The very air she was breathing seemed to whisper—swat him, play with him, sink fast into this family and never go ashore again.
But the two and thirty years of her upbringing possessed a louder if a colder voice.Hands to yourself, spine straight, face blank.Manners kept her pale and silent as a ghost attending Carnival.
The dishes were settled snug in the middle of the large table, and arms reached and hands grabbed, silver clinked against china, and soon there was a plate of food before Diana, carried by Temple’s large, competent hand.
“Eat up,” he grumbled.“I’m worried you’ve not been eating enough of late.”
She wanted to say, No one has asked you to worry over my diet, sir.What kind of man took such worry on by himself without prompting of any sort?
Instead, she said, “Thank you.”
“Miss Smith.”That his mother, Mrs.Grant.“Finally we may speak.There is much I wish to know about the lady my son has taken an interest in.”
Ah, but how much could Diana tell her?“I am pleased to answer any questions.”She folded her hands in her lap, though the food steamed, inviting.
Temple nudged her arm with his elbow.“Eat,” he mouthed.
She set her hand upon the silverware.
“Temple has told me,” his mother said, brandishing a knife, “I am not to ask too many questions.But I have told him I shall do as I please.Now, I must know, what sort of family are you from?”
Bull’s-eye.First shot.Mrs.Grant was a master archer.“A small one.Only my aunt and cousin remain.But we are not close.”
“Poor dear.”Mrs.Grant clucked, each soothing sound another arrow right to Diana’s heart.“Do you have any interests?”
A safe topic.“I have lately been learning potions.”
“A fine pursuit,” Mrs.Grant said before popping a bit of meat in her mouth.
“Tell her about Cuda and the mermaids.”Temple placed his hand atop her and curled it, wrapping her fingers around a fork.“Then eat.”
Diana shook his hand off and picked up the fork, but it only hovered over her plate.“I have long held an interest in mythology.That of our island and that of other places.Cuda is a celtic goddess of prosperity, depicted holding an egg.”
“An egg?”Helios laughed.
“Hush, boy.”Mrs.Grant sent him a quelling glance.“Only fools undervalue eggs.”She smiled at Diana.“And the mermaids?”
“A curious case of multiple tales that might or might not be the same historical figure.A princess who traveled in a barrel by sea.A mermaid who lured a singer to his death.”
“I want to be a mermaid,” one of the younger girls whined.
“Would be lovely to lure a man to his death,” the other younger girl added.
Both looked rather wistful.
“No more questions,” Temple grumbled.“Let the poor woman eat.”
Mr.Grant chuckled, Mrs.Grant nodded, and the rest of the room rolled their eyes but did as Temple demanded, focusing their own attention to their plates.
“Temple,” Mr.Grant said through a mouthful of food, “how is the king’s request going?Are you making progress?”
“Trying to,” Temple muttered.“But you lot are likely going to set me back with her.”
Mr.Grant’s laugh flung toward the ceiling and filled the room.“Not that request.The one about after-death communications.”
“You know dam?—”
“Temple,” his mother warned.
