Arc 2 – Chapter 3 – The Duchess’s Daughter Act / The Price of an Apple

Chapter 3

The Duchess’s Daughter Act / The Price of an Apple

            I spend the remainder of breakfast trying to convince Mother that four guards is a bit too excessive… I fail.  Spectacularly.

            By the time I leave the breakfast room, she has somehow managed to make me feel unreasonable for suggesting that Angus, Mary, and our usual escort are sufficient to protect me during a trip to a seamstress.  I am beginning to suspect this is one of Mother's affinities.

            Nothing magical, just motherhood.

            Mother excuses herself before I finish eating, leaving me to finish my meal alone.  Mary is waiting outside the breakfast room when I emerge.

            We have barely reached the front of the estate when Gideon, the head butler, approaches and bows.

            “Lady Beira, His Highness has arrived,” he informs me.

            Any lingering irritation over Mother's security arrangements evaporates.

            “Where is he?” I quickly ask.

            “The west sitting room, My Lady,” he replies.

            I change direction immediately, and begin walking quickly...  possibly a little too quickly for a lady of my station.

            Mary clears her throat behind me and I slow down, but only slightly.

            “I wasn't running,” I inform her without looking back.

            “I said nothing, My Lady.”

            “You were thinking it.”

            “I would never presume to comment upon the speed at which a lady walks to greet her betrothed.”

            I glance over my shoulder, but Mary's expression is perfectly innocent.  I don't trust it for a second.

            The doors to the west sitting room are already open when I reach them.  Inside, Angus stands near one of the windows with his back partially toward me, speaking quietly with one of the household servants.  He is dressed simply by his standards, in dark trousers, boots, and a fitted coat rather than anything resembling court attire.

            For just a moment, I stop and admire the man in front of me.  He has changed over the last year.  Not dramatically.  Not enough that I would have noticed from one day to the next, but he is eighteen now, and somewhere between academy training, endless drills, and the simple unfairness of being Angus, the boy I remember from my earliest days in this world has become a young man.  His shoulders are broader.  His face has lost some of its remaining softness.  Even the way he stands is different, more confident.  He is so handsome it should be a crime.

            Then he notices me watching him and smiles.

            “Beira,” he greets me with a warmth that causes fluttering in my chest.

            “Angus,” I reply, unable to keep my face from breaking into a smile.

            I manage approximately three dignified steps into the room before abandoning the effort entirely, rushing to him.

            He meets me halfway.

            His arms go around me, mine go around him, and for several seconds I simply let myself enjoy the familiar warmth of his embrace.

            “I missed you,” I mumble against his chest.

            There is a brief silence.

            “But you just saw me three days ago,” he replies.

            I pull back far enough to glare up at him.

            “That doesn't mean I didn't miss you,” I say with a little pout.

            “I didn't say it did.”

            “You were thinking it,” I tell him, using the same accusation I had used on Mary.

            “I was thinking that three days hardly constitutes a lengthy separation,” he corrects me.

            “It does when someone is about to disappear for months,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them and he frowns in response.

            Damn it, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

            Angus's hands remain lightly around my waist as he looks me in the eyes.

            “Beira,” he starts, but I interrupt him before he can continue.

            “No.”

            His eyebrows rise.

            “We're not doing this this morning,” I say with a slight frown.

            “Doing what?” he asks.

            I step away from him but grab his hands before he can retrieve them.

            “Being sad,” I tell him.

            “Were we?” he asks, his expression doubtful.

            “Yes,” I say with a nod, my expression serious.

            “Hm, how unfortunate.”

            “Exactly,” I say, nodding again.

            His mouth twitches with amusement and I narrow my eyes.

            “You're making fun of me,” I accuse him.

            “I would never.”

            “Liar,” I reply.

            “Occasionally.”

            That gets a smile out of me.  I look toward Mary, who has very carefully found something fascinating on the opposite side of the room.

            “How long have you been here?” I ask.

            “Not long,” Angus says. “Your mother intercepted me.”

            “My condolences,” I say with a wince.

            “She was very welcoming,” he assures me.

            “That's how she gets you.”

            Angus laughs with that rich velvety laugh of his that makes me feel weak.

            “I was also informed that we have an itinerary,” he says.

            “I have an itinerary.  You still have time to escape,” I inform him.

            “And abandon my betrothed to the horrors of shopping?” he replies with an arched eyebrow.

            “You say that now.”

            “I've accompanied Izzy shopping,” he says with a chuckle.

            I stare at him.

            “You poor, poor bastard,” I reply, shaking my head with sympathy.

            Mary coughs loudly as Angus blinks and I smile sweetly.

            “What?” I ask innocently.

            “I believe Mary is reminding you that you are a lady,” he says.

