Tide

by Alydia Rackham

  And then, without warning, the waves surged all around them. Soared high, and threatened to sweep over their heads.

  Galahad yanked on Meira’s hand and she came to him—he threw an arm around her, and together they ducked down and rode the wave…

  And all at once, it tossed them up on shore.

  Galahad stumbled. His feet sank through the water and hit the shallow sand. Meira caught against him, her skirts dragging in the surf. She let out a weary laugh, absently grabbed his left hand, and together they slogged up onto the beach.

  Galahad suddenly felt all his muscles trembling, and for a second, his vision blinked in and out. He took several deep breaths as a deep chill from his sopping clothes sank through him. Their feet dragged through the sand, and Meira turned around and flopped down to sit. She leaned back on her hands, closed her eyes and tilted her head back, still panting, but smiling.

  Galahad couldn’t speak as he stood there in front of her. His head reeled and he felt faint, as if he’d just awakened from a dream. And yet, he was soaked to the bone, and so was she. And even now, as she sat there, bathed in sunlight, the water danced across her skin and hair like the most beautiful adornments of any queen. And when she opened her eyes and looked at him, his heart, unaccountably, made the same terrified pang as it had when he found himself walking on water.

  “Sir?”

  Galahad twitched and his head came around—

  There was Little Emblyn, standing at the mouth of a path.

  Their path. Their beach.

  The sea had brought them home.

  “Sir, the spinet is ready,” she called—then gave him and Meira a funny look. “What happened? Did someone drown?”

  Meira giggled. Galahad shot her a wry look. The very idea of tamely stepping round in a circle to the docile clinking of a spinet…

  He pushed his dripping hair out of his face again.

  “I’m sorry, Emblyn,” he answered. “We don’t need to teach Meira how to dance.”

  And when he looked back down at her, she simply smiled up at him. No coyness, no challenge. Just a soft smile.

  He stepped up to her, and held out his hand.

  She brushed her hand off on her dress, then reached up and took his. He lifted her easily, she hiked up her weighty skirts, and as one, they climbed back up the path with Little Emblyn toward the house.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Which dress did you choose, Emblyn?” Galahad called up the stairwell as he adjusted his cuff.

  “The one with the flowers, sir,” she shouted back down.

  Galahad stood in the entryway wearing his velvet suit again, ready and waiting. He’d heard the royal coach sent to fetch them pull up a few moments ago. Now Meira just needed to come down.

  As soon as they had arrived back at the house, he’d told Little Emblyn to draw Meira up a hot bath, and he took hot water for himself up to his room and had a complete wash. Then, he’d put on his nightclothes and fallen asleep on his bed for four hours—a deeper sleep than he remembered enjoying in months. When he’d finally awakened, he’d gone downstairs to eat something, then retreated to his room to prepare for the ball. Little Emblyn hadn’t allowed him in the kitchen, of course, as she said she was washing Meira’s hair with rose oils and lavender.

  Footsteps sounded toward the top of the staircase, and Galahad turned to look…

  Meira glided down the stairs, all on her own. She wore a long, flowing gown of pale pink, covered in delicate pink-and-white silk roses. The off-the-shoulder neckline displayed the beauty of her pale throat, and the nearly-transparent sleeves hugged her graceful arms. The roses wrapped her slender bodice, and the skirt clouded all around her like wisps of a dream. Her dark hair was done back in a high, full braid—curling tendrils dancing by her temples and around her neck. Her cheeks flushed pink, her lips dark rose, her grey eyes lively and bright. Little Emblyn had wound roses in amongst Meira’s chestnut tresses, but otherwise she wore no jewelry or adornment. She looked like the grand lady in a fairy court.

  The train of her gown spilled down the stairs behind her, and as Galahad drew in a stunned breath, he caught the intoxicating scent of rose and lavender that floated all around her.

  She saw him staring, and beamed at him.

  He cleared his throat, and sought out Little Emblyn, who’d ventured down the landing.

  “Well done, Emblyn,” he said.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Little Emblyn exchanged a cheeky look with Meira. “But I can’t take all the credit.”

