Chapter Nine Kit
Chapter Nine
Kit
“Catharine?” he says, eyes wide.
True lets out a bark of joy and starts sniffing me all over.
I swallow, hoping I’ve made the right choice in revealing myself. He seemed distressed. Unwell. And like that first morning, when he leaned into the wind from the castle window, I couldn’t leave him on his own. Though this time, I’ve actually let him know I am here.
“It … How are you …?” The prince tries to push himself up, but his legs give way.
I catch his arm to keep him from falling again. He is cold; I can tell even through the greatcoat. It’s almost as if it radiates from within him. His tanned skin is paler than I remember, and there’s a sleepless gauntness to his face. He’s still staring at me.
“It—it’s a complicated story,” I explain ineloquently.
A hook pricks in my throat. Mother said that Speir ensured Catharine and I could not explain the spell, curse, whatever this is, to anyone uninvolved.
This is the first time I have tried to go against it, and I wonder if this sharp feeling is Speir’s magic.
Shaking away the thought, I add, “I can explain, but—you aren’t well. Are you by yourself out here?”
“Abram.” He waves vaguely in the direction behind him.
I straighten, trying to spot his brother, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Idris puts a hand on the ground to steady himself. I cannot very well leave him.
“I can send Cath—” The hook in my throat digs at the word, so piercing and sudden I almost gasp. I wet my lips and try again. “I can send my sister to find him. Let me help you. Mrs. Westness’s croft is not far from here, and she has a fire going.”
“How do you know …?”
I stand carefully and take his arm to guide him up. “I’ll tell you as we go. Come now.”
He stands with my help and then releases my hand to walk on his own. He’s still wobbling, like he’s been too deep in drink. I push propriety aside and firmly take his arm again. He glances at me, surprised, and I feel my face heat.
“I find the terrain here rather unsteady,” I say, lifting my chin. “I would appreciate your assistance.”
He laughs, sudden and short. “That’s kind of you, but you can just say I’m being a proud fool.”
I smile and say nothing. Pride may be foolish when all you need is support, but I know what it is to rely on someone else for something so little, so ordinary, it feels like defeat to even ask.
We make our way onto a path, True bounding ahead.
This is where I was when I saw Idris below, bending over that thing covered in kelp.
He would have been difficult to recognize, swallowed in his coat, but True gave him away.
I meant to hurry back to the croft before he saw me.
After all, he could reveal us to Byrne with one simple message.
But then he stumbled, almost collapsed, and I made my choice. Now I’ll just have to live with it.
After a moment’s pause, Idris asks, “So how did you get here?”
“By boat,” I joke, stalling for time.
“Better than swimming.” He casts me a curious look again. I’m not sure what it means.
“Circumstances were such that we … needed to leave,” I say slowly. I’m still not sure how much of the truth is possible—or wise—to confess.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
I glance at him, leaning on my arm and still struggling over the relatively flat terrain. “I’m … not sure.”
“Solving mysterious fleeing-home situations is my cup of tea.” He nods toward the ground. “Walking—now, that’s the difficult stuff.”
A sudden, bright laugh bursts out of me. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in Catharine’s body, and the pitch of it isn’t mine—but there’s something familiar in the rhythm. I cover my mouth with my free hand, holding that spark of joy against my lips. I feel lighter for it.
Idris is studying me. “You seem … different.”
The hook waits in my throat. Now that I’ve felt it once, I can sense its presence even without treading near the curse. I wonder, if I gave a sign, if I nudged him in the right direction, whether it would slice my throat. I lower my hand but say nothing.
“How long have you been here?” he asks.
Finally, a question I can answer with no trouble. “Only a couple of days.”
We come into sight of Mrs. Westness’s croft.
Smoke rises from the chimney in a comforting, steady flow.
Beyond, the land is rolling and empty, save for a flock of sheep and a few jagged stones cutting into the sky on a far hill.
Today was the first time I felt well enough to explore, though Catharine has been out a few times. I slow a little to take in the view.
“What are those?” I ask, pointing toward the horizon.
“Standing stones,” Idris says. “There are a lot around here.”
“What are they for?”
