There was a secret swathe of them, towards the low coastal wall where some of the larger trees grew. Meilyr knelt, and Haydn caught his wrist. ‘Wait.’
Meilyr felt Ser Pedr’s glare, but Haydn merely drew out a kerchief from his belt and handed it to him. ‘So you aren’t stung,’ Haydn explained.
He lingered as Meilyr plucked several handfuls of the immensely useful little irritants, then helped adjust the kerchief so it held all the plants, cupping Meilyr’s hands when it was not quite necessary. ‘Keep it,’ he said when it was done, and helped Meilyr to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ Meilyr managed, somewhat taken back. Somewhat flushed from Haydn’s pointed intentions, which had passed to him with every brush of their skin.
Things between them had ended poorly. It had been a surprise not to face bitterness, or even resentment. Instead, there was affection in Haydn’s hands: unchanged, despite time and heartache.
It took Meilyr back to the cluttered hedgerows and bunched gardens of Gorsedd Arian. Haydn close and tall, reaching the berries Meilyr could not, smug and teasing as he presented them like the village boys presented flowers.
The exhilarating, certain dependency of his companionship. His uncomplicated fondness the first time he tucked cherry blossoms into Meilyr’s hair: the first time he leaned in and kissed him.
‘Anything you need,’ Haydn reminded him, there in the grounds of Eascild Castle.
Mild discomfort rose, and Meilyr excused himself.
NINETEEN
Fox’s Tears.
Incredibly rare. Fascinating, fussy thing. Named for the old story.
Hurts as much as it heals, which is all hells of a lot.
Personal writings of Lowri gan Hywel
NINETEEN
Some days, Meilyr took lessons with Harlan or other tutors: histories and etiquette, dance and politics. These occurred mostly in the castle reading rooms, Ser Pedr always close by.
One such morning, his lessons finished, he slipped around an aisle of historical and religious texts, into Lady Faina’s small office. The walls and large desk were crammed with books, scrolls and all manner of papers, the scent instantly welcoming. She had left not long ago, hopefully to lunch, so this was his best chance.
As he set the stoppered bottle down, he caught the wordCyngalegon one of the tomes on her desk. There were books here not just on history but on folklore as well. Forbidden stories collected by Khaimlic scholars, to be studied and dissected.
Why was Faina reading these…?
Ser Pedr cleared their throat – the only warning before Faina’s voice came from the doorway.
‘Pedr, what…’ She trailed off. ‘Highness, what can I do for you?’
‘Nothing.’ Meilyr stepped back from the desk and gestured to the dark bottle. ‘I wanted to give you this. For your cough. You do not have to drink it, but if you do, it’s best heated first. I take mine with a little honey, half before you sleep, half the next morning.’ He kept his gaze lowered and moved towards the door, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. ‘My apologies for being presumptuous. Good day, Lady Faina.’
‘Wait.’ She caught his wrist, then took his hand with both of hers. ‘I’m sorry I’ve avoided you – there’s no excuse and I’ve felt awful, and had no idea how to tell you. I…’ Her lovely dark eyes glimmered. ‘I’m sorry. I was so terrifiedIwould be accused, but I know you have to be innocent. Everything you’ve done for everyone – Deryn’s hand, Freda’s ankle, everything.’ She closed her mouth and cleared her sore throat. ‘I really am sorry. And I understand if you’re more than cross.’
He was anything but. She was utterly honest: relief spread through the squeeze of her hands. ‘Not at all,’ he told her. ‘I completely understand.’ He really did.
Faina beamed, slightly teary. ‘Oh, thank the gods – could we take lunch together? On the terraces? I missed you.’
He had missed her, too.
Some nights were spent in his own bed, most in the prince’s. He lostthe fight for the divan every time, and wondered when Osian mightdevelop a crick in his neck.
It was easier, being with him. At least he knew Meilyr hadsomethingto hide.
They took breakfast together when they could, talking of the day or of plants, before the prince took his morning reports and Meilyr drifted downstairs to be readied for the day.
Even amidst his lessons and Osian’s councils, each day they walked the gardens arm-in-arm, Pedr and Blythe or Macsen or Garrick ambling at a respectful distance. Osian would ask about the flora they passed, his eyes bright and touches attentive, even when they were not overtly watched. They had appearances to uphold, and went even when a spring downpour burst across Eascild, much to Harlan and Deryn’s chagrin, and Aldreda’s amusement.