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Talk, Archie. She wants you to talk. Open your mouth, and . . . “No, Your Highness.” There. Words! He wasn’t a mouse. Or at least he wasn’t a silent one. “And the bow wasn’t made for me. It was my grandfather’s.”
She nodded and happily went back to feeling out the bow. “Still, it’s a good bow. Well-made. Was your grandfather also a huntsman?”
“I think so,” Archie said, growing more daring. Once the first few words were forced out, the rest flowed more naturally. “He died the year I was born, and my father didn’t like to speak of him much. They called him Archer, though I don’t think that was his real name.”
“And you were named for him?”
“I suppose I must have been.” He really hadn’t thought about it before. It was just a name. It didn’t have to mean anything.
Princess Ainsley smiled and tossed the bow back at him. “Then you should use it. Properly. I can teach you.”
Archie blinked back at her. “You?”
“Yes, me. Is anyone else offering?” She laughed and reached back for her guard, signaling him to equip her with her own bow and quiver. It was only then that Archie noticed how she was dressed. Yes, there were the usual well-fitted skirts and styled hair, but also pointed boots instead of house slippers and a leather armguard already in place.
“No, it’s just—I’m honored, Princess. I didn’t realize you liked archery.” It really didn’t fit with his old picture of the princess: elegant, refined, and perfect.
Completely untouchable.
But now that he found the picture being forcibly rearranged into something more approachable, something more real, he couldn’t say he minded all that much. There was still the fear it would shatter in another moment, a dream he could still be forcibly awakened from, but he would enjoy the thrill while it lasted.
Ainsley dropped her shoulders, becoming thoughtful. Perhaps even mournful. “No one knows. My mother didn’t think it was fit for a lady. I might ruin my hands. I might run into bandits—that kind of thing. So, I had to get my brother to teach me and swear my guards to secrecy.”
Her guard mimed sealing his own lips, agreeably. Ainsley loosed an arrow, hitting the tree that had been eluding all of Archie’s previous attempts.
“Your brother was a huntsman?” The words sounded daft the moment Archie gave them voice. Would he ever not be daft or mute when speaking to the princess? But he couldn’t give up.
Even if he was a mouse.
“My brother was a prince,” Ainsley said patiently, cuing up another shot. “But yes, he liked spending all his time with the huntsmen—like he was one of those questing princes from a storybook. Why do you think my father favors his huntsmen so much?”
That made sense. And he had already known the crown prince had died at the same age Archie was now, though it had happened years ago. It was just strange to think of the king as nothing more than a grieving father with a son who was dead.
Archie paled at the thought, glancing back at the princess. It wasn’t just the king’s son who was dead. It was also Ainsley’s brother.
Her eyes were distant as she shot at the tree, displaying all the skill Archie lacked. She still was as elegant as a painting, though perhaps one that had seen a bit more of the world—with a few sharp lines and contrasting colors. Milk-white skin and fiery hair. Beautiful but fierce.
He could spend all day just watching her, discovering all her new angles.
And even Leo, still at Archie’s feet, seemed transfixed.
She lowered the bow, answering their looks with a hard stare of her own. “I was getting good enough that I thought we might convince our parents one day—to let me go out on a real hunt. But then there was the plague. Mother died, and then . . . Well, it’s hard to argue with a ghost. Going against her wishes or changing anything around the castle can feel like losing her all over again. You understand?”
Archie wanted to say he did. Both his parents had died, and when Ainsley had described the late queen, he felt the same ache that had come with his mother’s death, but also the lack of closure and twisted emotions he felt at the death of his father. Emotions he could never quite put into proper words despite all his forays into the finer art of poetry.
Perhaps there were no proper words at all.
“These last few years, I’ve had to shoot alone,” Ainsley said. “I’m tired of shooting alone.” Her words turned sharp, as if to force away any of the melancholy of before. “Do you want me to show you or not?”
Archie certainly did. He wanted it more than anything else in his life.
* * *
The sun had sunk low behind the oak tree when Archie turned back to face the princess, pride warming his face. It wasn’t a rabbit or any proper sort of game, but he had shot the tree he targeted the last three times he tried.
It couldn’t escape him now.
But the princess seemed too distracted to praise him. The cat had turned traitor, wandering over to her side. Princess Ainsley stooped down to pet his fur as easily as Tabitha had. “He’s sweet. Is he yours? I noticed him before, but I wasn’t sure if he belonged to the matrons at the Charity House or you. And all the children there seem to love him.”
