Aefa slid a look up at her princess, who stared at her mending with a calm that almost seemed dull. But Aefa knew the pinch at Elia’s brow that meant she was thinking hard, in layers and spirals, rather like the intricate patterns of the stars.
“You can talk out any plan, any wish, with me,” Aefa had said, late last night, when she’d heard Elia turn over on the very fine bed the women of the keep had convinced her use in the earl’s quarters. Aefa had cocooned herself in a pile of pillows and blankets in the servant’s nook beside the massive stone hearth, near enough to hear her princess if she stopped breathing.
“I’m not ready,” Elia had answered. “But when I am, I will. I promise, Aefa.”
It required every ounce of Aefa’s training and self-respect not to climb into the grand bed and shake Elia, or kiss her and lend comfort, or maybe pinch her until the princess laid everything out and shared. And if Elia had for even a moment lost all expression, had blinked and gone cold, Aefa would have done. She feared Elia would fall back into what she’d been before, the unfeeling star, the glass saint her father had molded her into. It had been Aefa’s greatest worry, that Elia would lose all she’d gained, the strength and resilience and passion she’d recovered when she lost everything. When she’d begun to build her own stage upon which to stand. There was always the chance the princess would react to her own loss as her father had: by hiding in his grief and burying his rage, and then ruining everything around him.
Elia, though, had Aefa and Brona Hartfare and Kayo, and Aefa’s parents, too (whom Aefa wasn’t certain were in love any longer, but seemed to comfort each other and were sleeping together again, to her delight and trepidation). None of them would allow Elia to close herself off as her father had done in his refusal to listen—to his daughters, and to his island. And that Elia had been willing to chance new friendships and encourage confidences, to let herself smile and brighten this Keep’s dark halls, promised that she had no intention of becoming her father.
Some of that, Aefa bitterly admitted, had to do with Ban Errigal. She’d never thank him for it, even if hope in him was the strongest thread widening the channels in and out of Elia’s heart.
The star-cursed bastard.
Aefa jabbed her bone needle too widely, and sneered at herself. She’d better think of something else. Like the Aremore soldier La Far’s very fine thighs. Except his eyes were so sad, and Aefa was ever surrounded by sad people.
She wished Elia would declare herself queen and let the consequences come.
She wished the wind would stop its angsty blowing, or she’d have to shave off all her hair to stop it coming unbound and sprawling across her eyes.
She wished …
A servant dashed in, fell to his knees, and hurriedly told Elia the barge had been sighted, far out on the turbulent horizon, with a sail striped in the orange, purple, and white of the Alsax.
“Thank you,” Elia said, standing immediately. They would need to hurry, if they were to intercept Rory before he could hear the dreadful state of things from anyone else. It was, after all, Elia had said aloud, her responsibility.
Aefa folded her work and hoped that the wind on the ride wouldn’t tear too much of Elia’s complicated braids free.
* * *
GULLS CRIED LOUDLY and salty water sprayed against the long legs of the dock as Aefa and Elia made their way along it. The amber beads in Elia’s hair caught the sun between every fast-moving cloud, flashing with fire then fading dull again. She wore the vibrant red gown borrowed from Hartfare, laced with the turquoise ribbons. Though not regal, Elia stood as tall as she was able, and the tight gown showed off the roundness of her breasts and hips. Though who on the barge there was to impress, Aefa did not know. She was just grateful Elia had finally accepted she needed to always present herself powerfully.
Limestone cliffs hugged this deep cove, and the water was a brilliant turquoise due to the copper in the sand. A few boats rocked on the incoming tide, though most fishers and trade barges were out on the choppy sea. Noisy voices floated from the open building where a dozen men and women struggled to organize stacks of barrels and crates to be put on a ship to sail out with tonight’s tide, down and around the coast to the Summer Seat. The dock master leaned outside his small watch building against a rusty barrel. Just off the water, where the limestone retaining wall held the sea back from the line of shops, flower and food stalls stood, mostly empty because of the incessant wind. It was the strength of a gale, a wild storm, but brought no rain or thunder. It was unnatural. Elia said the island was furious to have no king, and would continue until a new monarch was chosen.
The wind hissed over the water, throwing salt splashes up across the docks, staining the princess’s dress. Aefa sighed.
Together, the two of them watched the barge approach. Rory stood at the prow, glaringly visible with his bright red hair. He lifted a hand and waved it wide.
The princess remained calm and still, but Aefa was glad to see Rory; despite his rakish proclivities, he was good at heart, and she thought he’d support Elia with his entire being, which would soothe feathers at the Keep.
The sail was lowered as the dock master used painted sticks to signal the barge to its usual berth. With oars, the
