They had made it back to Gwenla when Princess Ceri approached them. The princess wore a dress and hat that nearly matched Rinka’s, her dress in white, while Rinka’s was sage green.
“What do you think?” she asked Rinka, holding up the skirt of the dress as they curtsied to her. “I had them make me one to match yours.”
Rinka looked surprised but flattered. “It suits you, your highness.”
“What’s that you have there?” asked Ceri, taking a pamphlet from Rinka’s hands.
“It’s a pamphlet about Herot’s Hollow, the next town over,” said Rinka as casually as she could manage, as if the entire plan didn’t depend on the outcome of this conversation. “I visited recently. This is the poet, Ms. Alison Lennox. She’s courting the Marquess of Caernock.”
That was Keir’s proper title—Alison wouldn’t have been able to come up with that if asked. She marveled at Rinka once more.
“Well done,” said Ceri to Alison. “He’s very handsome. Are you coming to the ball this evening?”
Alison hesitated. “I’m afraid not, your highness. I’ve been hard at work on the pamphlet, and I haven’t had time to secure the proper attire.”
“The tailors here are superb; I’m sure they can make you something—wait, isn’t one of them from Herot’s Hollow? I thought that’s what my lady’s maid told me,” asked Ceri.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Rinka. “Lydiach has been making most of my gowns, and she’s from Herot’s Hollow.”
Ceri opened the pamphlet then, skipping the essays and flipping to the poems and illustrations.
Alison looked at Rinka and Gwenla tensely as the princess read. Rinka had told her that Ceri was a bit of a wild card, that she wasn’t sure what the princess’s motives were or if she could be trusted. It was a risk, trying to get her on their side.
“Oh, I like this one,” said Ceri, holding up the pamphlet to the poem titled “The Spriggan.”
Away! we go to the woods, away—
‘Fore sun’s last kiss has gone from day,
To seek and find Pan’s champion,
To mend the circle once again.
Through wildcat hole and fairy hollow,
The elder sage, the spriggan, follows,
O’er heathered hills, through valleys fair,
The spring’s awakening in the air.
He’ll grow his arms of branches high,
To lift the stones to Sulis’ sky,
And when the circle is remade,
He’ll meet the stag and quit the glade.
Away! we go to the woods, away—
To welcome back the Queen of May,
Through dappled light and tree trunk’s sway,
Away! we go to the woods, away.
“How did you come up with it?” asked Ceri.