            “No, Mary is reminding me that she doesn't like it when I teach the servants creative uses for words unbefitting a lady.”

            “I have never said that, My Lady,” Mary chimes in.

            Angus shakes his head at our small exchange, still smiling.

            It is easy being with him like this.  There was a time when every interaction between us carried some new complication.  My missing memories.  My blindness.  The engagement I couldn't remember agreeing to.  The life I couldn't tell him about until the truth about both of my souls came out in an inconvenient manner.

            I hadn’t told him everything, but over the past year there are no more walls left between us, no more big secrets hiding in my closet.  He knows about boy named Michael and the girl he should have been, Michelle.  He knows about the girl whose memories became mine again when the gem on Brigid’s chest shattered.  He knows me, all of me and somehow, after everything, he is still here.

            For a little while longer, at least.

            I shove that last thought away before it can ruin my morning.

            “So,” I say, “Mother tells me you volunteered to accompany me.”

            “I did,” he confirms.  “She sent a message to the castle yesterday, telling me of her plans for you today.”

            “Why?”

            Angus places a hand over his heart in mock anguish.

            “You wound me, Lady Beira,” he says dramatically.

            “I know you,” I inform him.  “You hate fittings almost as much as I do.”

            “True,” he says with a nod.

            “So why are you here?” I ask slyly.

            He considers his answer with exaggerated seriousness.

            “Hmm, I enjoy your company,” he says finally.

            “Suspicious.”

            “And...” he stretches that word out then continues, “I thought you might appreciate mine.”

            “More plausible,” I say smiling.

            “And I'm leaving soon,” he points out, hitting on the exact subject I was hoping to avoid.

            My smile falters and he sighs.

            “So much for not doing that this morning,” he says apologetically, having successfully ruined my mood.

            “You did that one,” I tell him.

            “I did,” he agrees.

            “Take it back,” I demand, causing him to sigh and scratch his head.

            “Beira, I don't believe time works that way.”

            “Then maybe we should ask Áine,” I say.

            That earns me a look.

            “It’s not like I can get in touch with Damian to introduce me,” I grumble.

            “That’s probably for the best,” he replies.

            I step closer and take his hand again, still pouting as I look up at his face.  His fingers close around mine automatically.

            “We still have today,” I point out, trying to make myself look as pathetic as possible.

            “Yes,” he says nodding slowly.

            “And Mother claims the afternoon is mine,” I say, looking to the side, as if I can’t look him in the eye.

            “Claims?”

            “You know her,” I say, my eyes flashing back to him.

            “I do,” he agrees with a resigned nod.

            “So, once we survive the seamstress and whatever mysterious household purchases she has decided require my personal attention, we're free.”

            “And what would you like to do once we are free?”

            I already know what I want to do, but having him along for it would improve what was already guaranteed to be one of my favorite pastimes.

            “See Rún,” I say, with a little smile.

            Angus doesn't even hesitate to reply. 

            “And?”

            “And Thomas,” I add.

            “And?” he asks again.

            “And his family, if they're around.”

            “Especially Vinny?”

            I nod.

            “Anything else?”

            “I don't know yet,” I say after pretending to think hard for a moment.

            “That doesn't sound like you,” he comments.

            “I'm considering experimenting with spontaneity,” I tell him.

            “Should I be concerned?” he says, arching an eyebrow.

            “Probably,” I confirm.

            He smiles and lifts my hand to gently kiss it.

            “Then I look forward to being concerned.”

***

            To my annoyance, Mother's definition of additional security turns out to mean exactly what she said, not that Mother meaning what she says is a surprise.  Four guards wait near the front entrance while Mary checks that I have everything I need.  Angus takes one look at them, then at me.

            “You lost the argument with your mother.”

            I nod sadly.

            “You should know better by now that she is going to get her way,” he tells me.

            “You could pretend to be supportive of my position,” I say, shooting a glare at him.

            “I support your mother's decision,” he states, and I glare harder, not that he pays me any mind.  “I am also reasonably certain that insulting your escort before we leave the estate will not convince them you require less supervision.”

            I glance at the guards and only one of them manages not to smile at his declaration.

            Mary finishes whatever inspection she has decided is necessary to keep me from dragging her into mine and Angus’s exchange and nods.

            “We are ready, My Lady, Your Highness,” she says with a proper bow.

            I look toward the front doors.

            Beyond them lie the estate grounds and, just past the gates, the city of Aberling, unlike the ride through the woods that is required at Braemar Keep to reach Lochavria.  Here, the city is simply there, not even fifty yards from the front door.  The busy city street is close enough that on busy mornings I can hear distant carriage wheels and street vendors from parts of the estate.

