Wren, an autumn dragon with a human form, is a guest at Duskhollow castle for the duration of the long winter. Prince Shyler, the eldest son and heir to the throne, befriended her in secret years earlier and has finally brought her to meet other hum...
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Gesturing animatedly, Jayne is regaling the handsome kitchen boy with a story of her trip to her grandmother's in the western woods settlement when the prince appears at her left. To her horror, she only notices him when she knocks a swinging hand into his shoulder.
"Pardon me, Jayne." The prince sounds winded. Jayne scrunches herself down, mortified that she essentially inadvertently attacked the royal heir, expecting punishment. So his hurried continuation throws her off balance. "Have you seen Wren?"
"N-no, your highness," she manages to get out. "Not since earlier in the evening. Should I... would you like me to look for her?"
Prince Shy grimaces, but nods. "If you don't mind. I think she's in a foul mood."
His voice is warning and sympathetic. Jayne knows why. The first time she had been charged to Wren's needs and was helping her to bathe, the woman had thrown such a fit over her hair being undone and wet that Jayne could swear she'd never bathed before. But she didn't have the look of someone who hadn't, and Jayne had the misfortune of stumbling across a few of those types in town. Wren had sprung from the bath and torn around her chambers in a fit suitable for a wild animal, and Jayne wouldn't forget the fear of it for as long as she lived.
She gulps.
"Yes, I understand, your highness," she whispers with a hurried bow. She touches Finnegan's arm apologetically before tearing away from the masquerade at a brisk walk so as not to alarm anyone. Anyone else, anyway. Her own heart is begging mercy for what she'll find when she finds the war path of the frightful woman.
No one will forget a beauty like that, the doorman has said when they arrived, yet no one Jayne hurriedly asked had seen a hair of Wren since far earlier in the evening.
Her guest chambers, then. Jayne swallows down a glass of wine she plucks up on her exit from the hall and its lovely party and beautiful eligible men. By now she can walk the route to Wren's room in her sleep from anywhere in the castle, and she's even figured out a shortcut or two through some unmarked passageways she definitely didn't find while smooching the very handsome kitchen boy.
She can reach the room in only a few minutes. That's not the problem. Whatever might greet her when she gets there is the problem.
Still, there's no further delaying it. The prince looked absolutely shattered when he asked after the strange guest, and Jayne doesn't intend to prolong his suffering. Even if it means she might have to reassemble Wren's room from the floor up, depending on how this, whatever it is, ranks on the scale compared to when she threw a fit over Jayne untangling her braids and insisting on a thorough wash of her hair.
Wren still holds a grudge over that one, Jayne is certain of it. But only the gods know why. It's as if the woman hasn't ever properly bathed before coming here. It wouldn't surprise her at this point if that were somehow the truth.
