did not seem to discomfit her uncle at all. He continued to look upon her with feigned affection.
"Have you finished?" she asked evenly. Offending Menwyn was one of the few pleasures she had, considering that in the end he would no doubt have his own way. It was the only form of rebellion possible.
His face barely changed.” I bid Your Highness good day."As soon as the door closed, she yanked a pillow off the divan and screamed into it as loudly as she dared, then flung it across the room.
She went to the window again and looked out over the river valley. The sight calmed her a little. It was so beautiful in the late afternoon light—the stands of trees casting their shadows over the irregular fields, the innumerable shadings of emerging green. It had rained earlier—just a shower—and the world looked freshly scrubbed and pure, the blue sky with its rags of clouds fluttering in the breeze.
Suddenly a bird flitted past her, and then back again, so dose she could almost reach out and touch it. It fluttered before her, the sunlight falling on its dark wings—blue-black in this light. It seemed so bold she almost thought it was a tamed bird, escaped from some cage, and held out her hand to it. Without hesitation, it darted at her ring with its opened bill, causing her to pull her hand back.
"Well, you cheeky thing. You would steal my ring, wouldn't you? Go on, you thief. Shoo!" She waved her arms, and somewhat reluctantly the bird was off. In only a second it was beyond the walls, then over the island and crossing the lake to the fields beyond. She could not take her eyes from its determined flight. Another moment and it was lost from view entirely.
If only she could fly like that: out the window and gone before anyone could even saddle a horse. She would have a branch for a bed and the sky for her country. She would be free of this foolish family that could never be rid of its past. Free to choose whom she would. Free.
What would the world look like to someone who did not even know her parents' names? It must seem a glorious place. No obligations but to oneself. No obligations.
ELISE HEARD HER FATHER BEFORE SHE SAW HIM. THERE WERE NO candles in his rooms, and dusk was stealing the light away like a cat stealing the breath from a baby.
He was playing upon the harp, not his virtuoso instrument, but still one upon which he was more than competent Elise paused at the door, listening. It was not a piece she knew, but it seemed to suit the sounds and mood of the evening entirely. The last whisper of falling wind, the lowing of cattle as they made their slow trek back to the barns, a curtain moving in the open window, a nightingale's liquid song. The music became part of all of these sounds, dancing in among them in exquisite counterpoint.
She pushed the door open a fraction more, and the music died away, reverberating for an instant longer in her mind than on the air.” Elise?""How can you know it's me?" she asked, shaking her head. His perceptiveness always astonished her.
"Everyone else knocks, my dear. Even Menwyn." She laughed.” And I thought it was some ... some secret sense.""Well, there is your perfume," he said, holding out his hand. She crossed the room and put her hand in his. He kissed it and held it to his cheek, closing his eyes tightly as he always did.
She often thought her father would have been a striking man if he did not have that emptiness of expression of the blind. His long face and serious countenance gave him an appearance of sadness, though she knew he was not an unhappy man, merely a thoughtful one.
He was the opposite of her in appearance—dark to her fair. Though she, too, had a somewhat long face, which she tried to hide by the way she wore her hair.
He took her hand away from his face, though did not release it. She loved the warmth and gentleness of his fingers— the hands of an artist.
"And what brings you down here to visit your aging father?""You are hardly aging, and do I
"Have you finished?" she asked evenly. Offending Menwyn was one of the few pleasures she had, considering that in the end he would no doubt have his own way. It was the only form of rebellion possible.
His face barely changed.” I bid Your Highness good day."As soon as the door closed, she yanked a pillow off the divan and screamed into it as loudly as she dared, then flung it across the room.
She went to the window again and looked out over the river valley. The sight calmed her a little. It was so beautiful in the late afternoon light—the stands of trees casting their shadows over the irregular fields, the innumerable shadings of emerging green. It had rained earlier—just a shower—and the world looked freshly scrubbed and pure, the blue sky with its rags of clouds fluttering in the breeze.
Suddenly a bird flitted past her, and then back again, so dose she could almost reach out and touch it. It fluttered before her, the sunlight falling on its dark wings—blue-black in this light. It seemed so bold she almost thought it was a tamed bird, escaped from some cage, and held out her hand to it. Without hesitation, it darted at her ring with its opened bill, causing her to pull her hand back.
"Well, you cheeky thing. You would steal my ring, wouldn't you? Go on, you thief. Shoo!" She waved her arms, and somewhat reluctantly the bird was off. In only a second it was beyond the walls, then over the island and crossing the lake to the fields beyond. She could not take her eyes from its determined flight. Another moment and it was lost from view entirely.
If only she could fly like that: out the window and gone before anyone could even saddle a horse. She would have a branch for a bed and the sky for her country. She would be free of this foolish family that could never be rid of its past. Free to choose whom she would. Free.
What would the world look like to someone who did not even know her parents' names? It must seem a glorious place. No obligations but to oneself. No obligations.
ELISE HEARD HER FATHER BEFORE SHE SAW HIM. THERE WERE NO candles in his rooms, and dusk was stealing the light away like a cat stealing the breath from a baby.
He was playing upon the harp, not his virtuoso instrument, but still one upon which he was more than competent Elise paused at the door, listening. It was not a piece she knew, but it seemed to suit the sounds and mood of the evening entirely. The last whisper of falling wind, the lowing of cattle as they made their slow trek back to the barns, a curtain moving in the open window, a nightingale's liquid song. The music became part of all of these sounds, dancing in among them in exquisite counterpoint.
She pushed the door open a fraction more, and the music died away, reverberating for an instant longer in her mind than on the air.” Elise?""How can you know it's me?" she asked, shaking her head. His perceptiveness always astonished her.
"Everyone else knocks, my dear. Even Menwyn." She laughed.” And I thought it was some ... some secret sense.""Well, there is your perfume," he said, holding out his hand. She crossed the room and put her hand in his. He kissed it and held it to his cheek, closing his eyes tightly as he always did.
She often thought her father would have been a striking man if he did not have that emptiness of expression of the blind. His long face and serious countenance gave him an appearance of sadness, though she knew he was not an unhappy man, merely a thoughtful one.
He was the opposite of her in appearance—dark to her fair. Though she, too, had a somewhat long face, which she tried to hide by the way she wore her hair.
He took her hand away from his face, though did not release it. She loved the warmth and gentleness of his fingers— the hands of an artist.
"And what brings you down here to visit your aging father?""You are hardly aging, and do I
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