Page 16 of The Prince or the Bard?
While the maids tuck the food away into one of three lidded baskets—this one home to a lavish spread of fruit, cheese and dried meat—I pack the delicate dishes as if slinging mud. I keep thinking how quickly this little beach, hemmed by high rock on all sides, will fill with water. So the very moment I cannot see the prince and the lady any longer, I tell Taliana’s servants, “Go on to the stairs. I’ll bring the rest to you.”
“You cannot pack it all yourself,” says one of the manservants, his two sets of wings fluttering nervously at his back. “The awning needs all of us—”
“Then take the awning now!”
“If the poles fall before the dishes are all packed, it’ll crack them!” one of the maids protests.
I roll my eyes toward the sea, asking for help from its goddess.
“All of you, just go!”
One of the maids stares back at me solemnly, neither helping nor fleeing. “We have orders, miss.”
I huff, then redouble my efforts, packing silver cups and searching for a place to set the wine in the basket. The maids make noises of protest, until one gasps. Then all of them are packing baskets any which way. Put together, they're at least the size of the chest containing the queen’s wardrobe.
What frivolity. It’s clear that Lady Taliana wished to impress the prince. And why wouldn’t she? A prince would be a fine match for anyone.
Anyone but a púca.
I shove one of the baskets shut, just barely able to latch it. The others are finishing just as water soaks into their slippers.
With a nod to the footmen, I follow the others’ lead, lifting the awning's support poles from the sand in unison. We walk them inward until they meet; I assist the smallest maid, who looks more like a lady’s companion and doubtless was only meant to chaperone, while the footmen pull the fabric from the top of the awning, rolling it until it can be set into the remaining lidded basket.
“Go,” I urge them all.
They’re worryingly slow with the baskets, and the tide creeps to the bottom step just as they reach it. Soon, the rough stairs will be too slippery to manage with their burdens.
“I’ll take the tent poles,” I offer, picking the most ungainly load.
“I can’t let you go last,” argues one of the footmen, but I shake my head.
“I won’t drown,” I remind him, “but you might. Go.”
With a wide-eyed glance at the sea, he follows the rest, leaving me with four metal poles licked by saltwater. They’ll be rusted in no time—yet I make my way up the first few steps with them, knowing it could be trouble for these servants if anything is left behind.
Stupid prince. Why didn’t you say something? Why humor a noble lady instead of thinking of everyone’s safety?
Jaw clenched, grip tight upon the awning's supports, I take one agonizing step at a time, trying not to pitch the ends of the metal tubes into the encroaching rocks. I may not be able to drown, but that doesn’t mean I won’t crack my head.
I'm up the stone stairs now, with a steeper half yet to go. The other servants are well ahead of me. With a bitten-off curse, I set my burden down, removing my shoes and shoving them down my dress front, behind my stomacher. They stick up oddly, marking my lips with sand and salt, and it does little to help with the situation. Except that I am just a little more surefooted now.
Would that I’d just chucked these stupid shoes into the sea. They’re probably ruined now anyway. Fancy slippers are like that—expensive and not good for much.
As I struggle upward, I feel a tug at the back of my skirt.The tide.
At the pace I'm going, it will be lapping at my knees before I get much higher. With a nod of apology at Taliana’s servants, who are just now reaching the top, I am about to set the bundled supports down when a figure appears on the cliffside path. Squeezing around the servants as if these were the wide, flat steps within the castle, he races down the stairs.
Prince Ruairí.
And there, with her hands squeezed together on the path above us, is Lady Taliana. More than the shadows darken the look she fields me.
“Is that some kind of púca fashion?” the prince asks of the shoes protruding from my neckline.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
With nothing further than that cocky half smile of his, he grips the awning poles, sliding them higher so he can carry them under one arm.
I follow behind him, barely holding my tongue. It has barbed words perched on its very tip, aimed at everyone involved in this ridiculous debacle.
