try to smile. I cannot afford to draw too much attention to myself.
“A bit of rest will have her bright as a blossom in no time,” Mother says, taking my elbow and steering me back to the hallway.
“Mari,” Byrne says, “once she is settled, I would like you to come back here. We have matters to discuss before you leave tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Mother drops him a shallow curtsy and then walks me away.
My hands shake, and I clench them closed. In Catharine’s body, I am not in danger. But if Catharine had come back in mine …
Mother opens the door to Catharine’s room and gestures grandly to the finer bed, the finer furniture. “All the comforts you deserve at last.”
I step inside, hardly seeing any of these familiar objects. I can’t bear to look at my mother. Anger and disgust roar in my ears, and I can’t seem to find the words to release them.
Mother gives me a swift hug, which I do not return. She takes a look at my face and sighs at whatever she reads there. “You will understand one day,” she says, patting my arms. “Now get some rest.”
She leaves the room. I grab one of Catharine’s fine pillows and wail into it, wail until I have no breath. Then I sit there, gasping, the pillow to my chest and tears in my eyes.
My mother is lost to me. She has gone so far from protecting me—she has made it all worse. I never wanted to be free just so someone else could take my place.
I have to help Catharine.
I lay out two bags and select one for Catharine.
In her room, I pack everything that seems useful—socks, a blanket, sturdy boots, and small trinkets to sell.
Catharine has a map on her desk—I fold it carefully into my reticule.
Last, I add Catharine’s book of northern folktales.
We may need them if we are able to find the Hidden Folk. That’s one bag full.
From my old room I take gloves, a woolen dress, and a compass.
Catharine does not keep money—a princess does not need coins—but I have some stashed away in my desk drawer.
Not enough for comfort, but maybe enough to get us north.
I root through my trunk, searching for a spare cloak.
Instead, tucked into the farthest corner, my hands come across a strip of silk. Prince Idris’s cravat.
I tug it free. I run my thumb over the crumpled cloth, tracing delicate white embroidery—nearly invisible against the equally white fabric—and remember the warmth of it as he bound my wrist. The heat of his skin, even though he never quite touched me.
I stuff the cravat into my bag with everything else without letting myself consider why. Knowing it’s there gives me an extra measure of comfort, and any further introspection would be a waste of precious time.
On my way back to Catharine’s room, I catch a servant and request a hearty meal. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food. I’d forgotten I hadn’t eaten anything today, and now it’s nearly sunset. But I’ll have to be careful not to eat too much tonight.
Once I’ve wrapped up everything I can carry, including most of my dinner, I sit at Catharine’s desk. The quill is easier to hold with Catharine’s hand. I’ll leave Byrne a note from Catharine to let him know she has run away south. Hopefully that will buy us extra time.
Dear
The letters come out strangely. Not quite the elegant script Catharine uses, but not quite my hasty scrawl either.
Dear Father
It’s no use. My mind wants to form my own familiar writing, but this body wants to maneuver the pen like Catharine.
An ache pounds behind my eyes. I throw the piece of paper in the fire, grab a new sheet and start again.
Perhaps, for what I have in mind, it is best that no one recognizes this writing as being either mine or Catharine’s.
Princess Catharine–
Thank you for your inquiry and deposit. The route via the River Lems will be the safest. Passage has been booked in Burghen. We eagerly await your arrival.
It is three days’ journey by foot to the docks and five days’ downriver to Chiphaven. From there–Rourne? Garci? Karistan? All ways are open with the right funds. Do let us know if you require more details.
South. All ways south. While we fly to the north.
Byrne knows his daughter is fanciful. Hopefully it will not be such a stretch of his imagination to believe she has taken off in pursuit of her own romantic story. I stick the piece of paper in one of Catharine’s travel books, then set it on the desk for him to find once we are gone.
I settle to wait for night and the cover it will bring.
I know I should probably try to sleep, to store up my strength, but I can’t stop thinking of Catharine out there, waiting.
I told her to get some food from town, and I showed her a sheltered grove in the wood where she could hide.
She will be dry and warm enough in my new pelisse.
But she isn’t used to harsh things, to discomfort, to cold.
And she is in my body, which I know will ache and protest.
Finally—finally—night comes. The castle quiets. I put the two bags over my shoulders and slip out.
I move into one of the side passages, following the narrow turning steps downward by feel more than sight.
I emerge near the kitchens. At this time, the servants will be having their own dinner.
Voices murmur, the cook’s louder than the others’.
I think a quiet farewell to them as I turn to the door.
My time here was not all good, but I was cared for.
I was looked after. And it will be an adjustment to go back to a life without these luxuries.
I step into the courtyard and skirt the darkest edges to the gate. If I knew for sure there were no stablehands about, I might have taken our horses—but it is enough of a risk just for me, alone, to sneak out. Stealing two mares would be asking for trouble.
The castle gate remains open. Byrne has a hospitable streak and likes the gates open until the main household has gone to bed, so that any weary traveler might have easy access. The guard who will attend the gate through the night isn’t here yet.
It is a simple thing to step through. And yet, I find myself pausing. Looking back.
Even before my father died, my mother and I were all we had. She was the one who stayed home with me, who educated and comforted me. She bandaged my fingertips when I pricked them while embroidering. She washed my hair in a basin and taught me how to tie rags to get a suitable curl.
She bet on me, counting on the fact that, when it came down to it, I would choose her.
Is it wrong of me to choose Catharine?
I look again at my hand—Catharine’s hand. Flawless and strong.
Mother may have been trying to help me, but she has hurt someone else to do it.
And I don’t want more people hurt. Maybe, someday, I can forgive her.
But now I have to protect Catharine. She did nothing to deserve this.
And doesn’t it make me a little like Byrne if I leave Catharine trapped in the wasting he started?
“Goodbye,” I whisper to the castle, and to my mother, and to all the good and bad tangled with them.
Moor, marsh, mountain. Our journey is three days in the taking and many more ahead.
We have passed the boundaries of the land I know and now walk through the brown grass with fog and frost tugging at our skirt hems. I keep my compass out, held in this new hand that does not ache. Constantly I check for northeast.
Gray rocks poke out of the next hill like old bones. No, not rocks—ruins. I lift my arm, mutely pointing. Catharine makes a quiet humming noise, agreeing. The day is waning, and the wind is picking up. We can shelter there overnight.