Page 63 of The Forgotten Prince

Picking anxiously at a biscuit with her free hand, Gwendolyn averted her gaze when he tried to peer into her eyes. Only when he returned his attention to the Púca did she relax. Meanwhile, the Púca stopped singing, and the dining hall chatter, without the accompaniment of music, had a more soothing effect on Gwendolyn, reminding her of the dinner hour in Trevena’s hall. It wasn’t so long ago her worst problem was how she was going to get away from her mother long enough to ride, swim, or hunt. At the moment, she would give anything to be away from this hall in search of the one person she had spent so much effort to avoid.

On the stool in the center of the room, the three headed beast shifted form into the shape of a horse’s tail, flicking with annoyance—only the horse’s tail, mind you, no torso, no head, no neck, or limbs. Somehow, that tail clung to the stool, all the while swishing back and forth, as though it could read Gwendolyn’s mood and she watched it, wondering why a horsetail. She would have asked Málik but didn’t wish to make polite conversation with him—not now when her emotions were in such tumult. And despite this, she was aware of his every move made, every gesture… the way he held his goblet… and the way he fingered the odd wedge of yellow fruit that reminded Gwendolyn of a lime. And she was so focused on Málik she had somehow missed the salver behind the yellow fruit… until now.

Hob cake, and no matter, she daren’t take a single bite—not an easy feat, when every morsel she had ever consumed was like reliving a lovely memory.

Following her gaze, Málik said, “I am surprised you’ve refrained.” He flicked a finger at the Hob cake.

Meanwhile, on the dais, the horse’s tail whipped.

“That’s the thing,” Gwendolyn said, with meaning. “I perhaps like it too well. I should endeavor to resist.”

Swish went the horse’s tail.

“I mustn’t forget how it affects me—to my undoing. It seems so innocuous, though I have learned it is not, and I—” She corrected herself, smiling ruefully. “We cannot afford for me to lie abed for days now, can we? Nor am I willing to court any more pookie dreams.”

“A bite shouldn’t hurt.”

What about you? Will you do me harm, Málik? Would you oppose me? After everything you have said—after all we have suffered?

The questions caught in Gwendolyn’s throat, making it burn.

But that was the thing. Already, she was hurt, and if he took his blade and slit her throat, her heart would not bleed any more or less.

“Last time, the pookies compounded the effects. I requested they not be served you this eve.” He gave her a playful wink, and Gwendolyn said, “Thank you.” But what else had he warned the Druids not to say or do?

Was he the reason they would not allow her to cross the Veil?

Was he pretending to be her ally, all the while working at cross-purposes? For all this time, Gwendolyn had suspected Esme of doing just so, but never once did she suspect it of Málik. Gwendolyn had trusted him implicitly. How dare he look at her now and make her feel like the worst of villains for lying to him, when she knew he was lying to her still?

How came you to be in my father’s employ?

I was sent.

By whom?

My father.

Swish, swish went the horse’s tail.

Gwendolyn offered a half-hearted attempt at a smile. “Apparently, Bryn is taken with the Hob cake,” she allowed.

Swish, swish.

“For all we know, that is why he’s not in attendance tonight. He’s like to be flat on his face in bed, and we can’t have two drunk on Hob cake, can we?”

Swish, swish.

Málik laughed, the tenor rich and low—an achingly familiar sound Gwendolyn hadn’t heard in far too long. But how could he laugh when her heart was breaking?

Swish, swish.

“Really,” she said, animated now. “I found him loitering in the cookhouse, of all places. Who knows how many cakes that greedy pig has consumed?”

“He’ll be fine,” Málik reassured. “A nap will do him good. It was a grueling journey north. He should rest, and so should you.”

Swish, swish.

“You needn’t worry about me,” Gwendolyn said, noticing only belatedly that Deartháir Harri was also missing from this hall, and she wondered where he might be. “How well do you know Deartháir Harri?” she asked, changing the subject to something less indicting.

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