Idris shrugs. “The sheep use them as back-scratchers, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t their original purpose.”
With a smile, I lower my gaze to the small front door of the croft and reach for the latch. True cuts in front of us to enter first. Idris goes in second, and I close the door behind us.
“Oh!” Catharine rises from beside the peat fire. She stares at Idris and me, then drops a precise curtsy. “Prince Idris.”
“Hello, Princess Katherine—or, should I call you Princess Kit?” Idris looks between us. “That must get confusing.”
Catharine opens her mouth—to correct him, I think—but winces suddenly and touches her throat. There is an awkward moment of silence.
“Is Mrs. Westness gone?” I ask, brushing past his question. I help Idris into a straw-woven chair by the fire. Mr. Westness left last night to return to the mainland, saying something about getting in before the next storm.
“Yes, she went out to gather peat.” Catharine goes to pour a drink, but I catch her. She hasn’t tried to maneuver a heavy stoneware jug in her aching fingers yet, and I know it’s far from pleasant.
“I can do that,” I offer, “if you wouldn’t mind going to find Prince Abram. He’s out on the shore, down west.” I glance at Idris for confirmation, and he nods. “He’ll likely be worried if he discovers Idris is gone.”
Catharine’s eyes brighten at the mention of Abram. But she lowers her voice. “I’m not sure that would be entirely … I wouldn’t want to leave you unchaperoned.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “It will only be for a few minutes.”
“Well, I suppose,” Catharine agrees reluctantly. “I’ll be quick while you see to Prince Idris.” She emphasizes the prince bit gently, more a reminder than a correction.
“Right, of course.” I help her into her pelisse and latch the door behind her.
My body tenses unexpectedly. With my back to Idris, I am suddenly keenly aware that I am alone.
Enclosed. That he is a few feet away from me.
That he is watching me. But the poison of terror isn’t coming from Idris.
It is the shadow cast by my memories of another man.
I force myself to breathe. My fingers find my collarbone, and I start tapping. I am safe. And I can leave if I want.
I don’t want to leave. I want to help him.
A drink might be a start. Mrs. Westness cannot afford tea, and the water here isn’t good on its own, but she has an extremely weak ale that she calls “small beer.”
Still tapping, I collect the jug of small beer and take a mug from the shelf.
The movement uncoils my fear, and the room comes back into focus.
Prince Idris’s keen gaze follows me. I wonder whether the attention is just something this body inspires, whether it is this way with all men and Catharine.
But I hope he is seeing something more than that, something of the truth.
As I pass him a full mug, I am struck by how the weight of the cup does not strain my fingers.
“Can I ask why you left home?” he ventures.
“It was no longer safe for us.” Even that simple statement tugs the barb in my throat that prevents me from speaking.
From what my mother said, he spoke to Speir—so he must know something of the Hidden Folk, and maybe something about how to break a curse.
But how can I ask when I can’t speak enough words to hint at what truly happened?
I sit in Catharine’s chair, cradling my own mug between my hands.
True lies down on the floor between us, his rump near Idris’s foot and his nose on mine.
Idris frowns at the fireplace. The flames put a glow in his face that only darkens the skin beneath his eyes. He has pleasant eyes, remarkably serious when he doesn’t smile. I wonder what has caused this change in him, but I don’t know if it is my place to ask.
Before I can decide what to say next, he glances at me. I dart my gaze away before we can make eye contact. My heart pounds.
After a moment, he asks, “Did something happen at the ball? Something—with the king?”
I sit up, surprised. Perhaps he is more observant than I gave him credit for.
“Your father,” he begins, and I wince at the words. He pauses and then goes on, uncertainly, “I thought … I wondered whether he was … entirely kind to Kit.”
“Please don’t say that in front of my sister.
” I glance toward the door. I haven’t told Catharine, still.
How could I tell her, after my mother has done this to us?
It would seem as if I were trying to make our parents equal in their wrongness.
I would be taking away Catharine’s last comfort.
And, worse than all of that, I would be asking her to believe me—choose me—over her only living family.
I have made that choice for myself. I have chosen her, but I dread what she might decide.