Frostbite, she thought, and a tear dropped down her face.
“Crown and scepter!” the cat meowled. It was strange indeed to hear the man’s voice from the animal’s mouth, though not as strange as it might have been. The two forms were both such natural extensions of Eanrin’s nature that they hardly seemed disparate; it was only her perspective that altered. “If a purr like that can’t cheer you, I don’t know what will.”
The cat sat and started grooming, his ears quirked at an offended angle. The girl wiped away her tear and gave the top of Eanrin’s head a scratch. He paused, pink tongue sticking out, and she smiled.
“I’m going to have to give you a name.” The cat vanished and the man sat cross-legged before her. Surprised, she pulled her hand back quickly from his head. He, with an air of disinterest, pulled a comb from the depths of his cloak and continued grooming. The comb’s teeth caught on mud tangles in his thatch of hair, and he tugged at these vigorously, all the while keeping up a steady stream of talk. “I cannot keep calling you ‘girl,’ or even ‘princess.’ You are a princess, though, aren’t you?”
The girl, rubbing her wrists, looked up with some surprise at this odd question and shook her head.
“Nonsense,” said the poet-cat, pausing a moment in midtug. “Didn’t you disenchant the bullfrog? Everyone knows it takes a princess’s kiss for that kind of magic.”
The girl shuddered and suppressed a gag.
Eanrin grabbed a clump of his hair and began tearing at it with sharp little digs from his comb. “You must be a princess without being aware of it. Or perhaps they don’t call it ‘princess’ where you’re from. The emperor’s heir, maybe? No, no, you look more like a chieftain’s daughter. Some rugged tribe lost in the wilds of the mortal world . . . That’s a bit romantic, actually.”
She shook her head again, smiling at the thought of this odd poet imagining romance in her life. She looked down at her clothing, the soft white skins now mud gray and torn. No princess was she. Nothing but a woman’s child.
“I must pick a name for you,” the cat continued. “Something royal enough to suit. Don’t expect me to play any guessing games! You’ll just have to take the name I choose. How about Clodagh? It means ‘muddy,’ and you’re certainly that! What, no? All right, all right. Pádraigín, then. It means you’re of noble descent, which I’m telling you, you are. Princess Pádraigín.” He made a face. “I’d certainly not be writing any ballads to you.”
The girl, still rubbing her wrists, shook her head vehemently. A shining brightness in the shadows nearby caught her eye. Looking, she saw a familiar vine climbing a tree. Amid dark, blunt leaves, its flowers glowed bloodred in sunlight. In darkness they turned from red to gleaming white, like tiny stars. This vine grew in her homeland in wild abundance, and the sight of it here made her smile, like seeing a friendly face among strangers.
“ùna might be nice,” the poet was saying. “It’s always been one of my favorites. . . . Oi! Where are you going?”
Eanrin turned where he sat to watch the girl step over to the vine and gently lift one of the branches without plucking it. Then she turned to the poet and pointed at one of the star-shaped blossoms.
Eanrin, watching her, blinked his wide gold eyes. He spoke coldly. “Well, you needn’t like ùna. I’ve plenty of other choices for you. What about Mallaidh?”
She shook her head. Once more she pointed at the flower.
“Dollag? That’s getting a bit pretentious, but—”
She glared at him and signed, “Don’t be thick!” though she knew he wouldn’t understand. Yet again she pointed at the flower and raised her eyebrows at the poet.
He tilted his head to one side, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Swallowing, he said, “Are you trying to tell me something?”
She mentally cursed back at the curse that had taken her voice. Grinding her teeth, she jabbed more forcefully at the blossom.
“Pretty that, yes,” said the poet. “The little starflowers.”
She nodded and smiled. Her teeth, though crooked, were white against her dark face. It was a pretty effect, Eanrin noticed, and he blushed.
No, wait . . . blushed ?
He shook himself. Eanrin of Rudiobus, Iubdan’s Chief Poet, did not blush; he caused blushes. Among all the ladies of Rudiobus. On the scaly face of ChuMana. Any woman he met would fall for his voice, the charm of his swift-flying words, and dissolve into the reddest flushes!
This was all wrong. This girl must be an enchantress of some kind. What a mess he’d gotten himself into! He wished he’d left the girl to the River, and this forlorn wish made him sulky.