His answering grin left my stomach in knots.
Hostage. Hostage. Hostage.
A hollow bang echoed through the wooden floor. No one else seemed to notice.
Eava dropped off four slices of toast, two for Rían and two for me, then went back to the hob to sprinkle a handful of herbs into one of the pots.
I reached for the dish of butter Rían had conjured from somewhere, halting when something banged again.
“What’s that noise?” And where was it coming from?
It happened again, rattling the dishes.
Rían sighed. “That’s Ruairi.”
“It sounds like he’s under the floor.” I checked beneath the table for some access point but found only a brush and pan.
The toast crunched between Rían’s teeth when he took a massive bite. “He is.”
“Where?”
“Where he belongs.”
Eava slammed a tray with two egg cups and two glasses of fresh orange juice onto the table. “What’d I tell ye about sendin’ that poor boy to the dungeon?”
Ruairi was in the dungeon? Had he been there since this morning?
Rían took another crunching bite of toast. “To be fair, I did warn him.”
Warnedhim? Hardly. “How can you punish him for coming to my aid?” Ruairi had been the only one to check on me, and I wouldn’t soon forget it.
“You didn’t need his aid,” Rían countered, tapping a spoon against his egg, cracking the shell.
My hand tightened on the butter knife. “Do I not? My apologies. I thought you were keeping me hostage.”
“Little Rían . . .” Eava clicked her tongue. “What’d I tell ye about keepin’ hostages?”
His pointed his spoon at her. “The same thing I told you about calling me ‘Little Rían.’ I am not a child.”
“Then ye should stop actin’ like one.”
I couldn’t help my startled laugh. “Eava, I think you might be my hero.”
She gave me a saucy wink and said, “If ye don’t stand up fer yerself around here, these pretty boys will wreck yer head—and yer heart.”
A cook who talked back to a prince.
And a prince who took it on the chin.
What sort of place was this?
The occasional scrape of cutlery and Eava’s good-natured insults kept me company as I ate my breakfast, trying to make sense of this strange country.
Eava dipped her hand into a tin of flour and sprinkled the counter with the white dust. I’d never had an interest in baking, but if I was to be stuck here for the next year, perhaps I’d develop one.
“Eava?”
“Yes, child?”