“Weak.”
At the first opportunity, Clía gave in to what she had been wanting to do ever since her conversion with Domhnall: hide in her room. Her bed was soft as she fell atop it, pillow over her face as she contemplated every life decision that had led her to this point. Where had she gone wrong? How did she fail?Why wasn’t she enough?
She couldn’t escape the thought. It echoed in the recesses of her mind, pounding against her skull. She threw the pillow. It landed beside the dress.
I need more than a pretty face to sit by my side.
Was that all everyone believed she was?
The evening sun rudely broke through her window and beamed down on her.
Her future had always towered before her, but with Domhnall by her side, she thought she didn’t need to be afraid of it.
Perhaps she had only been fooling herself this whole time.
A loud knock at her door broke her thoughts.
“Go away!” she groaned, not caring if the person behind the door thought it was rude. She’d had enough of what other people thought of her. Besides, she’d clearly stated she would take no visitors for the rest of the day—theywere the ones being rude.
“Then who else can I bother to play fidchell with me?” The familiar voice of Chief Ó Connor drifted through the door.
Of course he would ignore her desire to be alone. She quickly wiped the tears still streaming down her face; she didn’t need Ó Connor worrying about her.
“Come in,” she called, rising from her bed to greet him.
Ó Connor walked into her rooms with a concerned look on his face, but Clía ignored it and led him to the fidchell board in her foyer. The remains of her dress taunted her from where they lay beyond the open door to her bedroom. Ó Connor’s gaze drifted to them. “A change of outfit?”
Clía brushed away the nonexistent wrinkles in her powder blue dress. It was one of her more elaborate day dresses. The elegant embroidery of the skirt calmed her as she ran her fingers along it. “Today is not a day for pink.”
“Well, that’s a rare occasion.” Ó Connor placed his first piece on the board. “I was surprised to see you at the meeting.”
She placed her own piece. “Why is that such a shock? I’m the princess. I was looking after my kingdom.”
She knew Ó Connor would see through her flimsy reasoning—he always did—but she hoped he wouldn’t call her on it. In truth, Domhnall’s words had made her itch to prove the prince wrong, and the meeting served as good of an opportunity as any.
“Then tell me, what were your thoughts?” he asked, and a small sense of relief broke through her melancholy.
Murphy took that moment to walk over to her and leap into her lap. She scratched his head. “I think the Scáilcans bring up valid concerns. Why didn’t you grant them the permission they sought?”
While her parents wished to keep Álainndore to itself, preferring not to bother themselves with the issues of their neighbor kingdoms, she knew Ó Connor could have swayed them if he desired.
“They hope to drag us in to help them fight their battles. We don’t have the time or warriors for that,” he said, his gaze scanning the game board.
Clía sat up straighter. “We might find ourselves dragged into this war either way. Is it not better to stand by our allies? At least this way, if war comes, there’s a chance we’re prepared.”
A shadow crossed Ó Connor’s face. “Weareprepared.”
The realization of what Ó Connor wasn’t telling her hit Clía suddenly. Warhadcome to Álainndore’s shores. Chief Barra’s sudden death, the supplies missing in the north—
Ó Connor looked up, his mouth set in a grim line. He spoke before she could put her thoughts into words. “What happened this afternoon that has you so upset?”
She could turn the subject back to the war, press him for answers, but if he was keeping things from her, then there had to be a reason. He thought Álainndore was prepared; she would believe him. He’d been there for her since she was born, for every milestone, guiding her through each step she took. Trusting him had become custom.
“Why would you assume anything happened?” She placed another piece.
“You attended a meetingvoluntarily, you’re not accepting visitors, and you have yet to speak the prince’s name. It’s only natural to conclude that something happened, and you’re not happy about it.”
She couldn’t argue. Instead, she settled for bluntness, as if it could dull the ache in her chest. “The prince and I will not be getting married.”
