Veiled Rose (23 page)

Hawkeye may sadly neglect the issue of his son’s future marriage. He may wait until dignitaries from foreign nations arrived, offering to contaminate the royal bloodlines with strains less pure. But Middlecrescent would not be so lax.

“Why are you here, Daylily?”

“I chose to return,” said she, her face a mask.

“Did the prince make you an offer?”

“He offered his parents’ hospitality for the winter. That is all.”

The baron swore softly, venomously. “Then tell me, my dear, what are you doing in my household now?”

“As I said, I chose to return.”

“Yes, so you did say.” The baron leaned forward across his desk, his elbows resting before him, his hands carefully folded. “And you had better have a good explanation for this choice. I am all ears.”

Daylily neither swallowed nor blinked. But she considered her words for some moments before speaking. “Prince Lionheart is still a boy, Father. He is incapable of considering matrimony or engagements. He is foolish and headstrong, and his mind is taken up with . . .” Here she considered again. “With childhood games.”

The baron was fooled by neither his daughter’s mask nor her words. He’d taught her those tricks. He swore again, leaning back in his chair.

“Iubdan’s beard, you’ve gone and fallen in love with the boy.”

Daylily gave her father a contemptuous look.

The baron laughed. “Don’t let these little things distract you. You know your duty to your father, to your Eldest, to Southlands. You’ll not let emotions stand in your way; I brought you up better than that!”

Middlecrescent took a parchment from his desk and poised his pen. “You will return to the Eldest’s House next summer. I give you until then to compose yourself properly and fix your mind upon your task. Enough of this fool flirtation, and enough sentimental nonsense.”

No one else observing Daylily’s cold stance would have accused her of sentimental nonsense. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as her father began to write. He said without looking up, “What is it? Speak your mind.”

“You think you know me, Father,” she said. “But you don’t.”

“I know you are capable of fulfilling every expectation I have of you,” said he.

“And I will,” said she.

The winter passed, as did the spring. Messages passed back and forth from Middlecrescent to the Eldest’s House. Those from the Eldest’s House were usually addressed to the baron and sealed with the starflower-and-panther crest. But the final one was different. It was addressed to Daylily and sealed with the seated panther, the crest of the prince. Middlecrescent smiled when he saw it and read it without telling his daughter. Then he informed her that she was to prepare for the journey.

Daylily sat long before her mirror the night before she and her servant were to set out for the Eldest’s House. She studied what she saw there in her reflection. Not a single line marred her face, for she rarely smiled or frowned. Her eyes were solemn and wide, framed with long lashes, and her porcelain skin and red hair glowed in the candlelight. She was, she did not doubt, beautiful.

“Why then?” she whispered. “Why then does he not see?”

Her brows knit together in the most delicate line.

“What sort of beauty is she hiding?”

The Eldest’s household bubbled with gossip. “Lady Daylily of Middlecrescent is coming!” “The baron’s fine daughter is coming to stay!” “It can mean only one thing!”

They gave Lionheart significant looks wherever he went. He could not venture out to the stables and give his red mare a hard run without having to suffer the whispers and gazes of the whole court. Even the stableboys gossiped like schoolgirls.

He ignored it.

Let them think what they liked, the whole mad lot of them! Let his mother plot and plan with the baron. He would not be manipulated into anything. He was seventeen now, and perfectly capable of making up his own mind.

Not that he disliked Daylily. His memories of the previous summer were rather hazy. He knew that he and she had played a good amount of chess and cards. He knew that he had thought her very pretty, if a little cold.

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.

Beyond those walkways stretched the park grounds, miles in each direction save north, where they ran into the Eldest’s City, the greatest and proudest city in all Southlands. All these things should be Lionheart’s someday. The barons would swear their vows of loyalty as they knelt at his feet. Everyone in the kingdom would pay him tribute, honor, and reverence.

And, of course, he would choose a bride to rule beside him as his mother ruled alongside his father. A strong woman, a beautiful woman. That is what the people of Southlands required.

“Rose Red,” Lionheart said, without turning to look at her, “do you think I will make a good king?”

Rose Red said nothing for a long moment. Her hands froze in their work. This was not a question she should be asked, much less one she should be permitted to answer.

But Lionheart turned to her, and in that instant, as she peered through the slit in her veils, she did not see a prince. She saw Leo. She saw the boy who had once told her he would be a jester someday; the boy who had built stick-and-leaf ships and sunk them in the Lake of Endless Blackness; the boy who had brandished a beanpole like a sword and battled imaginary foes with all the vim of a legend.

The boy who had looked into the monster’s pool.

“It’s not my place to say, Your Highness,” Rose Red whispered.

He looked hurt at this response. Rose Red wished she could take back those words.

“I give you permission to speak,” Lionheart said, but his voice was harder now. He was a prince again, no longer the Leo she knew. Rose Red bowed her head and curtsied again, deeply.

“I believe you are the kindest and best master, Your Highness,” she said. “Therefore, you must be the kindest and best king.”

Lionheart gazed at her, searching the huddled form for some sign of the playmate he had once enjoyed. But everything was different now, down from the mountain. They were no longer a boy and a girl; they were a prince and a chambermaid. She was not his friend, not his peer, not even an upper servant with whom he could rightly exchange civilities.

“Carry on with your work,” he said and stepped from the sitting room into the adjoining dressing room.

He prepared himself for dinner that night, having never liked employing a man to aid him. As befit a prince, he wore red and black, and when he sat at table with his parents and Daylily, he saw that she wore the same colors, just as though she were already a princess. But her face was demure, and she addressed herself primarily to the Eldest and Queen Starflower, only turning to Lionheart when he happened to speak to her. All politeness and poise and beneath it all, allure. No one who saw her could fail to notice what a fine queen she would make.

The meal complete, Queen Starflower turned to her son with a smile. Lionheart made an effort not to flinch under it.

“Why don’t you entertain our guest, my dear?” Starflower said. “You have skill, and we would all enjoy a demonstration.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Daylily, turning her great eyes upon him. “I seem to remember asking you to play last summer during our stay at Hill House, but you never could be convinced.”

Lionheart shrugged, an unprincely gesture.

“Won’t you please now?” Daylily asked, her gaze ever so compelling.

A lute was sent for, and Lionheart accepted it and stood before those assembled. He liked the feeling of all those eyes upon him, not least of all Lady Daylily’s. His father watched with mild interest, his mother like a hawk. And down the table several places, Foxbrush sat with his hair oiled, giving Lionheart dagger looks that were almost hysterical. Lionheart gave his cousin a grin before strumming the first chord. Then he sang: