The Princess and the Hound by Mette Ivie Harrison Page A

felt had she had the animal magic. He had felt it when his mother had been with him. And the man on the journey here: George had felt it then too. A similarity. A shared appreciation. A joined sensory experience.
    She did not have it.
    “Shall I walk you back to the palace?” he asked, pushing away the strangely decreasing headache and the demands it implied. He held out his arm.
    Again, the princess looked down at the hound. Then she nodded. “If you wish it,” she said.
    George felt her hand rest on his. It was warm and slightly moist with her exertions in the woods, whatever they were. She did not appear to have gone out hunting. And if she did not speak with animals, then why was she here at this hour of the day—alone?
    “Do you take walks often outside the castle?” asked George.
    “Every day,” said the princess coolly. “It is good exercise,” she added after a moment.
    “Yes.” George was annoyed to think that he was reduced to these inanities. Yet what else could he say? This princess was not at all as he had expected her to be.
    “Is that why you came out as well?”
    “Yes, yes, of course,” said George. Did he sound as much like an idiot as he felt? Focus on the hound, he told himself.
    “Will you tell me your hound’s name?” he tried. “Sheis a wonderful creature.”
    “Her name is Marit,” said Beatrice.
    “Marit.” George nodded. “And how long have you had her?”
    “Had her?” echoed Beatrice distastefully. “We met five years ago, in the woods. We have been together ever since.”
    That would be a story worth hearing, thought George. But they had reached the outer courtyard that led to the kitchen. George moved toward the kitchen. When he reached the archway that led inside, he turned back and found Beatrice and the hound gone without a trace.
    They had met in the woods, he thought, turning the words over in his mind as he wondered at the nearly dissipated headache. As if she were speaking of another person and not an animal at all.

C HAPTER T WELVE
    G EORGE NURSED HIS headache the rest of the day, but it did not go away. It tugged at George as if in waves. Always before it had grown worse and worse, until he could not bear it any longer. But now it was conquerable, and George took some pride in his own strength that he could do that. Perhaps as he grew older, the magic could be tamed. George hoped for that, though to do it, he had to push his mother’s death out of his mind.
    He spent the afternoon listening to the wealthy merchants at court complain about the taxes imposed on goods traded from Sarrey to Kendel’s merchants. Sir Stephen would be better at this, he knew. In the end George agreed to take down some names and accept further communication on the subject. It seemed no more was required. Later, he had a moment to himself in his chamber, opening the window to breathe fresh airand wincing as he did so because the headache had come back full force.
    George had not seen a glimpse of King Helm himself, nor had he been officially introduced to his bride-to-be. He puzzled over this, wondering if he should come to any conclusion on the long-term effects of this marriage. Surely King Helm would not marry his daughter away for nothing.
    A knock at his door.
    George rubbed his temples, put on a pleasant expression, and went down to dinner.
    He saw Beatrice first, standing as he entered the dining hall and greeting him with a few formal words, her hound close by her side. She wore a blue gown that should have made her face come alive but instead emphasized her distant expression. Her movements seemed uncomfortable, and it was impossible to guess at what lay beneath the obvious expression of love for her hound, which anyone could see.
    King Helm was a hulking man, with hair and a beard streaked with gray and a hint of what might once have been red, like Beatrice’s. He wore a heavy gold crown and seemed too large for the table. George had the impression that he would have been