window.
Meanwhile, Amatus made his way down the stairs, still feeling terribly sorry for himself, but also feeling that he had overdone this, and that like it or not it was time to begin to turn toward the air and the light.
First he stopped by the throne room and contritely—and briefly, because he was afraid he might lapse back into rude offensiveness—told his father that he was sorry for his recent behavior, and that he would be coming down to dinner tonight. King Boniface smiled at him, warmly at first, and then a slightly guarded expression passed over his face. By this, Amatus knew that he still did not look at all well.
Psyche was in the nursery, sitting quietly.
"I've come to apologize," Amatus said.
She smiled at him warmly. "You used to do that when you were little."
He had rarely been reminded that Psyche had been his nurse—he was used to thinking of her as a trusted servant of his own age—and now he came to her and sat at her feet, waving off her attempts to kneel. "How is it," he asked, "that you remain the same age? You are no different from what you were when I first saw you in the Throne Room, and now I'm grown—physically, anyway—half of me, anyway—and yet you don't look a day older."
She smiled at him, and there was mischief in it. "By the time you understand that, it will be the least important thing you understand. Promise you will think of me with love when you do understand."
He promised, and Psyche went to his closet and drew out a set of clothes she had hung there. "Royal purple, and deep blues, and some traces of red," she said. "Still sober as is proper, but not that dreadful black. You were not meant to be Prince Hamlet, my dear one."
She had not called him "my dear one" in many years, not since he was small, and at the sound of it he hugged her to him, and felt her arms around the right side of his waist again . . . and noted that his boots met her shoes, toe to toe, as they never had before.
They both looked down. "Do you miss him?" Amatus asked.
"No." She sniffled, and it seemed to belie her words, but he didn't know what she was weeping at. "Highness, you've never asked, so now I shall tell you: we don't all like each other. We share our duty to you, we know all the others do as well, we trust each other to do this, and we are content with this. I knew how much you needed Golias, my Prince, and would that you might have had more of him or more of the pleasure of him—but he and I were never friends. We could not be. It was not in the nature of things."
Amatus nodded, bowed, took up the new clothes she had made for him, and said, "Thank you for these. They are beautiful."
After he had dressed—not in his new clothes, which he saved for dinner, but in a simple blue costume that was somber without being grim, he went down to speak to the Twisted Man.
The Twisted Man, who was patrolling one of the parataxes on the castle's East Battue, nodded gravely, said, "Your apology is accepted," and added, "It would behoove you to go and speak with Mortis; she was wounded more deeply than either of us, because she liked Golias best. When you are done, I expect you to write brief notes of apology to others you have wronged—and then to be back up here promptly. "
It was not a way to speak to a prince, but then Amatus had hardly behaved in a princely fashion lately, and he felt deep inside that whatever the Twisted Man had in mind it would be something that Amatus needed, "Thank you, Captain," he said, and trotted down to the lower reaches of the castle.
He found Mortis one level below her usual one, and a quick glance showed him she had gone so far as to move her furniture down into this lower apartment, away from all daylight.
There were lines in the witch's face where he hadn't remembered there being any before, and her eye were red-rimmed, with weeping, he thought. For a long time he sat next to her, not touching her, for he knew that her dignity could not bear that, but
Meanwhile, Amatus made his way down the stairs, still feeling terribly sorry for himself, but also feeling that he had overdone this, and that like it or not it was time to begin to turn toward the air and the light.
First he stopped by the throne room and contritely—and briefly, because he was afraid he might lapse back into rude offensiveness—told his father that he was sorry for his recent behavior, and that he would be coming down to dinner tonight. King Boniface smiled at him, warmly at first, and then a slightly guarded expression passed over his face. By this, Amatus knew that he still did not look at all well.
Psyche was in the nursery, sitting quietly.
"I've come to apologize," Amatus said.
She smiled at him warmly. "You used to do that when you were little."
He had rarely been reminded that Psyche had been his nurse—he was used to thinking of her as a trusted servant of his own age—and now he came to her and sat at her feet, waving off her attempts to kneel. "How is it," he asked, "that you remain the same age? You are no different from what you were when I first saw you in the Throne Room, and now I'm grown—physically, anyway—half of me, anyway—and yet you don't look a day older."
She smiled at him, and there was mischief in it. "By the time you understand that, it will be the least important thing you understand. Promise you will think of me with love when you do understand."
He promised, and Psyche went to his closet and drew out a set of clothes she had hung there. "Royal purple, and deep blues, and some traces of red," she said. "Still sober as is proper, but not that dreadful black. You were not meant to be Prince Hamlet, my dear one."
She had not called him "my dear one" in many years, not since he was small, and at the sound of it he hugged her to him, and felt her arms around the right side of his waist again . . . and noted that his boots met her shoes, toe to toe, as they never had before.
They both looked down. "Do you miss him?" Amatus asked.
"No." She sniffled, and it seemed to belie her words, but he didn't know what she was weeping at. "Highness, you've never asked, so now I shall tell you: we don't all like each other. We share our duty to you, we know all the others do as well, we trust each other to do this, and we are content with this. I knew how much you needed Golias, my Prince, and would that you might have had more of him or more of the pleasure of him—but he and I were never friends. We could not be. It was not in the nature of things."
Amatus nodded, bowed, took up the new clothes she had made for him, and said, "Thank you for these. They are beautiful."
After he had dressed—not in his new clothes, which he saved for dinner, but in a simple blue costume that was somber without being grim, he went down to speak to the Twisted Man.
The Twisted Man, who was patrolling one of the parataxes on the castle's East Battue, nodded gravely, said, "Your apology is accepted," and added, "It would behoove you to go and speak with Mortis; she was wounded more deeply than either of us, because she liked Golias best. When you are done, I expect you to write brief notes of apology to others you have wronged—and then to be back up here promptly. "
It was not a way to speak to a prince, but then Amatus had hardly behaved in a princely fashion lately, and he felt deep inside that whatever the Twisted Man had in mind it would be something that Amatus needed, "Thank you, Captain," he said, and trotted down to the lower reaches of the castle.
He found Mortis one level below her usual one, and a quick glance showed him she had gone so far as to move her furniture down into this lower apartment, away from all daylight.
There were lines in the witch's face where he hadn't remembered there being any before, and her eye were red-rimmed, with weeping, he thought. For a long time he sat next to her, not touching her, for he knew that her dignity could not bear that, but
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