  Meira grinned up at the maid, then ducked her head again. Galahad’s gaze fell upon her once more, for he suddenly couldn’t think of a reply. Meira risked a glance up and saw him…

  And she blushed.

  Galahad blinked.

  Tap, tap, tap!

  Galahad lunged to the door and pulled it open.

  “Are you ready, sir?” the royal footman smiled and tipped his plumed hat.

  “Yes, we are,” Galahad answered, straightening his waistcoat. “Thank you.”

  He faced Meira again, and held out his arm to her.

  She inclined her head, then gave him a perfect curtsey. She arose like a blooming flower, stretched out her white hand and took his arm.

  “Have a lovely night, little Cinder Girl!” Little Emblyn called after her, and Meira waved.

  Galahad led her out the door, down the stoop and into the evening warmth. The decorated carriage waited, and the footman opened the door and pulled down the steps. Galahad helped Meira inside, and stood there waiting as she arranged her skirts. Then, she shot him a questioning look.

  “I’m not riding,” he said. “I’m coming with you.” He hesitated. “If you don’t mind.”

  She slowly smiled, then beckoned to him.

  He climbed up into the coach, careful of her delicate skirts, and sat down on the plush bench across from her. The footman put up the stairs and slammed the door. And in a moment, the whip cracked, and they were off.

  Galahad had never seen a palace like this.

  Perlkastel’s entire garden stood alight with multicolored lanterns, all blazing with incense. The earthy scents mixed with the perfume of the roses to make a heady, romantic concoction that lifted to the stars. The rose gardens themselves looked like tapestries, the flames within the lanterns like dancing sprites. The palace had been lit by huge bowls of flame covered in colored tints—the façade blazed with living blues, purples, greens and yellows that intermingled like spirits. Dozens of lamps hung in every window, each made of a different shade of Spegel glass; each fracturing and refracting light into magical rainbows out upon the front drive. Torches burned upon the tops of the domes and in the corners of the roof, showing off the extraordinary designs upon the walls, creating the illusion that the fantastical creatures were following the guests with their eyes.

  Galahad stood with Meira before the open gate of Perlkastel, silently marveling at the shining edifice. He looked down at Meira, who still gripped his left arm. She grinned up at the palace, radiating excitement. He leaned closer to her head.

  “Perhaps you can teach the king a few steps,” he murmured.

  Meira’s grin broadened, and she bounced up on her toes.

  Galahad took a deep breath, and started forward. Meira followed without hesitation, and they passed through the gate.

  They followed the lit path across the courtyard, stepped between two guards, and turned left into a tall, open door draped in garlands. They passed through a short marble walkway lit by blue flame, their shoes tapping on the polished stone, and up to the gorgeously-ornate glass doors to the ballroom. They waited just a moment as two guards drew the doors open…

  And they stepped out onto the grand staircase landing.

  Before them spread a huge, white-marble ballroom, whose floor was inlaid with spectacular gold designs of ships and sea-creatures—and mermaids. Ten Spegel crystal chandeliers shone like suns from the arched ceiling, and white rose garlands wound around every tower
ing pillar.

  A ten-piece orchestra, dressed in lavish uniforms bedecked in lace, plumes and velvet, tuned and experimented on their gleaming stringed instruments from their place at the far end of the ballroom. And littering the dancing floor itself…

  A hundred guests, men and women. The women wore vivid, dark, rich colors of scarlet and violet and emerald and sapphire, their throats and ears sparkling with jewels, their curls piled gracefully atop their heads or allowed to tumble across their shoulders like waterfalls. The men wore velvet capes of all colors, brilliant doublets, embroidered waistcoats, matching trousers and polished shoes. They all stood milling about, talking and smiling and admiring each other.

  And there, in the center of the room, next to Sir Gawain and Sir Tristan, stood the king. He wore a magnificent doublet and trousers of deep scarlet embroidered in gold and silver, with a half cape, and he spoke quietly to Sir Gawain.

