Page 9 of The Prince or the Bard?
Iwail uncontrollably intoa steeping pot of tea while the stunned cooks and kitchen staff try not to notice. For the entire time the tea leaves, lemongrass and chopped ginger float in the metal sphere, I weep without shame. At last, somebody offers me a kerchief.
I blow my nose noisily.
I have been crying like this for three days.
After four months of bliss with sweet Cillian Cloudtongue, he leaves the high court and me with it, giving no notice but a letter.A letter.As if he doesn’t know the way to my bed chamber by now.
He could've told me to my face. I would’ve understood.
In truth, I wouldn’t have. Why would he leave the patronage of the high queen to go play forhumans? Why does he love the humans more than he loves me?
I sob all the more miserably as I strain the leaves from the pot, heaving them into a bucket for refuse with far more force than is necessary.
My dearest shooting star, his letter said,I must away to learn more songs for the pleasure of this court. It is my duty to entertain, and I cannot remain here with you while playing the same songs night after night. A royal audience requires something new. I will be thinking of you often in my travels.
That unconscionableass!Worse still is that the ink has run on his letter from being so thoroughly stained by my tears.
As I carry the tray through the hall, I pause by the mirror. The act is almost routine now. I wipe at my eyes, tuck any loose hairs behind my ears, and force a pleasant expression onto my face before entering my royal cousin's quarters.
What I do not expect is for another face to appear in the mirror. Prince Ruairí looms above my reflection.
The teapot and cup rattle on the tray as I whirl.
“Sauntering sea stars, you startled me!” I exclaim, suddenly conscious of my blotchy countenance and the tear streaks that I cannot quite wipe away. My eyes widen as I realize too late what I’ve said. “Your Highness, please forgive my outburst.”
“There's nothing to forgive, Queen’s Maid Laoise. It’s I who am sorry.” Prince Ruairí offers me a completely unnecessary bow, causing my face to redden even further. “It seems I’m always doing just the wrong thing around you. I merely meant to offer you comfort, as you seemed so distressed.”
“You can tell?” Silently, I curse myself. Of course he can tell. If it weren’t for High Queen Fiadh’s raging headache, she’d surely have noticed my recent demeanor, too.
Perhaps she already has.
“Forgive me,” the prince apologizes again. “I know the matter is delicate, but I wanted to say that, well, if your distress is caused by, or should I say, is an effect of, your, erm—”
Oh, just say it already. “Our most wondrous bard’s departure,” I say bitterly, “so that he may learn more songs from thehumans, with which to entertain the court. Which evidently matters more than I do.”
Goddess help me, something in me must’ve snapped to say that last bit aloud.
“Yes, that.” Prince Ruairí's cheeks turn red. “I understand those that are drawn to performing have a certain, well—almost an addiction to it.”
Lovely. Just lovely. So Cillian truly does love performing and songs more than he cares for me. My eyes burn as more tears threaten to overflow.
“I’ve said the wrong thing again.” Prince Ruairí draws back. “Forgive me, Queen's Maid Laoise. I only wished to offer you my sincerest apologies for the current circumstances.”
“Your apology is generous but unnecessary, sir." The teapot rattles a little as a hard sigh racks me. "It’s not as though he left on your behest.”
In response, a shadow of emotion flickers across Prince Ruairí's brow. What wasthat?
I must be imagining things, because that shadow looked a great deal like chagrin.
“He didn’t leave at your behest,” I prod, jutting the tray of cooling tea between us, “did he?”
The prince visibly cringes.
And I nearly land myself in a lovely little cell by throwing a tray of hot tea at him. I just barely maintain my hold on the lacquer tray, my knuckles turning white.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Prince Ruairí says, unable to meet my eye. “I merely suggested that court required a greater variety, and I hoped he had as many songs at his disposal as his reputation suggested. It wasn’t until supper the next day that I learned he’d gone. My words were careless and caused you pain, as so many of my actions seem to. You don't know how deeply sorry I am.”
He bows so low that my anger can’t help but turn to embarrassment. Princes don’t bow to maids like this. He shouldn’t even be apologizing. How can I stay angry at him? It's Cillian who caused all this trouble, not Prince Ruairí. "Sir—"
