"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" She fought the urge to wipe at her face with her mittens, afraid to discover the hot ache in the back of her head had escaped in the form of tears.
"It must be the dying light. You look so pale." He offered her his bent arm. She accepted the silent suggestion that they continue their long walk back to the orphanage.
"You make me wish ..." She waited until they had come down the steps from the pavilion and started down the icy brick-paved pathway. "I think there must be some truth in the saying that it is better to have known true love and then lost it. The sweetness, however short-lived, makes up for the pain."
"If I ever thought she loved me, maybe I could agree with you."
"Oh, no matter how selfish and spoiled your princess might have been, somewhere deep inside, she did love you. As much as she was able. No one could be so utterly self-centered and stupid they wouldn't recognize your fine qualities and love you. Even if just a little bit," she vowed.
"Thank you." He caught up her hand where it was tucked into his elbow, and pressed a kiss in the gap between sleeve and mitten, before settling it firmly back in place. "Where were you when I was soothing my broken heart with plans to hunt dragons and gryphons and make a heroic name for myself?"
"Making mistakes of my own." Merrigan laughed with him as they trudged down the pathway to the main street.
"All of youth must seem foolish and selfish, looking backwards, I suppose." He sighed, and they walked along for several minutes in companionable quiet. "What was he like, the man you loved and lost?"
"I didn't know how to love. Truly love. Before ..." She gestured at her face. Let him assume she meant when she was young, rather than before the curse hit her. "I was married, for a short time. We ... understood each other, as much as two nasty children could. We thought it was the two of us against the whole misguided world. Suddenly he was gone. He was so viciously clever that he became inexcusably stupid."
"You started to love him. Enough to hurt for him."
"That was a lifetime ago, when I was a very different person."
"He was a fool for not loving you completely," he said, resting his hand over hers in the crook of his elbow and squeezing it.
"You, Prince Bryan, are gallant and flattering and I don't know whether to laugh or cry."
"If only ..."
"Yes." She turned enough to see past the sagging sides of her deep hood, and found him smiling a little sadly at her. "If only."
THE DAYS PASSED, BECOMING another week, and Merrigan scolded herself for being a sentimental, selfish twit. She fell into more and more situations where she and Bryan were together, walking somewhere in the increasingly wet, cold weather. Running errands for the orphanage. Escorting children to lessons or visits with possible adoptive parents, or simply needing to stretch their legs and get some fresh air.
As the weather grew increasingly unfriendly, the children spent more time indoors. The noise of children seeking new entertainment irritated Merrigan more than she liked to admit. She swore she could hear them chattering and shrieking and laughing, knocking over building blocks or singing their nonsense songs and chanting puzzle rhymes at each other even in her sleep. She longed for some place she could go for solitude, and some peace and quiet.
Nearly every time she escaped the orphanage, just for a short walk, hungry for some solitude, she usually found Bryan ahead of her on the street. Or she turned, with the sensation of being watched, and found him following her. He waited for her, or she waited for him, and they talked and walked, sometimes for an hour, or two. Many conversations drifted to their regrets, wondering where that "someone" in their pasts might be right that moment. She admitted to Bryan that she had come near to loving a boy, but had let herself be persuaded that he had nothing to offer her. She remembered aloud for him those few short, sweet times they had spent together as children, yet with as few details as possible, so he wouldn't guess. When he remarked on how similar her memories were to the ones he had of his princess, she fought not to laugh because she feared she might weep. Her only consolation was that he smiled when he talked about the girl she used to be. If he had cursed her for her cold heart, Merrigan didn't know what she would have done.
Once, she managed to follow him into the city without him noticing her. They ended up in a small chapel, warm and softly bright with hundreds of candles. Bryan bought five candles, the expensive, bright green ones. He found a spot where previous candles had burned down and out in the long rows of shelves. Merrigan was touched that he took the time to clear out the expended candles and put the pieces in the barrel for that purpose, instead of just brushing them onto the floor as so many people seemed to do. Bryan set up the candles, then took his time to get a spill and light it from the central flame of the chapel. He lit each of the candles in turn, and let out a deep sigh as he waved the spill to extinguish it.
"Merrigan ..." He took a step back, gazing at the flames. "Be happy."
She fled before the sobs escaped her aching throat. If she made a sound, Merrigan was sure she would collapse in the slush and sleet and still be there when he left the chapel.
The only person more miserable than herself, she realized one day, was Bayl.
