“What about your mother?” Galahad asked.
She glanced at him, and sorrow shadowed her face. She shook her head.
“She died?”
Meira drew in a shaking breath, and nodded.
“Long ago?” he asked softly. She nodded again.
“What about your father? Strom?” Galahad wondered.
Meira’s expression shrugged as she draped the chain over her hands, and she lifted one shoulder.
“Do you not ever see him?” he supposed. She shook her head, then waved out in front of her, implying a great distance.
“He’s out to sea,” Galahad realized. Then he hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Have you been…Have you been alone all this time?”
Meira swallowed, watching her hands as she turned the necklace over. Her lower lip trembled—and when she looked at him, her eyes shone. Galahad held her gaze for as long as he could, but then he couldn’t bear it.
Meira cleared her throat, and picked up the compass. Galahad frowned, wondering what she was doing…
She held the necklace and compass out to him. He lifted both his hands, palms up…
She placed one in each hand, moved her thumbs, and closed Galahad’s fingers over the compass and the necklace. She gazed at him searchingly, holding his hands there...
“Yes,” he murmured. “I miss mine, too.”
Meira released a long, shuddering sigh, and nodded. Finally, she let her hands slip down from his. She sat back, her wistful attention falling on the coins again. She picked one up, set it on its edge…
And spun it.
She stood up and trailed back into the kitchen to help Little Emblyn—and the coin didn’t wobble and fall until she’d already started to stir the meat again.
Rumblings of thunder rolled above the roof, and rain pounded the house, showering the walls as the fierce wind beat against the windows. Galahad sat in the darkened library on one end of the couch, his feet stretched out toward the crackling fire. Only one lamp burned, on the table by his left arm, and he held a small book to its light. His shoulders ached, but warmth swelled out from the hearth and soaked into his bones.
Scraw roosted on the edge of the mantelpiece, occasionally shifting his weight and fluffing his feathers. The fire spat a shower of sparks, and a log thudded into the embers. The scent of smoldering pine filled the room.
Lightning flashed against the curtains. The next second, a loud crack of thunder clapped right through the beams of the house. The ensuing rumble cascaded out over the land like giants hurling stones.
Movement to his left.
His head came up, and he saw Meira standing in the doorway.
He didn’t say anything. She hesitated for half a second, then stepped quietly inside. She rounded the couch and absently picked up a red throw pillow off the armchair. She paused in front of the fire, wrapping her arms around the pillow and holding it to her chest, watching the swaying dance of the flames. Galahad kept his book open, but studied the lines of her silhouette.
She took a deep breath, and sighed. Lightning flickered, and the thunder growled again.
She turned around, her face downcast, stepped up to the couch and set the pillow down next to him. Then, she climbed onto the couch and lay down on her side, facing the fire. She nuzzled her head onto the pillow, drew her knees up, curled her arms against herself—and sighed again.
Galahad’s eyebrows drew together. Her head lay just an inch from the side of his leg. As he watched, she blinked drowsily…
And in a few minutes, her long-lashed eyes had drifted shut, and she breathed deeply. Warm firelight drifted over her features, and gave a sunset luster to her hair. And as the tension in her frame eased, Galahad saw a change come over her face. Something about her softened…vanished…
And he realized that he’d just seen a crushing grief lift off of her as she faded into sleep.
A grief she had carried with her since the moment he first saw her.
His brow tightened to pain, and he tilted his head, freeing his right hand from his book. Very softly, he touched her temple, then slowly traced a wave in her hair, guiding a strand back behind her ear. He rested his fingertips there, his breathing shallowing to nothing. Then, he silently closed his book, lowered it onto his lap, and gently laid his hand protectively across the side of her warm, soft throat. Closing his eyes, the firelight blurring against his lids, he let warmth from his hand spread down into her skin, into the very pulse of her veins. He ran his thumb back and forth, back and forth, across the edge of her jaw, feeling her heartbeat against his fingertips.