            I straighten my shoulders without consciously deciding to and Angus notices.  He takes my hand in his and his thumb brushes across the back of my hand.

            “You don't have to do that yet,” he says kindly.

            “Do what?”

            “That.”

            “’That’ isn't an answer,” I say primly.

            He gestures vaguely toward me with his free hand.

            “The duchess's daughter act,” he clarifies.

            I turn and stare at him.

            “I am the duchess's daughter.”

            “Beira, you know what I mean,” he points out.

            I glance toward the servants nearby, the guards waiting for us, then toward the doors that are now open.

            Inside the estate, I am Beira.  Outside... well, outside depends entirely on who you ask. Lady Beira Braemar, future wife of Prince Angus Dunkeld, the girl with twin affinities, or the girl Damian himself descended to save.  Then there is ‘Damian's Herald’ according to people who have apparently decided Damian needs one and that I am it.

            And then there are those who have determined the whole story of the events of the ball is a complete lie and never happened, that the people who died actually didn’t, and that I am responsible for the borderline worship the fervent believers heap upon me.

            I exhale slowly.

            “It's easier if I start before we reach the gate,” I tell him.

            Angus studies me for a moment, then he releases my hand.  For a moment, I'm confused until he offers me his arm instead.

            “Really?” I ask.

            “If we're going to give Aberling Lady Beira Braemar, we may as well do it properly,” he says with a smile.

            I slip my arm through his and lean in for a moment to rest my head on his shoulder before straightening again.

            “You're enjoying this,” I accuse him.

            “Immensely,” he confirms.

            “You're terrible.”

            “So I've been informed,” he says with a slight chuckle.

            I glance back at Mary and she has the audacity to smile.

            “Both of you,” I tell them, feigning annoyance.

            We step outside and the morning is pleasant, the last warmth of summer still lingering in the air.  The estate grounds are quiet except for a few servants going about their work, and for a few minutes I almost manage to convince myself Mother worried over nothing.

            We pass through the gates on foot and Aberling stretches around us.

            People move along the street in both directions, a carriage rattles over the paving stones, and somewhere farther down the road, a merchant is loudly advertising something from behind his cart, but I can't quite make it out.

            Everything appears to be normal.  Perfectly, wonderfully normal.

            A few people glance our way which isn't unusual.  Angus is a prince and I'm the daughter of a duke.  Together, we're hardly inconspicuous.

            A man across the street recognizes Angus and bows.  A woman carrying a basket does the same.  Nothing abnormal at all.

            We continue walking, and the behavior gets repeated by several of the citizens.

            “See?” I murmur.  “Four guards were way too many.”

            “It has been approximately thirty seconds, Beira.”

            “A very peaceful thirty seconds.”

            “You truly present compelling evidence, my love,” he replies.

            “I'm glad you agree,” I state with a nod.

            “I didn't,” he points out.

            “You implied it,” I say, choosing to ignore reality.

            “I did no such thing.”

            We make it another half block before someone gasps.

            It is not the ordinary surprised sound of someone realizing a prince is openly walking down the street.

            This has a sharper intake of breath that defines it.  In the past year I have learned to loathe that sound.  My stomach sinks as I fight the urge to turn around.

            Please don’t call my name.

            “Lady Beira!” the call comes a moment later.

            Godsdamn it.

            I stop with a tired sigh, knowing that my mood is about to be ruined for the near future.

            Angus and Mary both stop and the guards immediately become more attentive.

            I turn to look for whomever called my name.  There is a middle-aged woman standing near a fruit seller's stall with one hand pressed against her mouth, and she is staring directly at me.  More specifically, she is staring at my hair.  Her basket slips from her other hand and apples tumble across the street. Then she drops to her knees and stares at the ground in front of her.

            I close my eyes and I feel like crying.

            It’s Heliosa, my one day off.

            “Please stand,” I say.

            The woman doesn't move.

            “My Lady, I...” her voice catches.

            Several of the people around her have stopped what they are doing to pay attention to what is happening.

            This is how it starts every time.

            “Please,” I repeat.  “You don't need to kneel.”

            That finally gets a reaction and she looks up at me, eyes wide.

            “Forgive me,” she says in a small voice.

            “There is nothing to forgive,” I say before repeating, “please, stand.”

            “I only wanted...” she pauses and her gaze flicks toward the people who have begun watching.

            Wonderful, I think dryly.

            “What did you want?” I ask, knowing what is coming.

            “A blessing,” the woman says, swallowing.

            I resist the urge to look skyward.

            “I'm afraid I don't give blessings,” I tell her.

            Confusion crosses her face.

            “But you're...” she starts to say, but I cut her off.

            “I'm Lady Beira, the daughter of Duke Braemar,” I state with a sigh.

