Page 46 of The Princess Knight
“No, I wouldn’t have.” There was no guilt in her words. Instead, the warrior looked at her as if sizing up an opponent, and Clía couldn’t help but feel as if she failed to impress. “I assume I’ll see you at tonight’s banquet?” she added, and Clía’s heart leaped.
Clía wasn’t trained in swordsmanship or battle—she would sooner injure herself than someone else on a battlefield—but she was well trained in banquets. Her hopes for success had fallen short time and time again since arriving at this castle; maybe this was a chance for her to turn the tides. Keep herself from drowning.
“You will—I look forward to it.” Clía smiled.
***
WHENCLÍA SAWSÁRAIT WALKING DOWN THE HALL, SHEran to her.
“I need your help.”
“I’m a little busy right now.” Sárait had her hair tied back in a sleek knot, a basket of clothes balanced in her arms. “I need to mend all night to keep up with you daltas.”
Of course Caisleán’s tailor would have much work to do before the banquet. Thankfully, Clía had prepared for that. “What if I did your mending while you helped me?”
“What exactly does thishelpentail?” The woman eyed her suspiciously.
Clía didn’t answer, grinning as she swept the basket from Sárait and led her back to her room.
In the two weeks since Clía arrived at Caisleán, she had transformed her space. Her drab walls were covered in fabric—dresses that had gained second lives as decor—and the small storage trunk had been turned into a workspace. A place for her to sew and continue her project, the dress pattern she had been working on in Álainndore.
Murphy was curled up in the corner of the room, where she kept her fluffiest pillow for him to sleep on and a large bucket full of water for him to soak in. But more and more, he had been ignoring the bucket in favor of Caisleán’s lake. He had left a trail of water across her floor when he came back from his swim earlier that morning, but Clía didn’t mind.
Sárait followed her inside, a hand on her hip. “Is this when you tell me what we’re doing?”
“The banquet is tonight, and I need it to go well,” Clía explained, placing the basket on her neatly made bed. “I was wondering if you could help me get ready? I can’t get my hair to cooperate.”
She didn’t admit the real reason she wanted Sárait there. In Álainndore, Clía rarely had a moment to herself—a fact she would often resent—and always knew she could rely on Ó Connor for company if needed. In the crowded halls of Caisleán, she was faced with an unfamiliar sense of loneliness. She needed the comfort of conversation with someone who understood her. Thinking about how they used to sew together in Álainndore—not to mention Sárait’s kindness to Clía here in the castle—Clía had felt a small flicker of hope that that person could be Sárait.
Sárait’s face softened, and she took a seat on the bed. Motioning for Clía to follow, she tossed her a shirt from the top of the basket. Clía grabbed her needle and started to mend a tear while Sárait combed through her hair.
“When I first arrived at the Álainndoran palace, I hated it there,” Sárait said.
“Why?” Clía was surprised by the confession. She tried to turn her head to look at Sarait, but the tailor’s hands gently held her head in place.
“It was the farthest I’d ever been from my sister. I didn’t know what to do without her by my side.” Sárait’s hands began to work through Clía’s waves. “It took time, but I figured it out. I learned to be on my own, and whenever I felt lonely, I would send her letters.”
Clía paused in her sewing. “Did it help?”
She nodded, sliding a pin into Clía’s hair. “I still miss her, but the ache is duller. Now I’m even farther away, and while I think of her often, I feel like I could find my home here.”
Clía had only ever viewed these stone walls as a challenge for her to overcome. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to see them as anything else.
She never would if she didn’t try.
“You have too much hair,” Sárait grumbled, cursing as a braid fell from Clía’s head and unraveled.
The sudden change in tone pulled a laugh from Clía’s throat. The mood lightened, and they fell into a comfortable conversation as Sárait continued to try to force Clía’s hair into submission and Clía continued to make her way through the mending basket.
“I think we need to give up,” Clía said after some time, and Sárait slumped behind her.
“I promise I’ve done it before,” she said, defending herself while she toyed with the ends of Clía’s knotted hair. Their braiding attempts had left behind many casualties.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Clía laughed. “Maybe we can do something simpler?”
Sárait nodded and picked up her comb.
Clía picked up a tunic. The feeling of a sewing needle between her fingers was a much-needed comfort. Her hands had been restless without something to stitch.