  Galahad held Meira there at the top of the staircase, holding his breath, waiting for the prince to turn, to look up, to see her…

  “Tres magnifique!”

  Galahad glanced to the left to see Sir Lancelot halfway up the stairs, dressed just as splendidly in light blue, his hand over his heart.

  “Lady Meira, how beautiful you are,” Lancelot cried quietly, wide-eyed. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen—I swear upon my life.”

  Meira chuckled and dipped her head in thanks.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” he bowed to Galahad. “Will you allow me to take the lady to the king? He must see her or he will not believe me when I tell him!” Lancelot held out his hand.

  Galahad shifted back and released Meira with a bow, and allowed Lancelot to take her hand. With an extremely careful and genteel manner, Lancelot led her down the stairs, and attentively drew her through the crowd toward the center of the room.

  Galahad remained where he was for a moment, then silently descended the side of the stairs and made for the edge of the room, near the pillars. Several older women, elegantly adorned, sat at tables there, drinking punch fanning themselves with lace fans, and gossiping. Galahad grasped his hands behind his back, and slowly maneuvered around behind the pillars. Finally, he paused by one of them, eying Lancelot and Meira through the mixing of the crowd.

  Lancelot drew to a halt, and made a deep bow, and Meira followed by performing a graceful curtsey. Sir Gawain and Sir Tristan immediately turned and stared at Meira, and then, when the king saw her, his mouth opened—but no words came out.

  Lancelot arose and addressed her, and then stood back from her and gestured to her gown, as if he had found some marvelous treasure.

  The prince met her eyes, as if he only halfway heard Lancelot, and beamed at her. He then stepped up to her and held out his hand, halfway bowed, and spoke to her—and she nodded. She delicately grasped his fingers, and then Sir Gawain turned and pushed through the crowd and said something into the ear of the musical director, who then nodded.

  The director tapped his baton on his music stand, and the musicians lifted their instruments. And with a flourish, the director gave the cue.

  The musicians burst into a sweet, light, lilting tune. Everyone on the dance floor immediately paired up, and the king led Meira to the very center. With a sweep, he pulled her into his arms.

  And just like that, they were dancing.

  Meira’s dress whirled like a summer breeze as they waltzed around the great circle. She followed the king’s lead effortlessly, beaming at him every time she caught his eye—and he returned her smiles without hesitation.

  The rest of the dancers spiraled round and round the huge chamber, the women like flower nymphs, the men like elves, the music evoking all the lively brilliance of a spring morning.

  The king twirled Meira out, and she extended with graceful ease, her skirts swirling. And then the king tugged her in, pulling her tight to him, and executed a dizzying spin that caused the other dancers to laugh and retreat. Then, the king spun her out again, caught her, and waltzed with her in a fast, commanding round that drove the others back—and soon, the rest of the dancers had stopped altogether, and stood marveling at the splendid pair.

  They didn’t seem to need words—they spoke with looks and laughs, and every single signal the king gave her, Meira understood, and she came right with him. Their feet flew and skipped and leaped, and soon Galahad could tell they were improvising together, moving freely with the music—the king, from years and years of practice; Meira from a natural and perfect instinct. They were having a conversation Galahad could never be privy to, even if he stood right beside them.

  “What a beautiful couple!” one of the grey-haired ladies who sat in front of Galahad remarked to another.

  “I hear she is a Curse-Breaker!” said the other, waving her blue fan. “And you know, they rank higher than even royalty.”

  “Do they? I didn’t know that,” said the first. “Goodness…So, she is rather like a queen, then?”

  “It’s a splendid match,” said the second. “And just look at the way His Majesty looks at her!”

  “Ah, but who can blame him?” asked the first. “She is easily the loveliest girl in the room. Why, the other gentlemen hardly know who they’re dancing with—they’re so busy staring at her. Even if she is wearing the same floral pattern all the other girls are.”

  Galahad looked sharply at the back of her head. Then, he instantly searched the crowd of dancers….

