Chapter 31
Agatha
I don’t know what came over me, why I felt the need to intertwine my fingers with Lem’s, but now that I have, I can’t very well undo it.
Even though apparently we never were married at all, and Lem’s restored to his real identity as prince—and warrior, apparently?
—and I’ve lost all my gifts. A few weeks ago, I would have been a good match for a prince.
Now … I’m nothing, nothing at all. I’d barely be a fitting wife for Lem in his minstrel state, let alone as Prince Limplemoyne.
The thought should make me draw away, but I don’t. I squeeze his hand a little tighter as we leave the room.
“What about your gifts?” Melusine calls from behind us.
Lem stops without letting go of my hand. “Do you want more time to think?” he asks.
I bite my lip. “I—I don’t know. What should I do?” I meet his gaze shyly, but his frown deepens at my question and he shakes his head.
“You decide for yourself, Agatha.”
I could kiss that man. Tears rise unbidden to my eyes—I do miss the Poise!
—because there in his fierce gaze is an understanding, a welcoming, something that says I see you as you are.
I remember how he told me that he knew the difference in my smiles, and my heart aches with the knowledge that I have fallen in love with this man.
And he’s done his best to be rid of me, despite the understanding gazes.
And I’m ashamed that I long to call for Melusine to restore everything I’ve broken, because perhaps, if I were beautiful and charming and graceful and perfect again, he’d give me another chance. Perhaps he’d let me trail after him to Rhylorria and stay at his side.
I wrench my hand away with a sniff. I’m not going to embarrass myself by begging. But I can’t quite tell Melusine to leave, either. I just … I don’t know. I don’t know.
“I need some time,” I finally say, and I wish my voice were strong and confident and sweet like it used to be.
Lem, who didn’t react at all when I unclasped his hand, nods. “She needs time,” he repeats in his loud, authoritative tone. Melusine giggles and swoops through the hallway after us as we keep walking.
As we near the end of the corridor that leads to the stairs, Lem clears his throat awkwardly. “Er, that is, where are we going?”
“Did you say Henry was in the cellar again?” I try and fail to keep my voice lighthearted. Ugh. Why do I sound like a forlorn baby owl?
At least I can lie now, so I’m not wholly at anyone’s mercy. I try to encourage myself with that.
“Oh. Oh, yes. Right. We should—er, I should get him out. You don’t have to come.”
That unfamiliar sensation of blushing returns. “Did you see him already?” I can only hope Henry didn’t say anything about our previous escape.
Lem’s frown lightens. “We ran into each other.” He glances at me, then away. “He said you were, um, instrumental in escaping?”
My cheeks get even hotter. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to talk about it!”
Melusine traipses behind us in a cloud of teapot shards and curled guitar strings. “Oh, what did you do?”
“I used my Gifts,” I say stiffly. I run my tongue around the inside of my teeth.
This set doesn’t feel nearly strong enough to pry out hinges, which is motivation for us not to linger here.
Mansfield may not be perpetually cowed by the idea of royalty.
I hasten down the corridor and nearly run into Count Chrestowine.
His gaze slides over me before landing on Lem. “If it would please Your Highness,” he says with a bow, “I’d be honored to offer you a place to stay while you get your return journey arranged.”
Lem glances at me, mouth tight, but I shrug. The Count, I notice, did not invite me. “I have a companion still locked in Mansfield’s cellar,” he says gruffly. “He’ll need his own room. Although,” he adds to me, “I doubt he’ll want me out of his sight for quite a while after this.”
I nod. Very reasonable. Just unexpectedly disappointing to think that Lem will be under constant supervision, and I won’t have a chance to say any sort of private good-bye before he returns to Rhylorria.
“I shall retrieve him personally,” the count replies pleasantly. “We are eager to serve.”
“You will be well-repaid when I return to my kingdom.” Lem’s tone is dry. “You have lodging for my wi—for Lady Agatha as well?”
The Count’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Any act of service is an honor.” He bows again and turns to lead the way out of Mansfield’s house.
“I don’t like him,” Lem mutters, leaning his head down toward me.
“Neither do I.” I don’t realize how close he is until I turn my face and come nearly nose-to-nose. Lem draws back immediately, holding out a stiff elbow.
Melusine claps and giggles. I’d forgotten she was there. “Look at you now! Isn’t it nice to speak your mind?”
I purse my lips, but don’t answer. Melusine doesn’t care. “I’ll come along, too.” She prances down the hallway after Chrestowine’s retreating figure. Teapot pieces dance in the air behind her, while the fragments of Lem’s guitar move more sedately.
Lem sighs.
“You sound like you could use a cup of tea,” I say.
“Maybe a whole pot.”
I smile and take his arm, ignoring the butterflies and the heat that rushes to my cheeks, and lead him out of the dusty manor.
The Count barely looks at me as we return to his townhouse, Father and Henry in tow, but he’s still courtly enough—perhaps hoping that I’ll accept my Gifts back and once again be fit to notice.
As soon as we arrive, his bland-faced servants usher us to private rooms to bathe and change.
I linger in the warm water, though I can’t say if it’s because I’m enjoying the luxury of the large copper tub, or because I don’t want to face everyone again.
When I finally drag my water-wrinkled body out of the bath, I find that Melusine’s done something to mend and clean my clothes.
It’s embarrassing how long I spend in front of the mirror, but I’ve never seen my own face before, and I’m fascinated in an uncomfortable way.
I was beautiful—more than beautiful. And now I’m … not.
But I don’t hate my new face. It looks more real, somehow, than the face I grew up flaunting.
