Chapter 10 The Patch of Ramps #2
I wait for him to confess, but he just stands there mulishly, so I let the act drop.
“I know you had a run-in with a godmother,” I say, “and I can tell she put some sort of curse on you so you can’t say your actual name.
You aren’t a minstrel, and you don’t live around here.
The only reason anyone visits this area is to meet me, so …
” I trail off, and my eyes widen. “You’re one of my birthday guests!
” I stand, forgetting my blistered feet for the moment.
“Did Melusine curse you for how you treated me?”
“How I treated you?” the beggar replies with indignation. “You’re the one who said I was—” He stops himself with a frown.
I allow myself a victorious smile. I was right.
Though that does mean my companion isn’t just an odious faux-minstrel; he’s one of my suitors. I’m not sure which is worse.
“What did I say about you?” I ask. I need to know who I’m dealing with. Not Sir Rosefield or Lord Pandretta, surely; even Melusine couldn’t make them so sprightly. Hurdebrooke would’ve been much more handsy, and Turneyblade or Mansfield would have taken the opportunity to beat me by now.
The beggar—no, Lem—wait.
“Ugh.” I drop my head into my hands. “You’re the blasted prince?”
He stares at me in surprise. “How did you figure it out?”
“Lem really isn’t a very creative alter,” I say. “Frankly, I’m embarrassed I missed it before.” I prop my hands on my hips. “I suppose you think I should act more respectfully now, your highness?”
The prince flattens his lips and looks downstream. “Yes, well, I’m certainly not a”—he chokes on the next word, but recovers quickly—“I’m not anything but this now.” He gestures at himself in his minstrel outfit, guitar still flung heedlessly over his back.
“She changed you, somehow?” I say. “But why?”
The prince’s expression turns dark. “It’s really none of your business.”
“Except, technically, you are my husband now.” I rely on my ever-present Poise to keep my face serene when I say this.
He, ungifted, reddens again. “That couldn’t have been legal,” he says. “And if you think you found an easy way to become a princess—I’m sorry, but that’s not how this is going to work.”
“How is it going to work, then?”
“First”—he draws himself up in what I imagine is supposed to be a regal air; if it is, Melusine was right to strip his title from him—“first, my disappearance is going to be noted very soon, so we are going to find the man I traveled with as quickly as possible. Then, we’ll have this nonsense annulled.
I’ll go home, and you can do whatever you want. I don’t particularly care.”
I really do need to have a word with the Council of Godmothers. Why didn’t Melusine make me less sensitive? Why do I feel hurt by a rejection that should mean nothing to me?
I smile wordlessly, afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll say something I regret.
I stand and take a sip from my teapot. Once I’m sure I’ve got my thoughts in order, I venture, “I see.” When my words don’t betray me, I sigh with relief.
I refasten my teapot at my side and face the prince.
“Why take me along at all, then? You can just leave me here.”
“Don’t think I’m not tempted,” he snaps. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m technically responsible for you until we get this officially annulled, or whatever, so I’m afraid we’re stuck together for another day at least. Will that be too much for you, my lady?”
I favor him with the most condescending smile I have. And it’s very condescending—I’ve used it to great effect on some upstart young lords before. Put them in their place quite rapidly.
The prince, however, only becomes more annoyed. “We’re wasting time,” he grumbles. “How do we get back to Rhylorria?”
“We can’t get back to Rhylorria.” I’m also annoyed, enough to speak frankly. “We’d have to go past Father’s estate again, and I don’t want—” I swallow my next thoughts. I don’t want to know if he actually hates me now.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. “Can’t believe you took us the wrong way.”
“I don’t remember you giving me any sort of direction!”
“I don’t remember you acknowledging me enough to ask!”
“What did you expect?” I take a step closer in my anger. “I’d just been thrown out, like a bit of table scraps to a hungry dog! My father—Father—gave me away—” I choke on a sob and whirl, embarrassed that Melusine’s stupid curse made me reveal so much.
Gravel shuffles behind me. The prince’s presence looms over my shoulder. “Agatha, I’m sorry—”
I don’t want to hear his soft, insincere apologies. “You can go back if you want,” I say stiffly. “I’m not.”
“I can’t leave you here!” His soft tone begins to evaporate.
I step resolutely down the bank of the stream.
“Agatha!”
I don’t look around.
The gravel crunches as he rushes to follow me. “Where are you going?”
Ah, there’s that familiar grumble. I can handle grumbling; I can’t handle pity.
I compose myself and focus my thoughts. I can’t indulge in these stray outbursts if I hope to keep any self-respect. “I think this stream crosses the lower mountain road at some point,” I say. “That will lead around the base of the mountain, so you can get to your precious Rhylorria. Eventually.”
“Eventually?” The prince catches up and walks next to me, glaring at me from the corner of his eye. “Eventually isn’t going to be soon enough! If Henry can’t find me, he’ll do … I don’t know. Something.”
I don’t reply until it’s clear that he doesn’t have anything more intelligent to say. “It’s a well-traveled road. We might be able to get a ride with someone, as long as you don’t say anything stupid.”
I can’t help this last bit. It just hops out, quite unintended.
“I’m sure everyone will be falling all over themselves to help you, Lady … uh … Insult-er.”
“Is that really all you could come up with?” I stop walking to stare at the prince. “Pathetic.”
He’s flushing again and won’t meet my eye. “I find it hard to put into words just how much I dislike you, Agatha.”
“Not much of a speaker, are you? Unfortunate for a prince.”
He growls. “Just keep walking.”
I’ve pressed him far enough, and besides, I’m getting agitated. There’s no telling what I’ll admit if I keep talking. I clamp my lips together and stalk away.