“What’s the worst of it?” Lia had breathed, leaning in.
“The wailing,” the cook replied. “The groom swears he hears it coming from the forbidden wing late at night—the haunting wail of imprisoned spirits.”
Lia didn’t believe in ghosts, but that did not stop her from shivering.
The only good thing Lia learned that day was that the captain actually was somewhat close to Princess Tavia in age. Apparently, he was only a captain because his father, Lord Salamar, owned a ship.
Reflecting back on the image of Julian at the solstice ball, Lia realized this was true. His face, beneath the bluebeard was young and unblemished—it must have been those eyes that made him seem so old; desolate eyes that looked like they had witnessed the deaths of a thousand screaming men (Or maybe seven wailing women).
In any case, being of suitable age was not enough to make up for the missing fiancees or the mysterious wing in his house or his complete disrespect for royalty.
The moments dragged by as Lia paced beside the stable, wearing down the grass beneath her feet. She became vaguely aware of a mumbling coming up behind her but was too distracted to turn around.
“Hair, like the warm glow of flame, dancing on the grass. . .”
“The grass is on fire?” Lia cried, jumping and twirling around. But she turned too late, Lord Tyrell collided with her, sending them both sprawling.
“Sorry, sorry!” Tyrell cried, jumping up and offering her a hand.
Lia accepted it. “No, I’m sorry, my lord. I’m just a bit jumpy today.”
She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “You said something about the grass and fire and I just . . .”
Tyrell’s face went scarlet. “Nothing,” he mumbled. “It was a . . . a poem.”
Lia felt a warmth wash over her, calming her still more. She pursed her lips in an attempt to hide a smile. She had a pretty good idea of who that poem was for.
Would Julian ever write poems for the princess? Certainly not! He’d probably grumble about how her dress was unbecoming and then she’d swoon.
Lia imagined herself rolling her eyes so she wouldn’t do it in real life.
“You’re not on the hunt?” Lia asked.
Tyrell shook his head. “I had a prior engagement.”
“Oh,” Lia nodded.
They both stood awkwardly for a moment. He turned and looked outward over the hillside expectantly.
“The princess should be here in a moment,” Lia smirked, sticking her tongue in her cheek.
Tyrell’s gaze remained on the grass, but he broke into a bashful smile.
“I was awful, wasn’t I?” he said.
Lia grinned then pointed to a yellow bloom next to the paddock.
“There’s a daffodil,” she said. “Easier to pluck than a rose, but a bit more impressive than a clover.”
Tyrell snorted, his cheeks reddened but his grin grew.
A moment passed where they both just stared patiently up the hill.
“I know you asked to meet later but,” Tyrell shrugged. “It looks like we have some time now.”
With all that had happened, Lia had almost forgotten her invitation to Tyrell. At the moment she was more concerned with match preventing than match making. Then, something occurred to her.
Lord Tyrell’s father was a Councilor to the King of Allys. As such, Tyrell spent a lot of time at the castle which had given Lia a chance to learn about him. Tyrell loved spending time in the castle library and loved reading stories about old knights and legendary heros. Lia knew this, because those were also her favorite stories so she could tell which books he was reading quite easily whenever she walked through the library. And, while he was probably the . . . scrawniest . . . of the young lords who spent time at the castle training grounds, he was easily the one who worked the hardest to learn how to wield a sword and lance. In everything from his manners, to his obsession with honor, to his . . .interestingattempts at poetry, he clearly wanted to be like one of the legendary knights. If he knew his lady love was in trouble then . . .
