And he knew that she had been the one to urge him to step into his role, to stand up and be the prince he was meant to be.
That was all very well, Lionheart thought as he stood in the front courtyard of his father’s house, watching Middlecrescent’s fine carriage approaching. A good show on Daylily’s part, and he must be grateful. After all, it had achieved the desired result. Nevertheless, as the carriage drew around and came to a halt, Lionheart braced himself for battle. He would not be molded like a jelly. He would marry no one unless he wanted to.
Daylily stepped from the coach.
Lionheart gulped. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was.
“Welcome back,” he said with a bright smile, masking his sudden discomfort.
Daylily smiled in return, reading a great deal more in his expression than Lionheart had intended to show. “Good afternoon, Leo,” she said, choosing to use the familiar form of address. She’d debated the virtues of this during the last hour of her drive, and at last decided that Prince Lionheart would likely respond best to informal greetings. He was such a playful boy at heart. But her curtsy was nothing if not reverent.
“I trust your journey went well?” Lionheart said, bowing and offering his elbow. Her hand was so delicate as it looped through his arm, clad in a dainty velvet glove and ornamented with a silver ring shaped like her namesake.
“Everything according to plan,” said she, not meeting his eyes. “I trust your parents are in health?”
“Yes, they’ll see you at supper tonight.” Lionheart licked his lips.
Daylily murmured something appropriate. Everything formal and just as it should be. Not a single extraordinary word spoken nor even a significant glance. Yet when Lionheart had seen her to her chambers and returned to his own, he didn’t even notice the looks and smiles of those he passed in the halls. He stepped into his room, shut the door, and stood there taking long breaths. Then, muttering “Iubdan’s beard!” under his breath for no explainable reason, he took the Maid Starflower urn down from the mantel and dumped out his juggling sacks.
The rhythm of the flying sacks soothed him. But he couldn’t sing this time, nor attempt a jig. His concentration wasn’t what it should be, and he found himself struggling to keep the circle unbroken.
A rattling across the room surprised him, and he barked and scattered half the sacks across the floor. Turning, he saw a chambermaid emerge from his study into his sitting room, carrying a dust bucket and broom.
Her hands were gloved, and her face covered in veils.
“Oh, it’s you!” Lionheart grinned and ran a hand down his face. “Thought to scare me, did you, Rosie?”
“And it please Your Highness,” said she, bobbing a curtsy despite the heavy pail in her hand. “Forgive my intrusion. I didn’t know you was—were—here.”
“Likewise.” He bent to retrieve the sacks and put them back in the urn. “Don’t tell anybody, eh?” His smile went lopsided as he replaced the lid. “The queen doesn’t approve of her son’s antics, you know.”
Rose Red curtsied again and did not speak. It was not her place to speak to the prince. It was not her place to be seen by him. It was certainly not her place to have a thought on anything that went on between the prince and his royal mother.
After all, she and Prince Lionheart were not friends.
“Shall I come back to clean the hearth, Your Highness?” she asked quietly, nodding at the fireplace.
“No, by all means, go about your work,” said Lionheart, backing away from the mantel. She hesitated a moment, then obeyed. Her motions were heavy, though she herself was as tiny and rail thin as ever. Lionheart stood by the window, pretending to look down upon his father’s gardens but actually eyeing the girl as she worked. He did not often see her, though she worked almost exclusively in his service. The prince never associated with his cleaning staff. But he liked knowing Rose Red was about somewhere, safe under his protection.
“You’re eating enough these days, aren’t you?” he asked.
She looked up from her sweeping, startled. The edge of her veil was grimy with ashes. “Yes, Your Highness. Thank you.”
“And your goat . . . Beana. Is she well?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Lionheart frowned a little and indicated for her to resume her sweeping. Once more, he turned and gazed out his window. Below him spread the Eldest’s Gardens as far as he could see. Rosebushes lined the nearby walkways, though they never bloomed anymore. There was some talk of uprooting them, but the idea was too heartbreaking to be taken seriously. Southlands had always been so proud of its roses. Perhaps someday they would bloom again.