“Dóchas,” he mouthed, just once—and a light glowed in his mind, traveled down through his chest, into his arm, through his palm, and into her. And as the storm beat against the walls and lightning burned through the clouds, only silence and warmth reigned in that little library, enshielded by Galahad’s simple spell.
Chapter Twenty
Galahad stood with his eyes closed, drawing deep breaths of the rich, moist air; letting the morning sun sink through him. The calm wind rustled his clothes and hair, murmuring through the grasses and flowers.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, frowning against the brilliance, and gazed out over the cliffside. The storm had cleared the sky, leaving behind a striking blue as far as the eye could see. The gentle sea had taken on an even deeper, more splendid hue, and the sand of the beaches shone white as pearl. The rain had enlivened the emerald of the grasses, and the flowers dancing in the breezes looked like bundles of pink cotton. The fishermen had launched their boats into the channel, and their white sails dotted the sapphire expanse. Everything smelled deliciously-fresh, as if the wind from the storm had carried the very air of elven lands across the seas to Edel.
A sound.
Galahad blinked, coming back to himself, and halfway turned his head.
It sounded like someone singing. Close by, just over the hill.
A sweet, sweeping, waltzing sound. He recognized the tune.
But it was not Little Emblyn.
Coming about, Galahad started toward it, careful to keep his footsteps quiet. He approached the height of the hill and neared a copse of tall heather bushes. He paused behind the bush, leaning around just enough to see…
Meira.
An electric shock shot through Galahad’s frame.
Her mouth was moving—a voice issued forth.
A beautiful, resonant, heavenly voice that complemented the wind and the grasses in a harmonious trio. In a green dress with pink trim, Meira wandered absently over the hillside, one hand filled with flowers swaying by her side, and more flowers tucked into her braid like a crown. She gazed up into the sky, stepping in slow time with her enchanting, impossible song.
“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green
When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?
Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so!”
A glassy, bewildered, joyous pain shattered inside Galahad’s chest—he couldn’t tear his eyes from her, and his breathing locked in his ribs. Meira’s voice seemed to ring through the marrow of his bones, filling his mind with blinding light and color.
“Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work
Some to the plough, dilly dilly, some to the fork
Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to cut corn
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm.”
Then, she girlishly twirled, and started to waltz over the high meadow with the grace of a nymph. The wind swirled around her, tossing her curls and ruffling her skirts. Her bare feet danced over the flowers, never crushing them, and birds jubilantly added a descant accompaniment.
“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue
If you love me, dilly dilly, I will love you
Let the birds sing, dilly dilly, and the lambs play
We shall be safe, dilly dilly, out of harm’s way.”
&nb
sp; A jingling noise suddenly interrupted her.
Galahad straightened. Meira stopped mid-step, swinging around to search out the source. In a moment, a herd of sheep, led by one with a jangling bell, lumbered over the edge of the hill, and an old shepherd with his black-and-white dog whistled along behind.
“Good morning, Miss!” he called, tipping his hat. “I heard you singing! Lovely voice!”
She nodded to him, gripping her flowers.
“Don’t stop on our account,” the shepherd laughed as the sheep and the dogs passed her. “We get little enough in the way of music out here in the hills!” He laughed, and swung his walking cane as they continued on down the way.
Meira turned, watching them go, pressing the flowers to her breast. Her eyebrows drew together, but she braced herself…
Took a deep breath, formed the first word of the song—
No sound came out.
She winced, shut her eyes, took another breath, and tried again.
Nothing.
Slowly, Meira sank down onto the grass and pulled her knees up to her chest, letting the bouquet hang loose from her fingers.
Galahad’s eyes stung. A tear spilled down his cheek, scalding his skin. He shut his eyes.
The nature of the curse.
If she knew someone could hear her, she couldn’t sing or speak.
Silencing her completely.
Robbing her of the one thing about her that was certain to make King James fall in love with her.
