Dearest by Alethea Kontis Page A

to Elisa. “Unfortunately, my dear, it looks as if all of the weaving is up to you and you alone. But it seems as though you may receive aid in all other areas.”
    “But she has to pick the nettles herself,” said Christian, and Elisa pointed to him.
    “Gather stinging nettles if you will,”
quoted Bernard.
    “‘If,’
” said Rene. “Sounds optional to me.”
    “What about her hands hurting and fingers bleeding?” asked François.
    “You don’t think she’s bled enough?” argued Philippe.
    “She will have to weave seven shirts in three days,” said Friday. “Don’t worry. Her fingers will bleed.” She took Elisa’s hands in hers. “I will do what I can to ease the pain for you, all right?” Elisa humbly nodded her acceptance of the princess’s offer. “I’m also sorry about the sleeves. I was hoping we could get away with fashioning crude tunics, but those words are precise.”
    “We seem to be getting away with an awful lot as it is,” said Sebastien.
    “True.” Friday punctuated her statement with a large yawn. “Forgive me. There has been plenty to do this past day, and plenty little time in which to do it.”
    “You should rest,” said François. “I could make a pillow for you here by the door.”
    Tristan would be damned if he let Friday fall asleep next to anyone but him. Friday must have heard his thoughts; she smiled at him but directed her answer politely to François.
    “You’re very kind. But before I rest, I must first teach Elisa the rudiments of weaving so she can practice before she gets the nettle fiber.”
    Elisa nodded, resigning herself to her sleepless fate with a determined grin.
    “That sack is full of yarn. We can use these old picture frames as looms.”
    “And what would you have the rest of us do?” asked Christian.
    For the first time since Tristan had met her, Friday looked taken aback. So she
could
be surprised. Either her deep concentration distracted her from every other emotion in the room, or the brothers were quickly becoming adept at restraining their feelings.
    “I . . .” she started. “I’m sorry, I . . .”
    “It’s all right,” Sebastien said with a measure of reserve that he normally used only for Elise. “We just want to be of use.”
    Philippe harrumphed.
    “Well,
some
of us do,” Sebastien finished.
    “I’m quite handy at being idle,” said Bernard.
    Rene swatted him in the arm. “We’re at your service, milady. What do you need?”
    “You are welcome to sort through the yarn and food we’ve brought,” Friday answered. “I carried a few more books up as well, so you wouldn’t all have to share with François.”
    It was so sweet, how she innocently assumed the best of them. Tristan wondered if he’d ever been so innocent in his life. Predictably, François laughed at this. Sebastien and Christian looked at each other. Rene and Bernard simultaneously found the crumbling walls fascinating. Philippe glowered. Tristan was the only one brave enough to meet the princess’s eyes, and when he did so he merely shrugged, for lack of anything better to say.
    “You’re joking,” said Friday. “Can’t
any
of you read?”
    Sebastien and Christian raised their hands halfheartedly. “Well enough in the language of the Isles,” said Christian. “But not much of your Common tongue.”
    Friday put her hands on her hips. “The heir and the spare . . . to be expected, I suppose, but I have to say that I’m disappointed in the rest of you. Shameful!”
    “How’s that?” said Bernard. “We don’t need to read to lift a sword.”
    “Or shoot an arrow,” added Rene. “Or climb a tree. Or paint a picture. Or seduce a woman . . .” Rene elbowed his twin at this last item and they giggled like prize idiots.
    Friday’s eyebrows raised. “You paint, sir?”
    She sounded like a princess just then, and not an amused one. The twins ceased their playing. Rene’s usual boldness fled. Instead of answering the question, he