Everything was so beautiful yet so hot after the mountain air. Even Daylily found herself momentarily longing for Hill House and the cool breezes of the high country.
King Hawkeye and Queen Starflower stood outside, surrounded by attendants, to receive their son. Prince Lionheart bowed to them both and accepted a stern kiss from his mother. Then he indicated Daylily and Foxbrush and said formally, “I have invited my cousin and Lady Daylily of Middlecrescent to stay awhile with us. At your pleasure, of course, Father.”
Hawkeye nodded, and the barest hint of a smile touched the queen’s face as she glanced from Lionheart to Daylily and back again. But Daylily’s face was unreadable, and her son seemed distracted. This did not bode well, and Starflower’s smile was replaced with a line.
Rose Red hopped down from the back of the carriage, arranging her veils as best she could and clinging to Beana’s tether like a lifeline. The queen’s gaze fixed upon her as an arrow to the mark. Rose Red shuddered; she felt as though that mighty lady could see right through her veils, down to the marrow of her soul. She bowed her head and curtsied deeply.
“Bah,” Beana grumbled.
“Who is this person?” Starflower asked her son.
“My servant,” Prince Lionheart said, his voice calm, though a trace of worry lingered on his face. “She’s an orphan I met in the mountains. I’ve engaged her to work in my personal service.”
Starflower studied her son, analyzing not only what he had said but also how he had said it. Then she turned to Foxbrush, her favorite nephew, her eyes asking him silent questions. But even faithful young Foxbrush averted his eyes and shuffled his feet, unwilling to give information.
“Why does she wear that veil?” King Hawkeye asked. His voice was kindly enough.
Lionheart licked his lips, then shrugged. “Birthmark. She’s embarrassed.”
Starflower looked to Daylily, whose face told her nothing. Her own eyes narrowed at her son.
Lionheart cleared his throat and said in a stronger tone, “I’ve given orders that she will be under my protection, and that any who disturb her will suffer my displeasure. Is this agreeable to you, Father?” His eyes flickered to his mother’s.
Hawkeye nodded. “Of course, my boy, if that is your will.”
That is how Rose Red was brought into the Eldest’s House and officially admitted into Prince Lionheart’s service.
8
So tell me, is this what you want?”
Lionheart opens his eyes and finds that strange dark face surrounded by white hair bending over him. He gasps, but she smiles at him, and her smile eases his fear.
“Is it?”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“You have the girl, this little friend of yours, safely in your service. You have proven yourself able to step up to your role as Prince of Southlands and make others do your bidding. Is this then what you want? Is this the life you have chosen, the dream you desire above all others? Do you wish to be the prince you were born to be?”
He sits up, and her face pulls back. Her clothing blends into the night’s shadows. All he can see is the light from her eyes and the glow of her long, long hair. She is horrible and beautiful.
“I don’t know what I want,” he says. “I don’t want to be trapped, that’s all I know.”
“Trapped, my sweet one?”
“You know. Forced into a role just because it’s expected of me.”
Her smile grows. “You want freedom. I can give you that.”
Lionheart shakes his head. “You can’t make me other than I am. I am Prince of Southlands, and I need to be a prince. There’s no two ways about it.”
“Not when you are one of my darlings,” says she. “Wait a little longer. I will set you free.”
He nods and closes his eyes.
The Lady turns from him and steps out of his dreams back into her own world, seating herself upon her dark throne. Her brother is there, lurking in the shadows. She feels the heat from his eyes and it annoys her.
“What is it?”
“Don’t even think about breaking the rules,” says he. He steps into her line of vision, his eyes ringed in flames, his black teeth gnashing. “She is mine.”
“I never said she wasn’t.”
“You gave her to him. My princess! My prize! You gave her to him like a gift.”
The Lady shrugs. “She’s not what he wants. She’s only a means.”
“A means to what?”
“A means to get him on the path to his own self-discovery, so that I may at last discern what his true desire is and”—she hides her smile behind a hand—“give it to him.”
“But the girl is mine.”
“You’ve not kissed her yet.”
“I will!”
“Not now that she has fled the mountain, you won’t.”
Flames fall from between his teeth and land in sparks upon the misty floor. “She will return within a year and a day.”
“Or what?”
“Or suffer my wrath.”
“And tell me, brother, how will this wrath of yours manifest itself?”
He does not answer, but his sister sees everything she needs in his face, and it does not displease her.
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