It was a bright night. The sun was gone, but persistent, trusting the stars to carry its light until it rose again.
A restless crowd grew in the stone courtyard. First a dozen, then a hundred, then far more. The shuffling of feet across limestone turned from a whiskery scratch into a rhythmic stomp. My heart pushed against my breastbone, hungry.
The prince had just turned seventeen, there was a toast, a feast, dancing late into the night. But I wasn't allowed into the courtyard for the king's speech.
I was made to stay back, tend to the ale, serve the men who came to refill their quaichs. Mother wanted me close to the alehouse. Da wanted me out of the reach of the riotous men in the courtyard.
I lingered at the doorway, watching the king appear from behind the heavy drape, raise his goblet in celebration. I watched the prince appear thereafter, shy smile growing into something easier, something infinitely more adoring. The cries and shouts grew deafening; his smile grew wider, as if he looked out on a vast horizon of treasure.
Green eyes blinked, searching. Scanning. He did this, you see. Made everyone feel as if they were being included, being noticed. A mother hen, counting her chicks.
Except his eyes didn't stop at one pass. Again, and again, and again they swept across the crowd, meeting a hundred set of eyes every few seconds as his father continued to speak. And then, blinking up, he saw me in the distance.
"Happy birthday, my Lord," I whispered.
He did not look away.
"I still belong to you," I told the air, the quiet moon, the stars holding onto the sun.