I wonder what Lem thinks.
It doesn’t matter. If I couldn’t impress him before, I have no chance now.
When I tear myself away from my own reflection, I’m utterly unremarkable. Almost invisible. None of the servants take any notice of me as I make my way through the count’s house.
It’s … freeing?
But it’s also intimidating. Who am I, if not Lady Agatha, gifted beyond compare? What will I do, if not marry a man to grace his life with my charms? Who will want me if I’m ordinary? How will I support myself without the Gift of Song or Art?
I should ask Melusine to give my Gifts back. And then I suppose I should marry Chrestowine. He’s tolerable, and what else do I have to do?
I should, but …
I shiver slightly as I pass through a hallway.
Although the day was so warm, nights in Candor always cool off quickly.
A gentle draft from an open door wafts the scent of strong tea to me.
I follow my nose and find myself exiting the back of the count’s house to emerge in a little courtyard.
Lem sits on a low stone wall, his back to a raised bed of vivid white-and-yellow violets, holding a teacup with steam rising off it in tantalizing curls.
A tray with a teapot and, I note, an empty teacup, sits beside him.
He looks up when he hears me approaching.
I really should ask Melusine for my Gifts back.
I didn’t realize just how much the Poise suppressed.
Sweaty palms, speeding heart, flushing face—all of it swarms me at once, and it’s terribly uncomfortable.
And worst of all, I’m afraid Lem knows. He’ll see straight through me now and know how inadequate I really am.
“Would you like to join me for tea?” He sounds as awkward as I feel. Indicating a place beside him on the wide stone wall, he adds, “I have, uh, tea.”
“The magic words,” I say with an attempt at lightness, hoping Lem will attribute the warmth spreading over my face to the ruddy sunlight and not any silly emotions.
The scowl lines around his mouth relax as I perch next to him and accept the cup he pours and hands to me, our fingers grazing around the porcelain.
I inhale, letting the warm, slightly-spicy scent fill my nostrils as the cool air caresses my shoulders.
I shiver—from the delight at having good tea, or from the evening air, or from Lem’s nearness—who can say?
“Are you cold?” Lem asks. He balances his teacup on the wall next to him and begins shrugging off his jacket.
If I were still Gifted, I’d be able to give a charming, disarming smile and flutter my eyelashes just so and convince him that I was completely unmoved by the gesture.
Since I am not, I only blink and stammer as he leans closer to wrap the jacket around me.
“You smell better,” I blurt.
He stops, arm still wrapped around my shoulders. “I was hoping you’d notice.”
I scowl, because it seems like the only thing I can do if I want to retain any of my composure.
If he were anyone else, I’d say he was flirting.
But it’s Lem. I doubt he knows the word.
Frustrating man. Making me feel like this right before he picks up and leaves for his big fancy Rhylorrian palace.
It’s probably got a whole storehouse of tea leaves attached to it, too.
Lem withdraws, and I regret it immediately. So what if he’s about to leave me? I should grasp every scrap I can get, then, instead of pushing him away. I burrow into his jacket, trying to pretend his arm is still around me, and take a sip of tea.
It’s delightful. Count Chrestowine must be anxious to impress Lem. I close my eyes and savor the comforting warmth.
Lem clears his throat. “Agatha.”
I don’t open my eyes. If I don’t look at him, I can pretend this isn’t happening.
I don’t have to admit that we’re about to go our separate ways and I’ll be alone and unseen and invisible again, unless I ask Melusine for my Gifts back and let someone else—Chrestowine, I guess, because he does have good tea—put me on a little display stand, like Father had, and I’ll spend the rest of my life there wreathed in brittle smiles and charming laughs and—
“Where is Henry?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the drab vision of my future.
“I asked him to give us some, er, privacy. We should talk.”
I force my eyes open and nod, looking at the teacup cradled in my hands. “I suppose so.”
“It looks like I’m the prince again.” Lem’s voice is deep and discontent. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him twisting his teacup nervously.
“You’ll be a fine king.”
“You got your lies back, I see,” Lem says with a grunt. “But that’s not—anyhow. What are you going to tell your godmother?”
I twist my own teacup, flattening my lips. “I haven’t decided yet,” I lie.
That feels different. It’s been a while since I tasted the sourness of deceit. I don’t like it anymore.
Lem is quiet. I take a too-fast sip of tea and burn my tongue before setting the cup aside. “You don’t have to tell me,” he finally says. “I only thought …”
Against my better judgment, I angle my knees toward him until we’re nearly touching. Pathetic, Agatha. There’s no reason for my heart to leap so, just because he sounds disappointed at my refusal to confide in him, as if my opinion was something he actually cared to hear.
“Never mind,” he finishes, looking away. The scar on his cheek shines in the evening light. I wish I could kiss it. How would it feel beneath my lips? Would the touch smooth some of those lines off his face, or would he push me away?
I resist the urge, but follow a different, foolish impulse and lay a hand on his knee. “What were you going to say?”
He looks from my hand to my face. I must be completely rose-red by now. “I thought we were … something.” He huffs a bitter, mocking laugh and turns away again. “Pathetic, I know. Just because your father forced me on you doesn’t mean …”
My heart pounds. He’s not saying—or is he saying?—but if he were, wouldn’t that mean—and certainly he can’t—
My fingers curl a trifle tighter as he looks back to me.
“Agatha.”
And I know I’m the pathetic one, throwing myself at a prince when I have nothing to offer, but I can’t resist his deep-set eyes and his lined forehead and his perpetual frown any longer.
I lean forward to close the distance between us and kiss him, tea all forgotten.