“Ah,” his instructor said, looking pointedly at Norah as he blocked one of Phillip’s thrusts. “I see we have an audience.”
Phillip turned, and his eyes widened when he saw her. This, much to Norah’s embarrassment, sent her pulse racing, though she couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment at the dark bags under her eyes, nerves caused by knowing that a very attractive man was studying her, or the anxiety of finally addressing her betrothed face to face.
Phillip closed the distance between them and bowed low, kissing the back of her hand as he did.
“Oh!” Norah exclaimed. It was such a confident move that it sent her tired mind into flutters again, which was only more frustrating when she realized that there was no one else to fill her awkward speech but herself, as the other man had already left.
“I… um, thank you.” She did her best to smile but succeeded only in feeling incredibly awkward. “And thank you again for rescuing me last night.” She chuckled nervously. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t.”
He put out his arm and gestured back toward the palace. Unsure of what else to do, Norah nodded. His arm was sweaty, and he smelled more strongly than Norah ever remembered her father smelling. Certainly, neither her mother nor her sisters had ever smelled like that. But then again, Norah decided that she didn’t dislike it either. She hadn’t been around enough sweaty men in her life to have much of an opinion of it at all, except that being this close to him was… intriguing.
Good grief, what did a woman do with a man she was supposed to fall in love with? Much less one who couldn’t talk? He was quite nice to look at, but that wasn’t going to bring either of them to love.
Much to her relief, she didn’t have long to decide. He motioned for her to wait on a bench while he ran toward the door.
He emerged ten minutes later, changed and smelling muchless strongly than he had before. Once he had rejoined her, he held out his arm again, and she took it, sensing that they were going to walk the gardens yet again.
Were the gardens this poor man’s entire life?
They rounded the corner and passed a little gazebo covered in climbing roses. As they walked, he gave a pointed glance at her head. It took her a second, though, to realize that he was asking about her hair.
“Oh, that.” She felt her cheeks color. “My, um, Nanny got the headband when I was young. Nothing impressive, just a bauble made by someone with hiding powers. But it kept my identity more of a secret in public because… Well, I’m sure you can see.” She lifted a handful of her red curls. “These aren’t exactly easy to hide.”
He watched her carefully as she spoke, but when she finished, he only continued to stare. Did he expect her to talk about her hair some more?
“I suppose I got used to it,” she continued, certain she was babbling now, but not sure what else to do. “But it never… It never really felt like me.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “It’s odd to see yourself one way in your head but another in the mirror.”
He didn’t nod or shake his head, but only continued to study her in that disarming way.
“Do you like swordplay?” she blurted. She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that it was a stupid question. It was stupid because it was one he couldn’t answer. But when she dared a glance up at him, he was smiling again. So she took that as a yes.
“I can only guess that you’ve practiced a very long time,” she said, racking her mind for something she could say that didn’t sound stupid or require an answer. “You seemed… skilled.”
He smiled politely again.
Norah forced a smile in return, but inside,she was sighing. This was going to be the world’s longest and least productive walk.
The morning wasn’t as bad as Norah had feared it might be.
It was worse.
She wanted to kick herself repeatedly for all the foolish questions that popped out of her that he couldn’t answer. And she wanted to strangle herself with equal gusto for the inane thingsshesaid to fill the silence as she walked. By the time they reached the end of the garden path, his smile had faded, and though he continued to study her to the point of it nearly being uncomfortable, Norah realized miserably that she just wanted to go to bed.
Unfortunately, that was not to be done. Phillip was to dine with her, resulting in the quietest lunch Norah had ever eaten. Then he was to give her a tour of the palace, it seemed, including the portrait hall full of people Norah couldn’t ask any questions about. Then they were to move on to the ballroom, which seemed even more silent than the garden had, and the library. Blessedly, that one required no speech.
Supper was slightly better, as Lady Freya and her husband, Sir Oliver, were better able to fill the silence. They kept up a comfortable stream of conversation, somehow managing to draw Phillip into the conversation without the awkward pauses Norah had accidentally created so many times that day. They were both adept at making comments that both acknowledged Phillipandreleased him from responding at the same time, and they drew Norah in just as seamlessly. Norah wished she were capable of doing the same. But her tired mind refused to even try.
Much to her relief, however, she got a welcome reprieve after they finished eating.
“You need to sleep,” Lady Freya announced as soon as supperwas done. “After being up most of last night, it’s only fitting that you go to bed early tonight.”
Norah very nearly threw her arms around the woman in a desperate hug. Once they made it back to her room, however, Lady Freya went over to Norah’s bed and began poking around the bottom of the mattress, just as she had done the night before. This time, however, after a moment of searching, she produced a small slip of paper, nothing more than a scrap torn from a much larger piece of paper.
“This is Phillip’s,” she said, holding it up for Norah to see.
At first glance, it looked like part of a list. But when Norah drew closer, she realized that what she had thought to be words were nothing more than nonsensical scribbles. They looked as if someone had taken the words apart and put their pieces together again without caring about their order or direction.
“The illness stole his ability to write two years ago,” Lady Freya said, staring sadly at the scrap. “But every time we thought we might have found the missing princess of Bianne, I placed this under her mattress.” She smiled wryly. “Of course, to no avail.”
