She cut him off. “My title was not given to me by the king,” she said firmly. “It is not a title that can be stripped away by an act. I am the Princess of Comoros because my mother is the Queen of Comoros and my father is the King of Comoros. They were anointed such by an Aldermaston.” She shook her head gravely. “How can I submit to an act unless it comes from that same authority?”
The guardsman smirked at Maia’s little speech and gave her an approving nod.
The chancellor eyed her shrewdly. “So what you are saying, Lady Maia, the king’s daughter, is that you will renounce your title if an Aldermaston proclaims it so?” His smile was mocking. “I think that can be arranged. Very well, I bid you good day. Captain Carew, let us depart with the king’s retinue.”
“Please!” Maia said, grabbing his sleeve. He looked down at her unwashed hand with disgust. “May I see my father and kiss his hand? I will not even speak to him. I wish only to see him.”
Chancellor Crabwell shook off her grip. “Lady Maia, the king’s daughter, that is entirely under your control. Should you wish to be reinstated to court immediately—today—all you must do is renounce your title. It is only your extreme stubbornness that prevents this.”
“Did my lord father say this?” she asked him with a hard edge in her voice.
“Indeed he did. Good day, Lady Maia, the king’s daughter.”
He nodded to Captain Carew and they both turned and left. The door was locked behind them. Maia stared at the peeling paint, her heart heavy and weary. As she listened to the boots thudding down the steps from the attic, she realized that her father would soon depart without even attempting to see her. She bit her lip, determination burning in her heart. He would see how far his daughter had been reduced. It was unthinkable for him to leave without at least acknowledging what he had done to her. She hurried to the window and thrust it open. A fragment of glass wobbled out and fell.
Maia climbed out of the dormer window and carefully pulled herself onto the roof. Doves hooted and fluttered away from her as she carefully trod up to the spine of the roof and came down the other side, toward another gabled window. She could hear the nickering of horses and carriages from the host assembled in the courtyard below. Flags and pennants whipped in the wind, and she felt her hair streaming across her face. She had not been outside for months, as the Shiltons would not allow her to walk the gardens or enter the streets for any reason. She had been starving for sunlight.
As she reached the far end of the roof, she caught sight of a small terraced ledge just below her that connected to the master bedroom. The terrace overlooked the courtyard. She crouched on the edge of the roof, feeling several loose shingles beneath her feet, and scooted to the edge. There was her father, striding across the courtyard with Crabwell and Carew in tow, deep in discussions with them both. Maia almost lost her courage, but she did not quail. She jumped off the edge of the roof onto the terrace edge just below. Her legs jolted with the impact and the sound attracted attention.
“On the roof!”
“Look, someone jumped!”
“My lord, be careful!”
Maia made it to her feet and went to the edge of the terrace, staring down. “Father!” she cried out.
He stared up at her, wearing ostentatious robes and finery, his hat plumed with several enormous feathers. He stared up at the terrace, and she saw his look of shock at seeing her up there, her dress threadbare and torn, her hair disheveled and filthy.
Maia sank to her knees, bowing her head and clenching her fingers together in a mute appeal.
There were gasps of shock and surprise. Her eyes bored into his.
“Please, Father,” she whispered. “Please do not let me stay here. It is killing me.”
He looked up at her, his expression twisting with sorrow. He bowed to her once, touching his velvet feathered cap. Then he mounted his stallion and rode away, not looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wayfarer
Maia awoke from the deep slumber slowly, feeling the warmth of sunlight on the crook of her back and hearing the warbling of birds. It was an effort to open her eyes, and when she did, her surroundings were unfamiliar. There was another sound she heard, a soft scraping noise, like a bird scratching a trunk with its beak. Her head throbbed dully as she pushed herself up, twigs and brush poking her breast.
“Ah, she awakens. It is noon and she revives. Sangrion.”
Maia started, for the voice came from behind her and she did not recognize it. She looked over her shoulder and found a man sitting cross-legged in the brush, his back against a large pine. He wore a dirty cloak over a dirty frayed tunic and worn leather sandals. His hair was thick and dark with spikes of white through it. He had intense dark eyes that were regarding her with an inscrutable look.
“Good noon, sister,” he said, his accent heavy and thick.