He bowed his head, dashing the tear away, and turned away. Letting out a low, grinding moan, he straightened, and forcibly strode back down the hill toward the cliffs, and the lane that led to Euryor House.
Galahad spent the rest of the morning mucking out Thondorfax’s stall, cleaning the horse’s hooves and brushing him, polishing the saddle; and then he went in the house, upstairs, and performed basic laundry spells on his clothes from yesterday, knocking the caked mud loose and folding it all back into his bag. He then put new waterproofing on his boots and scrubbed that in for a good half hour.
After he’d put the boots back on and tidied up, he came downstairs to find Meira’s bouquet in a wooden vase on the dining room table. His footsteps stalled and he lingered there, caught by the sight of the pastel blooms standing in a ray of sunlight.
Voices reached him. Several voices.
He glanced through the kitchen and saw the back door hanging open to the garden. And out there, he could distinguish the voices of Little Emblyn, and Mr. and Mrs. Glennon. He strode through, out into the early afternoon warmth.
He found them there, along with Meira, sitting on a frayed quilt on a patch of lawn by the cabbages, eating sandwiches and drinking raspberry cordial.
“Sir, come eat!” Little Emblyn called, waving a sandwich. “We’ve made enough for you.”
“Begging your pardon for taking liberties, sir,” Ben Glennon said, stiffly rising to his feet.
“No liberty taken at all,” Galahad shook his head. “This is your home, not mine. I’m only a guest here.”
“That’s quite kind of ye, sir,” Ben Glennon smiled. “Won’t you eat with us?”
Galahad nodded, came around and found a place beside Meira, and sat down. Meira caught his eye, and smiled at him. He held her gaze for a moment, then gave her a quiet smile in return, so only she could see. Mrs. Glennon, laughing and remarking on the storm last night and the fine weather today, heaped food on a plate, then passed it to him. He accepted it with thanks, and started to eat.
Hooves upon the road.
Galahad put down his sandwich, climbed to his feet, and peered over the hedge, even as everyone else stopped talking and strained to listen.
“Goodness, he’s coming at quite a clip!” Mrs. Glennon remarked.
Galahad dusted off his hands and stepped closer to the wall, which he could just see over. He found a pile of stones in the corner and hopped up on them, and soon mounted the wall. Now that he stood at least twelve feet high, he could glimpse the rider cantering toward them down the lane. A white horse, and a rider with scarlet livery and a plumed hat.
“He’s from the palace,” Galahad said.
“The palace!” Little Emblyn gasped, and quickly got up—and so did Meira.
“Good day to you, sir!” the messenger called as he rode into the muddy yard.
“I hope your horse didn’t get stuck or slip on the way here,” Galahad remarked.
The messenger laughed—and now Galahad could see his white horse and his uniform liberally splattered with mud.
“I’ve come to issue an invitation,” the messenger said, digging in his satchel and pulling out an envelope. He eyed it for a moment before nodding. “Yes, this is yours.” He leaned out and passed it to Galahad.
“Thank you,” he said, taking it in both hands. “Do you need anything to drink?”
“Thank you so much, but I cannot stay,” the messenger shook his head. “I’ve a few of these to deliver, and it is short notice!”
“Good day, then,” Galahad said. The messenger saluted him, wheeled his horse around, and rode back out of the yard, throwing mud as he went. Galahad turned around, still standing on the wall, and studied the envelope.
“What is it?” Mrs. Glennon cried.
“It’s from the king. Personally,” Galahad answered as he broke it, and opened the paper.
“What does it say?” Little Emblyn bounced up and down. But Galahad didn’t answer until he’d read it three times to himself. He then glanced up at Meira—who gripped her hands tightly together, her brow knotted.