  She was right. About half the other ladies wore dresses similar to Meira’s—if not in color, in style, and all decorated with flowers.

  “My nephew is one of the king’s advisors, you know,” the second woman spoke up. “And he says this lady has been spending a great deal of time here at the palace, with the king. My nephew says His Majesty is quite smitten with her.”

  “Oh, I can see that,” said the first. “I have seen His Majesty, when he was a prince, dance with a good many lovely girls—but he has never smiled so much, nor danced so long, with any of them.”

  “I suppose we’ll hear an announcement soon, then,” nodded the second. “After tonight, he can’t keep it a secret any longer—it’s clear he desires her, and everyone must certainly approve. Now that he’s to ascend to the throne, she’ll certainly make a pretty queen!”

  Galahad shifted, folding his arms and trying not to listen any more. But of course, it was impossible not to hear them.

  “Ah,” the first sighed, smiling dreamily. “Just look at how he holds her in his arms!”

  “And how dearly she looks into his face!” added the second. “Do you know…I believe she is quite in love with him herself!”

  Galahad backed up, turned away, and clenched his teeth. And without a backward glance, he swept past the pillars, up the staircase and out of the palace, quite certain that no one noted his absence.

  At the stroke of midnight, guests began filtering out of the palace, and lights in the outer wings began going out. Galahad climbed stiffly out of the carriage, ran a hand through his hair, and pulled down the stairs himself. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the coach, watching the ladies and gentlemen disperse into the night.

  “Has your headache improved, sir?” the driver called down to him. He sighed.

  “Somewhat, thank you,” he replied. “Nothing sleep can’t cure.”

  “I’ve found that’s true for many things, haven’t you?” the driver remarked.

  “In most cases,” Galahad murmured absently…

  For just then, Meira emerged into the courtyard, on the arm of a smiling and handsome Sir Tristan. He escorted her through the gates, and when she pointed to her own carriage, he led her straight to it.

  Galahad pushed off the coach and strode up to them, meeting them halfway.

  “Thank you, Sir Tristan,” Galahad inclined his head to the knight. “I appreciate your protecting Lady Meira whilst I was indisposed.”

  “Not at all,” Sir Tristan said, putting a hand to his heart. “The pleasure and honor were m
ine. But I must say,” he shot a playful look at Meira. “She did not want for a…how do you say? El galán?” He laughed briefly. “A gentleman to gladly do anything she asked.”

  Meira laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Thank you again,” Galahad said briskly, holding out his arm to Meira. “We must be going.”

  “I shall give your regards to the king,” Sir Tristan said as he relinquished Meira.

  Meira nodded earnestly to him, then took Galahad’s arm, and let herself be guided back to the coach.

  Galahad said nothing as she climbed inside, and he followed after her, again cautious not to tread on her skirts. The footmen put up the stairs and slammed the door, and in a bit, they headed down the hill through the terraced garden.

  Galahad stared out the window at the lamps that flashed by outside, his jaw set. Soon, though, he sensed Meira watching him. He glanced over to see her frowning, her gaze intense and penetrating.

  He took a deep breath and cleared his expression, then nodded.

  “You did well,” he said.

  She waited, but he didn’t say any more. She tilted her head and tapped her forehead with her fingertip.

  “Yes, I had a headache,” he lied, turning to look out the window again. “I’m in need of sleep.”

  She slowly lowered her hand, and didn’t sign anything more. And he didn’t look at her the rest of the drive.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Galahad was up at dawn, striding into the kitchen just as Little Emblyn pulled fresh bread out of the oven. The scent filled the room as she drew the wooden peel out with both hands, swung around and slid the long loaf onto the counter.

  “Good morning, sir. Would you like a piece once it’s cooled a bit?” she asked him.

  “Yes, thank you,” Galahad nodded, walking through to the larder, opening the door and fetching the butter and a small tankard of beer. He brought it round and out into the dining room and sat down. A moment later, Little Emblyn emerged with a plate of two generous slices of bread, and a knife. She set them in front of Galahad, and he buttered the first piece. The butter began to melt instantly.