Chapter Three

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"Everything alright, dear?" her father asked as Elizabeth plopped herself down into one of the two expertly-carved chairs that faced the hearth in her little cottage. Gifts from Ferryl-not that he would remember that. No fire burned in the fireplace, the coals from the night before waiting for her to relight them and begin the nightly routine all over.

Except she had absolutely no desire to prepare dinner tonight. Not since-

"Elizabeth, love?"

Elizabeth slid her gaze to her father, emerging into the small living room; he took a seat in the matching chair beside her, his silver hair glowing in the evening light that streamed through the windows of their quiet cottage. His eyes, so kind and colored with concern, searched her thoroughly. "Has something happened, love?"

She let her gaze flick back to the empty fireplace. "Something is wrong with Ferryl."

"What do you mean?"

"He..." How could she say this? It made no sense. Absolutely no sense at all. "I don't think he knows who I am."

"Love, I'm fairly certain that could never be true," chuckled Bedell, taking her hand across the chairs. His hand, speckled with age, the veins showing clearly through his papery skin, was surprisingly warm on top of hers, his grip somehow both impossibly strong and heartbreakingly tender. "He has had eyes and a heart for none but you for as long as I can remember."

She only managed to huff a sardonic laugh.

"Tell me what's happened," he went on.

"That's just it," she said. "I don't know what's happened. Yesterday...yesterday day he..." She hadn't told him. She hadn't yet told her father what had happened. The question Ferryl had asked. The question a Crown Prince should never have asked a servant. But the promise he had made nonetheless. And she as well. "Yesterday he was fine. But this morning he...well, it was as if he had no idea who I was."

"What do you mean?" Bedell asked, his voice kind but not terribly concerned. She wasn't sure whether to laugh with relief or cry with frustration.

"I thought maybe he was just playing with me. Some sort of game, I suppose." Never mind that Ferryl wasn't one to play those kinds of games. Not so thoroughly anyway. "But then he just...left. And when he returned-which wasn't until just an hour ago, by the way-he had a page bring Erel back to the stables. He never does that, father. He always brings him back. Always." Always an excuse to see her again. To kiss her once more. In nearly fifteen years of friendship, he could never seem to keep away from her. Which was convenient then, considering she did not want to be away from him, either.

"It's as if...it's as if he's never met me before, father." She hated it-the tear that threatened to fall. The lump in her throat. She should not be so upset. For surely-surely there was some sort of logical explanation for it all. But the tear fell despite her. And she rushed to wipe it away.

Bedell only squeezed her hand.

"Have you..." she asked, pausing to swallow back the tears. "Have you ever heard of such behavior?"

"Hmmm," he said, stroking his long, silvery white beard. He too stared into the cold hearth.

"Could he be ill?" she offered. "Is there some sort of illness that would cause such a thing?"

"I suppose it's possible," her father responded. "Logical, perhaps. But I've not heard of such an illness."

She knew then. She knew what he was about to say. The explanation he would offer. The impossible, improbable, useless explanation. Her father, the Chief Advisor to the king of Navah, was little more than a believer of færytales. She gritted her teeth and waited as he finally said, "I have heard rumors though."

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