“Am I–? Yes! Yes, I am sure!”I cried with a rude array of gestures. I tried to piece it all together. “He never said-He-!” My mouth was dry. “The feather,” I said. My lip quivered.“The feather, Ser Willoughby!”
“I don’t know what that means. Are we sad or happy about a feather!” he asked.
“We’rehaaaaappppy!”I wailed. It bled into a sob, wandering into his person.
His arms went up, weirdly, then he cautiously brought them around me, tentatively patting my back. “What’s happening right now?”
“Comfortme you monster!”
“I’m…I’m trying,” he said. He patted my back again a couple times, but faster.
I broke away to bend over by the foot of the bed. My hand on my stomach. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?” I asked. “What kind of sick, cruel joke is this?”
“I’m not entirely sure what’s happening,” Willoughby said. “But Cyrus-”
“Willem!”
“Right. Willem.” His head danced around. “Ourfriendisn’t a particularly malicious fellow. Whatever you're thinking… maybe he-?”
“Maybe he, what?!” I asked.“Forgothe was a different person? Willoughby, I have been talkingnonstopabout the ostler’s boy this whole summer! To him! To the ostler’s boy! I’m humiliated! I’m devastated! I’m ruined!” I wilted against the bedpost.
“You told Cyrus about the boy?” he asked. “I thought it wasoursecret. You were so protective of it!”
“That’s what you’re concerned about?”I pushed him– not aggressively, but annoyed. “He doesn’t know about the branding! Well, he-! He is him and you are not comforting me!”
“Right!” Willoughby became stern. “Right. Apologies. So… What does this mean? What are you thinking? If Cyrus is Willem, and Willem is Cyrus…What does that mean?”
“Is everything alright in here?” Sam asked.
We both jumped, twisting to the door abruptly. I placed a hand at my hip, in what I had meant to be naturally. It was not.
“What?” I asked. “Yes. Of course.”
“I heard shouting,” Sam said.
“Shouting? Yes.” I looked at Willoughby. “Yes. Well that’s because we were playing a game. A shouting game.”
“A game?” He looked between us. “At this hour?”
“Yes,” Willoughby said.
“I see.” Sameer yawned, covering his mouth. He stepped into the room, toward me. “You were quite loud. I’m right next door. Red door, remember?” he asked. He looked at me.
Willoughby nodded.
“What’s the game?” the Prince asked.
“The game?” I asked. “Right. Yes. The game. Actually, Daniel can explain it better than I can. He's good at teaching new players.”
Willoughby shot daggers my way. He took a moment to find the words. “It’s a game where we, uh… we invent characters. Svana is an old lady who’s lost her dog. I’m her neighbor.”
I blinked. “Yes.” Then I assumed the character, hunching over and moving my hand from my hip to my back, which was, surprisingly, not a far move from where it had been. “Björn, hello? Where are you Björn?”
“I see,” the Prince said. He smiled, then passed me to sit near Cyrus. “How is he? Any change?”
Willoughby chimed in. “He’s fine. Never better. Well. He could be better, is what I meant. Is it late? Is anyone else tired or just me? Just me? Alright then.” He faked a stretch and all but bolted for the door. “Farewell. Good night, good morning. Whatever it is, Your Highnesses.”
He vanished into the hall before I could stop him. I stood there bewildered. Then I stood up, discarding the old woman I’d pretended to be.