“It says,” Galahad began. “‘Galahad and Lady Meira—I’m putting together a dinner party for this evening, with just a few friends, and would be so greatly honored if you would come. I am still distressed that our picnic ended so ruinously, and I fear I was neglectful, especially to you, my lady—which causes me great pain. I felt your silence, Galahad, and Meira, I witnessed your tears. Nothing has distressed me more in a great while. I have the greatest desire for your continued friendship, and wish to make amends. Please come tonight, at six o’clock. Do not concern yourself with presentation or ornamentation—it will be a casual gathering of friends around a small table, talking freely and enjoying each other’s company. I will send round a messenger again at three o’clock to retrieve your reply. Ever your faithful servant: James.’”
“Oh…What a goodly king he is,” Mrs. Glennon sighed. “Thank heaven we have him for our sovereign—how lucky we are.”
“Indeed,” Ben Glennon nodded sincerely. “One of the finest kings in Edel, I would imagine.”
“You would be right,” Galahad acknowledged quietly, his gaze falling on Meira again. She simply stood there, and bit her lip. Galahad folded the paper, then tilted his head.
“Do you wish to go?” he asked.
Meira took a deep, shaking breath.
“Oh, you must go!” Little Emblyn gripped her arm, giving her a severe look. “You simply must.”
Meira considered her, then looked back up to Galahad. He just waited.
At last, she nodded.
Galahad put the invitation in his pocket and hopped down from the wall.
“Very well. There’s time enough to get ready later.” And he sat down by his plate, and began to eat. Little Emblyn fell back to her knees and picked up her sandwich again, and Meira settled down beside Galahad—but her gaze had gone distant again.
Galahad said no more, just absently listened to the Glennons and Little Emblyn discuss the storm, its sudden appearance—and why it had vanished so completely at just around midnight.
The guards pulled open a set of wooden double doors, and with a deep breath, Galahad and Meira stepped into the room beyond. It was a cozy library room, with scarlet carpets and a brightly-burning brass chandelier. In the center stood a rectangular table laden with food, surrounded by comfortable chairs. Galahad immediately spotted Lancelot, Tristan and Gawain, along with Hollis, Isolde and Guinevere—and Lady Beatrix. They all wore
fashionable clothing, though it was much more casual than the garb they had donned for the ball. But before Galahad could speak, the king appeared in front of them, smiling.
“Thank you so much for coming,” the king said quietly, holding out his hand to Meira.
Meira wore a deep pink dress trimmed with elegant lace, her hair pinned up in curls. She took the king’s hand, and smiled softly back at him. The king, leaning closer to her, searched her face.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
She nodded, making the pearls in her earrings glimmer.
“I am so very sorry that we caused you grief yesterday,” the king said, his eyes bright and his voice gently earnest. “I hope you know that none of us here would ever do anything to intentionally hurt you.”
Meira returned his earnest look, and nodded quickly. And Galahad saw her squeeze the king’s hand. The king gave her another apologetic glance, then released her and held out his hand to Galahad.
“I am sorry your companion felt uneasy yesterday—which no doubt made you uneasy,” the king said, his brow furrowing. “Please forgive us.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Galahad answered. “Neither of us was offended. And we’re happy to be here this evening.”
The king beamed, lightly slapping the back of Galahad’s hand with his free one.
“I’m glad to hear it. Please, come—let’s sit down and eat.” And he waved them toward the table.
Galahad found his place setting across from Meira, and to the left of Sir Gawain—who sat next to the king. Lady Hollis sat to the king’s right, beside Meira. Lancelot settled to Galahad’s left, across from Isolde. Tristan sat beside Isolde, across from Guinevere. And Lady Beatrix sat at the opposite head of the table.
With a cheery greeting and thanks to all of them, the king commenced the meal. Servants stepped up and doled out helpings of game hen, roast potatoes and onions, raspberries and blackberries, and poured white wine for everyone. The soft candlelight cast everything in a warm, rich, fragrant glow—glittering in the ladies’ simple jewelry, shining in everyone’s eyes.
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