A Husband for Deva

The Last Unmarried Ilujava Daughter

Deva rose from the hard chair and curtsied. A summons to her mother's private audience chamber never boded well, but the Queen's unshakeable serenity stood constant in the royal family of Ilujavik, so the taut expression on her face was doubly disconcerting.

"Mother? You... you asked me to attend you?" Deva offered, when the silence became too uncomfortable to bear. Shoes on, face washed, no food or ink on my pinny, no dirt or dust on the hem of my skirt... She touched the kerchief of adulthood covering her hair for reassurance that it was crisp with starch and neatly placed. I'm not a schoolroom girl anymore.

"You may sit, daughter." The Queen dismissed her attendants with an authoritative flick of her fingers.

The ladies curtseyed their way out, leaving mother and daughter alone.

The Queen coughed delicately. Drew a nearby chair closer to Deva's. Sat down, then stood again.

"Mother, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Deva, I am aware that the last while hasn't been easy for you, with both your sisters so far away, and all the excitement of your brother's wedding. I regret that I have not been giving you as much attention as I ought."

Deva cast her mind back over the previous weeks, wondering what she could possibly have done, or left undone, to disturb her mother so much. "I'm not troubled. It's lovely to see Hal so contented, and I've enjoyed getting to know Ashlen. I do miss my sisters, but we write to each other."

"I am glad you are not troubled." With a great swirl of skirts, the Queen settled herself back onto her chair, and then hitched it a few inches closer so that she could take Deva's hands in her own. "My dear daughter, is there... anything... you would like to tell me?"

"What do you want to know? I can't think of – ow, mother, you're hurting my fingers!"

With a rueful laugh, the Queen released her daughter's hands, giving the squeezed digits a little pat. "When young men are courting, they are often... eager. They wish to anticipate things that should not be anticipated. Sometimes a nice, innocent girl doesn't know how to put them off, and you've always been such an accommodating child, so eager to please... Deva, has any man been overly forward with you?"

"No one is courting me at all! I'm not the sort of girl men court!"

Relief flowed across the Queen's face. "My dear, you are a princess – it's right and proper that they dare not approach you without invitation, and if you were a common girl I don't doubt they'd be circling like wolves. You may rest assured that your father will arrange a good match for you in good time." The Queen patted her daughter's shoulder encouragingly. "But you might want to avoid the sweet course at meals for a while – you have a nice figure, and it would be a shame to spoil it."

"Yes, mother," replied Deva, mortified. Protesting that she hadn't touched the sweet course for weeks now would only lead to further enquiries, and if anyone found out about the nausea and lethargy, there would surely be a visit from the royal physician, and one of his nasty elixirs.

"Run along now, I have things to do before supper."

Deva, still puzzled as to what she had done to distress and then relieve her mother, stood and curtsied. "Thank you, mother," she said, and fled to her own chamber.

She was glad to find it deserted, along with the other rooms of the suite she'd once shared with two sisters; not even a chambermaid or lady-in-waiting hovered. With a bit of guilty embarrassment – even though she was alone – she loosened the lacing of her bodice before flinging herself down onto her bed. Perhaps I ought to give up my morning chocolate too, she considered, though the idea of facing cold mornings without that warm sweetness didn't appeal to her at all.

Her eyes drifted to the mirror hanging on the wall opposite her bed. It was oval in shape, with a wooden frame carved in a pattern of stylized flames in the manner of the Western Isles. Looking at it made her feel warm and beautiful all over. "A little daydream would be nice right now," she whispered, as though the mirror could hear her.

She had never been much good at daydreaming. Practical Deva. Accommodating Deva. Methodical, skeptical Deva. But sometimes, gazing into the mirror – one of the gifts that Hal's bride had brought for her new family – seemed to give her the capacity to open up her mind, though even now dreams didn't come easily; more often than not, she was left staring into the glass, unable to take her mind past a formless wistful hope.

No new dream came to cheer Deva on this occasion, though she lay on her bed gazing into the mirror and remembering until suppertime.

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As the last unmarried Ilujava daughter, Deva had often wondered what sort of man would eventually be arranged for her. She'd counted over the nicest and handsomest of the Ilujavit courtiers; would she be given to one of them, or a high-born son of some other land? She tried to visualize a golden man from Quemadra, but she'd only seen painted miniatures of people from that far away. It was easier to ponder what a suitor might look like with her sister-in-law's colouring. So when the misty vision took form in front of her, there was no surprise in his having pale Islander skin and fire-bright hair similar to Ashlen's.

It started with a flicker of a moment, when her wishful heart imagined a ghostly male shape floating in front of the mirror. She blinked; as she'd expected, there was nothing. You have no imagination, Deva. And yet... she could have sworn she heard a voice, inside her head or far away, softly greeting her with, "Haly, Matéileidhe."

Feeling foolish, but daring to pretend, she got up from her bed and curtsied as though to welcome someone. "Hello?"

With a little patience, she was able to see her dream-man again, at first like smoke above a fire in daylight, but growing clearer as he spoke. She fancied that he wore a look of surprise. "Tathe... you are... Ilujavit?"

He vanished with the scrape of a footstep in the passageway beyond the door, but Deva basked in a warm afterglow of satisfaction. See? I can daydream just fine.

Further attempts were not always successful, though. After a few fruitless sessions of gazing into the mirror, not sure how to begin, Deva was almost ready to give up, and then he came again. Stronger, clearer this time. With a big sweet smile for her. Oh, good, I knew I could do this.

"Hello, dream man," she said.

"Haly, Ilujavit girl."

She reached out a hand, imagining him solid enough to touch. And truly, she could almost feel the fabric of his sleeve against her fingertips. Raised her hand to his face – knowing with her mind that he was just the mist of dreams – and found an impression of warmth and the angular smoothness of a clean-shaven jaw.

"Since you're here," she said, "I... I think I should like... for you to kiss me."

His eyebrows shot up, and her attempt at nonchalance vanished in the heat of the look he gave her. "Miya vonethét, orchadhe," he murmured, nonsense words that sounded admiring, a soothing balm to the plainest and most sensible sister. One firm stride brought him in close, and strong hands that surely felt almost real slid around her waist and drew her against him.

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♥ It's pretty clear what's going on with Deva, right? And that's a conversation her mother really does NOT want to have. But should Her Majesty have let the matter go so easily? 

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