and was scrubbed so clean it shone golden around the torches. The lanterns, candelabras, the high seats and low benches had all been dusted and polished to a dim shine. Maids had spent hours as they smoothed the rough spots on the oak benches and tables, washed the tapestries and drapings and prepared the welcoming feast down in the kitchens.
None of them were welcome in the Great Hall in the evening, of course. Instead, the Lord Rochmond and his Lady Cecile were sitting on their high chairs on the raised dais at the end of the hall, framed by elaborate candleholders and flanked by the Lord’s favorite greyhound, sitting up on his haunches and sniffing at the tantalizing blend of scents.
Moira had crept up to a side entrance, watching the proceedings. She hadn’t left her room since her nightly run-in with her new guard the night before last. She had kept her door shut when her maid had knocked to remind her of the occasion and to dress her and put up her hair. Feigning sleep, always feigning.
Her small dirty toes were just spying out from underneath the long velvet gown and her hair was tumbling down her back in messy waves of red. It was not how she was supposed to be seen at all, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.
A row of young men stood on each side of the Great Hall, tall, strapping lads standing straight and proud, their hands crossed in the small of their back, chests puffed out in all their splendor. One row was bearing her family’s coat of arms upon their shields; three trees, reflecting in a lake beneath a dual star in the night-sky and a single warrior on the watch. The other row bore the already familiar Fairester crest; the meandering river, the sun and crossed swords.
Her eyes wandered down the row. She could see them without exposing herself, one stoic countenance after the other. Faces hardened by duty and training, their features exaggerated in the flickering light and its stark shadows. She vaguely recognized most of her father’s men. The others were strangers but she failed to see much difference between them. One might have been tall, another broader but they all looked the same; statues to safeguard the peace.
When she heard a shuffle from the far end of the hall, she squeezed herself even further into the shadow, breathed deeply through her puckered lips and watched. Sir Deagan Fairester strode confidently across the hall, the men saluted him but he didn’t seem to register it. If he did, it neither slowed him down, nor caught his eyes and distracted his gaze from the dais and her father’s seat. He looked essentially as she remembered him; of medium height and slim stature but handsome and all too aware of it.
He was brushing his blond hair out of his face as he strode, keeping it cut just that little bit too long as to allow it to fall into his face in the first place. She hadn’t cared for him much when he had first visited and she hadn’t expected him back; they usually didn’t do that. But he had. Moira felt a shiver run down her spine.
“My lady?” Owain announced himself in a low, quiet voice maybe a step away from her. Moira jumped and could only barely resist a making a sound. Owain resisted giving her a little smile.
“Your Lady Mother was looking for you,” he informed her once she had turned around to him, still careful not to be seen inside the great hall. But they were both in a side-corridor, shielded from view.
“So you do her bidding, too?” Moira asked, recovering from her hammering heart. She narrowed her eyes at the wolf and then exhaled a deep breath. Of course, his powerful senses were good for so much more than to just ensure she wouldn’t leave the confines of the castle at night. It would be a talent wasted during the day if Lady Cecile hadn’t found a way to partake in it. “I suppose you can’t tell her that you were unable to find me?”
Owain wrinkled his forehead in a vaguely sympathetic expression. It turned more worried when he saw
None of them were welcome in the Great Hall in the evening, of course. Instead, the Lord Rochmond and his Lady Cecile were sitting on their high chairs on the raised dais at the end of the hall, framed by elaborate candleholders and flanked by the Lord’s favorite greyhound, sitting up on his haunches and sniffing at the tantalizing blend of scents.
Moira had crept up to a side entrance, watching the proceedings. She hadn’t left her room since her nightly run-in with her new guard the night before last. She had kept her door shut when her maid had knocked to remind her of the occasion and to dress her and put up her hair. Feigning sleep, always feigning.
Her small dirty toes were just spying out from underneath the long velvet gown and her hair was tumbling down her back in messy waves of red. It was not how she was supposed to be seen at all, but curiosity had gotten the better of her.
A row of young men stood on each side of the Great Hall, tall, strapping lads standing straight and proud, their hands crossed in the small of their back, chests puffed out in all their splendor. One row was bearing her family’s coat of arms upon their shields; three trees, reflecting in a lake beneath a dual star in the night-sky and a single warrior on the watch. The other row bore the already familiar Fairester crest; the meandering river, the sun and crossed swords.
Her eyes wandered down the row. She could see them without exposing herself, one stoic countenance after the other. Faces hardened by duty and training, their features exaggerated in the flickering light and its stark shadows. She vaguely recognized most of her father’s men. The others were strangers but she failed to see much difference between them. One might have been tall, another broader but they all looked the same; statues to safeguard the peace.
When she heard a shuffle from the far end of the hall, she squeezed herself even further into the shadow, breathed deeply through her puckered lips and watched. Sir Deagan Fairester strode confidently across the hall, the men saluted him but he didn’t seem to register it. If he did, it neither slowed him down, nor caught his eyes and distracted his gaze from the dais and her father’s seat. He looked essentially as she remembered him; of medium height and slim stature but handsome and all too aware of it.
He was brushing his blond hair out of his face as he strode, keeping it cut just that little bit too long as to allow it to fall into his face in the first place. She hadn’t cared for him much when he had first visited and she hadn’t expected him back; they usually didn’t do that. But he had. Moira felt a shiver run down her spine.
“My lady?” Owain announced himself in a low, quiet voice maybe a step away from her. Moira jumped and could only barely resist a making a sound. Owain resisted giving her a little smile.
“Your Lady Mother was looking for you,” he informed her once she had turned around to him, still careful not to be seen inside the great hall. But they were both in a side-corridor, shielded from view.
“So you do her bidding, too?” Moira asked, recovering from her hammering heart. She narrowed her eyes at the wolf and then exhaled a deep breath. Of course, his powerful senses were good for so much more than to just ensure she wouldn’t leave the confines of the castle at night. It would be a talent wasted during the day if Lady Cecile hadn’t found a way to partake in it. “I suppose you can’t tell her that you were unable to find me?”
Owain wrinkled his forehead in a vaguely sympathetic expression. It turned more worried when he saw
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