Page 3 of The Prince or the Bard?
I break the seal hastily, shocked by the pristine handwriting that adorns it. Even the high queen doesn’t write this prettily. When my eyes jump to the signature at the bottom, I could swear I'm still asleep.
It’s from Prince Ruairi.
I read his name a good dozen times before I can convince myself of what it says.
Why would the layabout prince be sending a note tome?
Dear Queen's Maid Laoise,
It would honor me if you would accompany me to the star garden this afternoon for an intimate performance by the bard Cillian called Cloudtongue. The performance shall occur promptly following the queen’s luncheon.
I pray that you will accept, so that I might make up for my behavior of the previous night.
Yours,
H.R.H. Ruairi Connor
My cheeks begin to burn at the very thought of hearing the Cloudtongue perform again. And anintimateperformance! Doesn’t that mean I would be sitting so much closer to Cillian? Close enough, even, for him to notice me?
Then reality douses me with frigid waters and I’m left shaking my head. Why would the high king's younger brother invitemeto a musical performance? With all he drank last night, I’m shocked Prince Ruairi even remembers he tried to kiss me.
That he tried to kiss me and somehow made a fool out of usboth.
This makes not a lick of sense. But it's true: Prince Ruairi does owe me.
My heart beats a little quicker when I realize how well this has been planned. The hour after the queen dines with her ladies-in-waiting, when she retires to her rooms for a rest, is the only other time I have to myself until after she goes to bed. Did Prince Ruairi know that? Was he asking about me?
Still filled with unease—and, I’ll admit, a bit of excitement, too—I hurry to light a candle so I can pen my reply. I write it in haste, having no time for careful penmanship as the prince evidently does.
Just before I reach for my own, colorless wax, a prickle creeps up the back of my neck.
The prince couldn’t have written the note himself, could he? Not only for the care such handwriting takes, but for his indulgence at the revel. He should be abed, drooling onto his silken pillows.
Unless he never went to bed.
Everyone at the high court knows Prince Ruairi’s reputation. A heavy drinker, a late sleeper and an indulgent person through and through. He must have used a scribe.
Why do I even care? It's justodd. Prince Ruairi and diligent penmanship—diligentanythingdo not go together.
I won’t say I’m not intrigued by him or his invitation, either. But none of that matters.
I’m only accepting his invitation to see the bard.
Prince Ruairi wasn’t exaggeratingwhen he said this would be an intimate performance. Counting myself and the prince, there aren’t even a full score of people here in the star garden. Unheard of, with the popularity of Cillian Cloudtongue.
My heart beats double-time. Cillian will have no choice but to notice me in a crowd this size. I wonder if I can even bear it, having his gaze upon me so closely!
A little titter shoots past my lips as I think,It really will be like he’s singing to me personally.
I search the little gathering in the treeless garden, peeking around the leafy paths for a sign of the Connacht Bard. Only a sliver of guilt darts through me as my eyes pass easily over the waiting prince. It’s not as though I’m here to seehim, after all.
So why does his face light up when he spots me? And why is he striding this way, the very picture of health instead of irritable and squinting after a night of so much faerie wine?
“Queen's Maid Laoise. I’m gratified to see you here.” He bows in response to my unsteady curtsy, my jitters over being so near the Cloudtongue getting the best of me. “And, might I say, a touched surprised, too.”
My brows shoot skyward at that. “Did you not receive my reply? I said I would be here—”
“Of course, Queen's Maid, of course. It’s only—well, I suppose you have no love for me, particularly after last night. You must allow me to apologize again—”
