As Padraig did, trying to ignore the rags that were the stockings on his feet—more hole than cloth—a screech on the wood floor directly behind him prompted him toturn his head.
“Master Boyd! Hold still, please,” Rynn chastisedfrom the floor.
Marta frowned into his face from her new vantage point of standing on a stool, then took hold of his skull with gentle fingers and swiveled his head forward once more. Padraig stood obediently as Rynn’s chalk tickled along the edges of his feet onto the burlap. Marta’s ribbon swooped about his forehead and tightened. He heard the chamber dooropen and close.
“Master Boyd wants a trim if he is to have any hope of fitting into a helm, and to avoid being referred to as ‘mistress,’” Marta announced, before the ribbon whispered away from his head and she popped downoff the stool.
Lucan nodded but didn’t raise his head. “Very good. Right away.”
“Step away, please.” Rynn whisked the tracing from beneath hisfeet and rose.
The brisk drafts caused by the women’s coming and going left Padraig standing on the floor in his pathetic stocking feet feeling very unsure. His arms were still slightly akimbo and he wasn’t certain that he should move or not, lest he be politely chastised—or worse, tethered by his aching head—again. He turned slowly, testing his freedom.
She was standing not six paces from him, her arms laden with cloth draped over her elbow, a tray in her hands. Her rich, brown hair—like a paste of oil and costly spices—was glossy smooth over her ears, her light complexion composed as she regarded him.
Beryl. She’d come at last.
Should he bow? Clasp her hand? Before he could decide, his breath left him in a rush as he was pulled backward through the air and his teeth clacked together as his rear connected with a hard stool. An instant later, a cloth was whisked around his chest and tied tightly against his Adam’s apple.
Beryl’s pink lips crept up, but then she dropped her eyes and rolled her lips inward as she strode forwardtoward the bed.
Padraig was trying to force his lips to formsomething, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat just below the strangling cloth. His hair was yanked from behind with the sharp teeth of a comb, and then the crisp sounds of a chunk of hair being severed sizzled in his ear. Beryl set down the tray on his bed, ignoring him still.
“Where’ve you been?”he blurted out.
All sound and movement in the chamber seemed to still. From the corner of his eye, Padraig saw even Montague turn his head from his papersto regard him.
Fool!
Beryl straightened slowly and then turned to face him, her expression serene, her hands folded together before her.
“Good day, Beryl,” she said pointedly, inclining her head just so.
Padraig glanced around the chamber, his breathing shallow. Marta yanked on a lock of his hair just then, causing him to yelp. He cleared his throat. “Good day, Beryl,” he repeated at last.
“Good day, Master Boyd,” she replied. “Forgive my tardiness. I had prior obligations to attend to before my facilities were secured toyour service.”
Padraig hesitated. “Nae harm,” he ventured.
Her mouth quirked, her expression that of one who was not entirely satisfied but willing to accept his offering. The chamber fell back into its pattern of busyness at once, and Padraig released his breath.
“Good day, Marta, Rynn,” she said to the maids, who seemed to be taking turns cutting at both the length of cloth Rynn had marked with chalk and Padraig’s hair.
“Beryl.”
“Mistress.”
Beryl looked at Padraig pointedly, and he thought he understood—everything at Darlyrede revolved aroundone’s station.
Beryl cleared her throat as she turned her gaze toward theseated knight.
Lucan turned around. “Ah, yes—forgive me. I see the lessons have started. Good day…Beryl, is it?”
“How kind of you to remember. A good dayto you, Sir.”
“Lessons?” Padraig repeated.
“Yes, lessons, Master Boyd,” she answered briskly, and then her gray eyes grew round. “What on earth has happenedto your head?”
