“She left a fine child,” he grunted. “May this new lass of yers fare better than the one before her.”
“I will see that she does,” Jack said.
Arthur looked at him straight on. “Are ye certain of that?”
“I am.”
Arthur nodded once and turned away from the canvas. Then, he walked toward the stairs until he disappeared around the corner.
Jack stayed and watched the smoke thin out and clear. The bell for supper rang, pulling him out of his momentary reverie. He looked at the painted face. A part of him could have sworn that her eyes shifted, even though he knew it was impossible.
“Rest, lass,” he whispered. “Let the living have their peace.”
The gentle breeze blew out the torch nearby. He dragged his gaze across the wall, where other faces watched him with eyes that would never close.
He didn’t exactly enjoy coming to the gallery. The sight of the frames always sent chills down his spine. But it was Arthur.
He still felt like he needed to walk on eggshells around Arthur.
Soon enough, he would no longer have to do that; that was certain.
CHAPTER 31
For the restof the day, the castle moved like a hive. Maids hurried with more decorative material and fresh linens while the voices of guests rose from the Great Hall, where men traded news and jokes. The corridors still smelled of flowers and honey, like they had all morning.
Emma watched the bustle as if through glass. She had not seen Jack since that morning. Distance, she told herself, might clear her head.
She was sitting in the corner, with Stella in one hand and a piece of paper on the table before her. Why she was even trying, she didn’t know. It wasn’t like she could get any inspiration from the chaos around her.
Ava slipped into the hall and dropped into the seat beside her. The light lay pale across the stone floor as Emma balanced Stella on her knee and rested the other hand on the paper.
“What are ye writing now?” Ava asked, leaning in.
“A poem,” Emma replied. “If I can manage one.”
“Ye and yer poems,” Ava teased. “Ye could sew or plan or nag folks into work, and yet ye sit with ink on yer fingers while the whole castle labors. I daenae ken why ye even bother with that thing.”
Emma smiled. “It helps me think.”
“Then think loudly. I like to listen.”
Emma dipped the quill until the ink gathered at the tip, slow and patient.
“So, what have ye written so far?”
Emma smiled and leaned forward. Then, she began to read, her voice soft as the evening breeze to the baby on her lap. “A villain who watched the doors. A man folks feared and judged, yet he kept the storm from blowing in.”
Ava made a face as if she had tasted sour fruit. “That is an interesting way to speak of yer groom.”
“It is only a poem.” Emma felt heat rise in her neck. “Words are only words.”
“Aye, and words are snares,” Ava countered. “If ye’re nae careful.”
Emma shrugged one shoulder. “I am careful. Let us go to the nursery. I cannae let Stella continue to fuss.”
They rose to their feet and walked, leaving the Great Hall behind them. Stella batted at the ribbon on Emma’s sleeve. Her fist closed around the bow and then opened. Emma kissed her small fingers.
However, as they moved, Ava’s voice kept echoing in her mind, telling her that one wrote a poem for a man one did not have feelings for.
