Songbird

Ch 3

I immediately go to bed upon returning to the castle. The headaches take their toll on me more than one would expect, and the boy at the archery field drained me as well.

Although we only exchanged a few lines of dialogue, the mere thought of him set my heart racing. My fists clench and my teeth grind together and the only way I can calm down is to remind myself that I’ll never see him again. I then smile contently.

It seems like lying to myself to keep a semblance of happiness is becoming a common occurrence.

With my next headache, the boy’s presence is overwhelming. His energy burns like a bonfire, big,  bright and, dare I say, unnatural. Although he is housed in the guest place two miles away, it feels like he was right in front of me. I can tell that it is him. His energy is as arrogant as his voice. His aura is like an itch, always there. I convince my Grandmother that I am too ill for breakfast and lock myself in my room, waiting for the headache to pass. Even when I close my eyes, I still feel the same undecided blue-grey of his eyes burning all that distance away. There wasn’t any escape.

I scream into my goose feather pillow.

As the last dull throbs began to subside, I hear a knock at the door.

“Mademoiselle?” The butler’s voice muffled by the cherry wood, “Duchesse de la Mage requests to have your presence in the garden. She has some company that she would like you to meet.”

I groan. I can’t evade my Grandmother’s wishes for too long or she will punish me. She is not cruel, but I made the mistake of telling her what makes me happy. She knows what to threaten to take away from me. She has leverage.

Accepting the truth, I get up from my position on my bed. I check my appearance in the very expensive mirror placed on my vanity. While my grandmother’s baby fine silver hair that is kept up in a different intricate braid every day, I prefered two simple braided pigtails. She disapproves strongly. That’s why, for today, she requests I put my hair up like she does.

It doesn’t look very good on my hair. It’s hard to see the braids. My hair, unlike her’s, is very dark. It is the color of the blackest nights and raven feathers and unlit coals. Unlike most black hair, it does not have a characteristic blue sheen, but rather a purple one, like someone glazed my hair lightly with violet syrup.

I frown at my reflection before I try my best to make a graceful entrance into the garden.

The first thing I notice among walking into my Grandmother’s colorful garden is the boy, the same one from the archery field. That didn’t surprise me. I had assumed that he was a guest and the fact that he was around my age should have made the fact that my Grandmother wanted to two of us to become acquainted obvious.

The second thing I notice was a woman who very vaguely resembles the boy. They have the same nose and eyes. She wears a green dress and holds her chin up high.

My Grandmother had requested her best dishes set out, very expensive Chinese porcelain with painstakingly detailed hand-painted designs on them. I know for a fact that the gold paint used was dyed using gold dust. I also know that my Grandmother must told that fact to her guests. She probably also shared with them that the tea was imported from England and she only drank the most expensive.

My Grandmother hates tea, but the rest of her words are sewn with ready-to-impress truths. As I enter the vendara, the boy grudgingly gets up because I am technically a lady and that is customary. He stares at me darkly and his eyes flicker with recognition. I see his hand almost involuntary rub his cheek where I almost niched him with an arrow. A corner of my mouth raises in a small smile.

My Grandmother beams at me. “Oh, Wren! I see you’ve finally come to join us. Meet the Lady Alexandria of Cornwell and her nephew, Lord Balthazar of Cornwell. This is my daughter, Dame Wren de la Mage.”

I cursey and sit down at the empty space reserved for me. I can feel my Grandmother’s angry stares at my silence, but my tongue seems too heavy to say anything. My mind was racing.

Lady Alexandria speaks instead. “It’s lovely to meet you, Wren,” I notice she speaks down to me, but that’s to be expected. She’s my senior even though we share the same title. If I was a few years older, it might be different. “I am here on behalf of my brother, the Duke of Cornwell. Balthazar, here, is his oldest son.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Balthazar is a Duke’s son? That means he has a huge fief waiting back for him in England. He is not expendable. Why would he be here just to be my friend? Then it dawns on me.

“You’re arranging our marriage?” I ask bluntly, repelled.

Any color that my Grandmother tried to cover up now drains from her face. “Wren! How dare-”

“Yes. Relations between France and England are waning. Marriages like theses are needed to keep the peace between our countries,” Lady Alexandria cuts my Grandmother off with a nod. I never knew anyone to be so openly rude to her. Her defiance supports mine.

“I’m nearly 16. You can’t marry me off,” and even as I speak, I know that my words are untrue. I am the perfect age to be married away, taken away from the only life I ever knew. I heard stories of girls married off years before me, at tender ages of 10 or 12 or 14.

“You’re not being married off,” Lady Alexandria says sharply. “Balthazar is.”

“What? That’s not customary-”

“He has no inheritance.”

“But he is…”

“A bastard.”

My gaze focuses on the boy with honey-brown hair who hasn’t said anything during this whole conversation. He looks down at my Grandmother’s expensive China tea set, his face red and embarrassed. I feel a pang of sympathy. Lady Alexandria is still talking.

“His father had him out of wedlock with a poor excuse for a woman,” at this, the boy’s head jerks up and he gives his aunt a very dirty look. She does not notice and continues. “He is not entitled to any inheritance, but still carries the noble bloodline of Cornwell, a very old and very rich English name. It would be wise to accept the marriage offer. There are many English princesses that would be more than happy to have his hand.”

Two things happen at the same time. Balthazar gets up abruptly, rage painted on his face in blotchy red streaks. He says nothing, but angrily turns around and walks away in the direction of the castle.

Pain attacks my head like I’ve been struck with a hot poker. The world bursts forth with vivid, colorful auras, all brighter than I’ve ever seen them. My eyes water and I stumble to my feet. I ask to be excused lamely, and before I hear an answer, I stumble in the direction of the most brilliant color.