            Angus makes a suspicious sound behind me, but I ignore him.

            The woman's confusion deepens.

            “Yes, My Lady,” she says, looking down again.

            “No, I mean...” I say with another sigh. “I'm just Lady Beira.  I don't have any special authority to bless you.”

            “But Lord Damian chose you,” she states, looking back up at me, her eyes sparkling with admiration.

            “I wouldn't phrase it quite like that,” I say as kindly as I can muster.

            The woman looks genuinely distressed by my answer and that immediately drains some of my irritation.  I know she isn't trying to annoy me; she legitimately believes this.  Whatever nonsense she has been told, she believes it.

            “I don't speak for Damian,” I continue.  “He has never asked me to speak for him.  If someone told you otherwise, they were mistaken.”

            “But he saved you,” she insists.

            That one is harder because there is a level of truth to it.

            “Yes,” I say.  The word comes out quieter than I intend.  Whatever else people have turned the night of the ball into, Damian did save my life in a fashion, but that happened in his realm away from the eyes of everyone but those involved and Angus.  I can't deny that simply because I dislike what other people have built around it, and every time I have tried to correct the parts that are wrong, they just ignore me and say I’m being humble.

            The woman lowers her head again.

            “Then you are blessed,” she says simply.

            I open my mouth, then close it before I say anything.

            Technically... Godsdamn it.

            “That's different,” I finally manage to say.

            She looks up.

            “How?” she asks.

            I hear Angus cough behind me and I turn my head to shoot him a withering glare, but he is looking away.  After a moment, he finally looks at me, and there is entirely too much amusement in his eyes, making me shake my head.

            I turn back to the woman.

            “Look, whether Damian has blessed me or not doesn't mean I can bless you,” I explain.  “That is for the realm of the divine, not me.”

            She considers this and for one glorious moment, I think I've gotten through to her, then she smiles.

            “You are very humble,” she says, her eyes practically shining.

            Oh, fuck me.

            Angus's amusement gets considerably worse, and I shoot him a murderous look.

            The woman finally begins to rise, and I offer her a hand without thinking.  She freezes and her eyes drop to it.  I realize my mistake approximately one second too late because she takes my hand with both of hers.

            “Oh.”

            There is so much emotion packed into that single sound that I immediately feel terrible about being annoyed.

            “Thank you,” she whispers.

            “You're welcome?”

            She releases me reluctantly and I glance around.  There are far too many people watching now.

            “Your apples,” I say.

            The woman blinks in confusion.

            “What?” she asks.

            “Your apples,” I say and point toward the street where several have rolled surprisingly far.  One of the guards is already retrieving them while the fruit seller has come around his stall to collect the others.

            It is a normal problem.  I can help with normal problems, so I crouch and grab the nearest apple.

            “My Lady,” Mary says.

            “It's an apple, Mary,” I say.  “I’m not so sheltered that I can’t help someone pick up fruit.”

            “I can see that,” she says, a level of disappointment in her voice.

            I pick up another, then Angus joins me.

            “Really?” I ask.

            “If the future Princess of Elgoss is collecting produce from the street, I can hardly allow my future bride to do it alone.” He says with that smile that makes my chest flutter.

            “You're never going to let me forget this, are you?” I ask, sensing ulterior motive.

            “Never,” he confirms a little too quickly.

            Together, we gather the last few apples in short order.

            When I return them to the woman's basket, she looks dangerously close to crying.

            “Thank you, Lady Beira,” she says, with reverence.

            “It's fine.” I wave my hand to indicate it was no big dea.

            “May Damian's light always shine upon you.”

            “Thank you,” I say, smiling weakly.

            That, at least, seems safe to say.

            She bows rather than kneeling this time, which is progress in my book.

            I turn back toward Angus.

            “We're leaving,” I inform him.

            “Of course,” he agrees.

            “Now.”

            “I wasn't suggesting otherwise.”

            I take his arm again and begin walking.

            The guards reform around us.  Mary follows close behind.

            I can still feel people watching.

            We make it perhaps twenty paces before Angus speaks.

            “Lady Beira, you are very humble,” he says teasingly, and I elbow him.

            “Ow,” he says, rubbing his arm.

            “You deserved that,” I inform him.

            “I just said two words,” he whines.

            “The wrong two words,” I state.

            “I thought they were quite appropriate.”

            “I hate you,” I say without really meaning it.

            “No, you don't.”

            “No,” I grumble, then add, “unfortunately.”

            He smiles and I try not to… I fail.

            Behind us, someone calls the woman blessed for having touched my hand, and my smile disappears.

            “Keep walking,” I demand,

            “I hadn't stopped.”

            “Faster,” I command.