Wulfyddia (The Tattersall Trilogy Book 1) by Steele Alexandra Page B

Felunhala, but not as tall and not as strong looking either.
There was wanness to her, paleness in her cheek and hesitance in her step that
made Spencer wonder if she had what it took to be apprentice to the Royal
Witch. Her hair was very blonde, almost the same shade of gold as the bangles
on the wrist of her Mistress. It was very long, very straight, and a little
damp, as though recently washed. Glancing from her long hair to Felunhala’s
lengthy tresses, Spencer wondered if the rumors were true: that Witches never
cut their hair for fear of stunting their powers.
    Melisande did not look particularly pleased
to see two Princesses of the Realm calling on her. She paused in the doorway,
glancing inexpressively between Felunhala, the two princesses and Spencer.
    “Melisande,” Felunhala said, when her
apprentice did not appear very responsive. “The royal family does us a great
honor,” she curtsied once more in Daphne and Lorna’s direction, and Spencer
began to understand why Daphne had such a profound sense of self-importance. It
had to be easy to get big-headed if you had adults curtsying and bowing to you
all day. Melisande dipped into a silent curtsy as well, but made no move
otherwise. Her white lips twitched as though she were about to speak, but then
she seemed to think better of it, and Spencer stared into her eyes and tried to
identify the emotion that he found there. Was she frightened? Was she angry? 
    Daphne didn’t seem to be particularly put-off
by her friend’s behavior though. “Thank you, that will be all,” she said
commandingly to Felunhala, and if the woman didn’t like being ordered about by
a fifteen year old, she hid it well.
    “Of course, Highness,” Felunhala said
obediently. “Would you care to retire to our-”
    “Here is fine,” Daphne interrupted her. “That
will be all.”
    Felunhala curtsied once more and then backed gracefully
out of the room, casting an unreadable glance at Melisande as she moved,
closing the door softly as she left.
    Melisande blinked as her mistress left, and
then she seemed to shake herself awake. There were dark shadows under her eyes,
but her irises themselves were an unusual shade of very light brown.  He had
ample opportunity to study her eyes, since they were currently fixed on him.
“Who—” she began, but her voice cracked on the first word, as though she hadn’t
spoken much recently. She coughed, cleared her throat and tried again. “Who is
this?”
    “This is Spencer,” Daphne announced without
preamble. “His mother is Mrs. Tattersall. She’s Justine’s new jailer out in the
Haligorn.” Spencer couldn’t help the little flush of outrage that rose in his
cheeks at that, but he did not argue. Even he had to admit that Daphne’s
description of his mother’s role was more or less accurate.
    Melisande gazed past Daphne at Spencer. “I am
Melisande.”
    Spencer nodded, unsure how he was supposed to
greet the Apprentice to the Royal Witch. “Greetings,” he said finally.
Melisande stared at him gravely.
    “What’s new?” Daphne injected herself into
the conversation boisterously.
    “Well, we’ve had a lot of the usual,” Melisande
sighed as though accustomed to giving this report. She seated herself on one of
the small couches in the antechamber, and Spencer noticed a faint expression of
pain cross her face as she shifted in her seat.
     “Love philtres?” Lorna asked eagerly.
    “Eight, I think,” Melisande nodded.
    “For anyone important?” Daphne asked,
practically bouncing on the edge of her seat.
    “Well, two of them were noblewomen,”
Melisande revealed.
    “Ooh, who? Are either of them married?”
    “No,” Melisande said, and she gave their
names and titles, which meant nothing to Spencer.
    “Oh,” Daphne looked disappointed. “Do you
know who the philtres were meant for?”
    Melisande shook her head.
    “Wouldn’t it be funny if they were both meant
for the same man?” Lorna piped up.
    “It has happened