Page 10 of A Tale of Ice and Ash
For the first time, Niamh had no answer for her. “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around her either, princess,” she said. “Maybe she just needs some time to settle in.”
That was her father’s response whenever Cole did something snide or cruel. Just give him time to settle in. He’d stopped turning up his nose so much at the servants and complained less about the cold, but he took every opportunity to tease her. He only ever called her Eirwen when someone important was watching. Every other time, she was Snow. Tiny, inelegant, silly Snow, with two left feet and her head in the clouds. Classes together were a nightmare. Cole had a way of managing to make every sly remark appear charming in the ears of anyone who overheard. The ladies at court fawned over him, treating him as a prized pet, to begin with, and then as something else as he matured. He was one of those boys who looked older than his years, who towered over all of the girls by the time he hit fourteen and whose dark eyes and sharp cheekbones held them all captivated.
Eirwen found nothing enchanting about him, tolerating his presence only for the sake of peace at the dinner table.
Cole was insufferable almost every day until the accident, and silent almost every moment afterwards.
Eirwen remembered everything about that day, as though it were etched into crystal. She was sewing beside the fire in the great hall when she heard a loud commotion from outside. There were cries to open the gates, shouts, desperate screams.
She could see nothing from the window. The first true notion she had of how serious things were was when Cole, now almost fifteen, burst through the doors. His face was white as paper and splashed with blood. There was blood on his cloak, blood on his face, and a dark, palpable fear in his eyes.
“The King, the King is hurt…” he blubbered, clutching at his mother’s dress. Red bloodied the fabric, streaks of scarlet amidst the gold brocade. “Olwen, Olwen he… there was… a wild boar, he…” His eyes fell to Eirwen, and sound slid away from him.
The Queen shot up, leaving her son on the marble. A dozen servants followed her out.
Eirwen stood numbly in her place, her gaze still rooted on Cole. He sat in a pile on the floor, staring at bloodied handprints he’d left there.
Eirwen stepped towards him. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
Cole shook his head.
“Are you all right?”
He looked up at her sharply, as if he couldn’t believe the words she’d just uttered and had no idea how to answer them.
“Cole?”
“How… I…”
“Sit by the fire,” she said. “I’ll send Niamh down for you.”
In hindsight, she wished she’d stayed herself. Not for him, never for him, but to give her something to do, other than pace outside her father’s room, waiting for the physician’s verdict, her hand caught in Bianca’s vice-like grip as she coughed out tearless sighs.
A facade. A lie. Everything Bianca did.
After hours, the physician finally exited the room. He had stopped the bleeding. He could not yet tell whether or not he would live, but when Eirwen went in to hold his hand, he squeezed back, with all the strength she knew him for. She was sure, in that moment, that he would be fine. Her father would not leave her.
When she woke the next morning, it was to Niamh’s white, wretched face, and she knew, without her having to utter a word, that her beloved father was gone.
He had uttered no last words. She did not know if he’d even regained consciousness. All she knew was that the world was different now, colder than the harshest of winters, and this giant warmth had been extinguished forever.
She did not cry during the funeral. Bianca wept profusely. Cole could barely contain his sobs. Eirwen, meanwhile, felt like she’d been frozen, like any warmth that once sat inside her chest had vanished forever. The light of the fire passed through her like a ghost. Even Niamh’s touch was like a whisper.
She never wanted to feel again.
