The Princess's Servant

87. Together

Songbirds twittered. Sunlight glowed from behind airy curtains. Sybil scrunched up happily on her plush mattress, forming a tight ball before bouncing out of bed in a tight burst of glee. She threw open the curtains, propped open the window and leapt to the door.

"Beryl! Breakfast please!" she called, and she shut the door once more. Sybil threw on a gown and tossed herself into the lone leather chair that sat at the desk. Picking up a quill, she sketched and hummed to herself as she steadied the parchment with her bandaged hand. Acorn brown cotton. From his cloak. Sybil smiled down at the wrappings as she scratched away. How on Earth could she have felt so ill yesterday when she felt so good this morning?

Must've been the poultice Holden had given her, she thought. Yes. This was the effect of herbs, and nothing else.

Beryl approached with her starched apron and a steaming hot plate of food. The servant set a full plate toast, eggs and what looked like half of a fruit before Sybil's eyes. Those same eyes lit up. Hundreds, if not a thousand tiny kernels nestled in the papery skin like rubies. The princess picked up the prize .

"What is this?" She asked. Her tone bore as much wonder and awe as she felt brimming within her.

The servant clasped her hands in front of her apron. "It is a pomegranate, your highness." Beryl resisted the urge to bolt for the door. Three days her lady had been in the guesthouse, and this was the first time she'd stepped foot inside her room, let alone spoken directly to the princess.

"A pomegranate," Sybil tried the word out on her lips as she picked out one singular seed. Juice dripped from her finger like blood. "You've done well, Beryl. You're dismissed."

Beryl gave a short curtsy and hurried her way for the door.

Sybil picked at the fruit and crunched down on her toast, humming once more. She sketched and scratched and enjoyed roughly three more bites of toast in peace, until she heard it.

"Is Sybil in?" Words distant but unmistakable. The princess's song faded in her throat. She looked to the narrow opening in the window. "I need to speak with her," Holden said.

The handmaid rounded the door and stood in front of it. "I apologize, your grace, but her highness is not available. Perhaps I can take another message?"

Holden felt a growl rise in his throat. "I don't want to leave another message. I want to speak with her. So I ask you again: is she in?"

Beryl bowed her head at the prince and grabbed the sides of her skirt. She had not been given many instructions by the princess, but she had made herself abundantly clear on one point: no boys allowed in the guesthouse.

But as Holden had pointed out last time, he was the prince. And as such, 'no you can't' had no effect on him. "Her highness is in," Beryl replied at last. "But she's still unwell. And she certainly isn't in any state to—"

Holden caught sight of the open window. He turned from Beryl. "Hey, Sybil!" He called up to it. "Sybil!"

The handmaid lifted her skirts in shock. "Good sir!"

The prince ignored her. He waited for a response from the second story. The mere shadow of her figure, even. Neither arrived. 

Holden lowered his brow. "I'm going up there." He stepped towards the door.

Beryl placed herself firmly in front of it, determination burning in her eyes.

But Holden knew how to deal with this. He'd faced this exact scenario with Sebastian a thousand times before. He gave an exaggerated point to the forest behind her. "Holy shit, what is that?!" he yelled.