At the Queen's Summons by Susan Wiggs Page A

into the center of the arena. Paint and paste brought to life a colorful world of the imagination.
    As they emerged onto the seating tier, people stared at Aidan, Donal Og and Iago. Flushed behind her silken mask, Pippa tilted up her chin in self-importance, enjoying the slack-jawed looks of awe and admiration. Iago, with his dark skin and colorful garb, was the most striking of the three, but Donal Og and Aidan, towering head and shoulders above the prosperous merchants and gentlemen, also garnered their share of admiring looks.
    â€œDiablo!” Iago exclaimed, jumping and turning. “Someone pinched me.”
    Pippa smothered a giggle. A plump woman in a cherry-colored gown winked from behind a feathered mask at Iago. But then another woman, whose bosom all but erupted from her bodice, turned her attention to Aidan, lowering her eyelids halfway and running her red tongue over her lips.
    Pippa grabbed Aidan’s sleeve and pulled him along the riser. “Stay away from such as that one,” she warned.
    His eyes danced with merriment. “And why should I be doing that?”
    â€œShe is a wanton pestilence. You mark my words.”
    â€œI mark them,” he said, laughing.
    Pippa took a deep breath. “She might give you something you can’t wash off.”
    He made a choking sound. Then he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Painted cows have little appeal for me.”His voice was low and intimate. “I much prefer the charm of innocence.”
    She felt wingbeats of joy fluttering inside her. Then he winked. “Not to mention a talent for juggling.”
    A thrill of excitement chased up her spine. She clung to his arm, so proud to be the favored partner of the O Donoghue Mór that she did not even feel the floor beneath her feet. Like a dry sponge, she absorbed the ways of the nobility, learning to flutter a fan in front of her bosom, to crook her finger daintily as she sampled the fare, to cover her mouth as she laughed at some jest on the stage.
    The play concerned a thrice cuckolded husband and his insatiable wife, and Pippa enjoyed it thoroughly, though the drama was not what she would remember that day. Nor would she recall sampling the pies and nuts and comfits Donal Og bought from the trays of the concession men.
    What she would remember was being with Aidan. Hearing the rich music of his laughter. Stealing glances at his magnificent profile. Mimicking the manners and expressions of the noble ladies, even though he protested that such posturing moved him not.
    Pippa forgot to perform the ritual she had always done in the past. Every time she found herself in a crowd of people, she searched each face for something vague yet familiar—a tilt of the head, a lift of the mouth, something to mark her connection with another human being; something that would make her a member of a family.
    Yet today her usual obsession lay quiet inside her. She wondered why, and answered the question in her heart.
    When she was with Aidan O Donoghue, she did not need a family, for she belonged, heart and soul, to him.
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    He wondered how old she was. Some women wore their age like a coat of arms, this or that detail announcing plainly, whether she liked it or not, that she was eighteen, or twenty-six, or thirty-two.
    Not so Pippa, bouncing at his side, laughing and squealing in delight at the farce on the stage. One moment he was certain she was no more than sixteen, girlish and breathless and fresh as the dawn. Then the melancholy would sweep like a mist over her, and she would make some observation that was so wise and world-weary that he would swear she was as old as time.
    A troupe of clowns scurried out on stage, conking each other on the heads with mallets. Pippa threw back her head and guffawed, slapping her knees and forgetting she was amid noble ladies.
    â€œHow old are you?” Aidan finally asked. In the same moment that he spoke, he cursed himself for an idiot. He should not