The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Sixteen

"Lord Wallia," said the Princess, surprised. Lord Wallia had never been one to visit his own county, let alone call in at Hoxleigh Palace. He'd always maintained that business kept him away at the Citadel in his letters. Although he never failed to send her a gift on her birthday. Usually a bolt of silk, with pattern-books from the capital. An unusually sensitive gift from a man to a young woman stuck out in a cultural backwater. She often wondered who organised it on his behalf. "How unexpected. When the boy said there was a rider, I did not think for a moment that it might be the Earl of Wickerstone."

Lord Wallia, his cloak splattered with mud from the road and his face reddened from the wind, bowed. "Princess. How kind of you to remember me."

"You have met Lady Fae," she said, indicating her governess. Lord Wallia bowed shortly, matched by an equally disinterested curtsey by Lady Fae.

"Will you sit?"

Lord Wallia looked with longing at the chair in question, but he shook his head. "No. I thank you. I bring grave news."

Lady Fae took a seat and brought out a book from somewhere to give them the illusion of privacy while still offering the presence of a chaperone. No doubt the book was nothing more than a prop and she was all ears to what Wallia had to say for himself.

"Oh?" If it was anything about Jain she didn't want to hear it. The silly fool probably went crying to father as soon as she got back home, and now he was here to beg her forgiveness before the masters got to her. She walked over to the mantle and adjusted her hair in front of the mirror.

Lady Fae hadn't done such a bad job, considering. The old bat was never seen without that tiny bun hanging off the back of her head. The Princess had often wondered if she slept in it. But Lady Fae had managed to create a soft bouffant style with the Princess' thick waves. A little old fashioned admittedly. It was the type of thing her mother would have worn when she was newly married.

Lord Wallia was trying to catch her eye in the reflection, while at they same time attempting a respectful lowered head, giving him the impression of a dog waiting for his master to throw the stick. The Princess smiled. "How is Jain?" she said, brightly.

His head snapped up, and the Princess stared him down so that he was forced to drop his gaze in shame. "You should know better than me, your highness," he said.

"I have not seen her since last night. I know the coaches around here are a shambles, but I would have thought that was plenty of time to return to Havenot." She paused. "Is that not why you're here?"

His lips pursed themselves around a sound which never emerged and a sheen of sweat formed on his lip. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded handkerchief, flapping it open and patting it over his face until he took on the appearance of boiled ham.

"Princess," he said. "I've been riding through the night to bring you news from the capital, only stopping for as long as it took to change my horse. His Royal Majesty the King of Serrador, your father, is dead."

Lady Fae's book slipped from her lap and slammed to the ground.

The Princess ignored the disruption, instead tracing the silver work on the small snuff box sitting on the mantle.

There were flecks under the glass of the mirror. She'd never noticed that before. She would have to speak to the steward about it. It wouldn't do at all. She could barely see herself for all the smudges under the glass. The silvering had gone quite dark. It would have to be sent to the capital to be repaired. Or better yet, she would have a new one commissioned. She never liked the frame of this one anyway. It was too heavy, and too old looking. It belonged in a dusty old castle, not Hoxleigh.