The Subtle Beauty - A Celtic Beauty & the Beast retelling

Excerpt from Moonlight

WHAT A QUEEN WOULD DO

They called him “Firebeard,” Son of the Sun. Aodhagáin, King of the Summer Isle. His crimson beard grew to his belly. His eyes burned like embers. But the queen beside him appeared as the night. She sat in a high-backed throne, her hand resting beneath the king’s. Sulwen, “White Sun,” was like the moon with hair the color of midnight, skin as milky as the stars, and lips the shade of the harvest moon. She had been chosen first among the lands to be queen to the high king, and all that knew her loved her.

Their seven children stood before them in the throne room, each son named after the fire god, Aodh. But the sixth-born, a princess, Sulwen had named for herself. Aowyn. Aowyn resembled her father—kissed by the sun on her face and arms, bejeweled with bright emerald eyes, and hair that flowed and curled like the flame. Her brothers mimicked their father’s features, save for Aonwys a Stór, nicknamed Stór, for he was the last precious soul Sulwen could bear for her husband. Stór copied his mother in appearance, but with one amber eye and one blue one.

Aowyn’s gaze rested not on her brothers, nor the king, or the queen mother. It transfixed upon the handmaiden, Ciatlllait, standing by the queen. Ciatlllait’s mouth twisted at the corner almost imperceptibly. Her hair grew more golden than the broom; her unblemished skin akin to summer cream. Her eyes glittered like the sea. But something abided in her that got under nearly-14-year-old Aowyn’s freckled skin. Something she couldn’t put her finger on. Ciatlllait clasped her hands together and bowed her head as the king spoke.

“Children,” he said, focusing on his wife, “your mother is ill.”

Aowyn snapped to attention. Ill?

She squinted at her placid mother. She didn’t seem ill.

Apparently her brothers thought the same. Aowyn’s eldest brother, Crown Prince Áodhán an Choróin, named Choróin for short, voiced what they were all thinking. “What do you mean ill, Father? Mother is here. She is fine.”

Sulwen leaned her dark head against the throne and swallowed. Her lips parted dryly. “Alas, I am not. I am dying.”

Aowyn found little Stór’s hand suddenly in hers. Tears welled in his bi-colored eyes. “You cannot die. You are our mother.”

Sulwen raised her hand, languishing. “All seasons must end, my beloved. My winter is coming.”

Aowyn’s chest tightened and ached. Her gaze drifted to Ciatlllait as Rógaire Aohearn, twin to Lorgaire Aodan, implored, “But how? And why?”

Aowyn saw Ciatlllait’s nearly imperceptible smile grow. Aowyn’s eyes narrowed.

Sulwen lost consciousness. Aowyn’s brothers and her father rushed to the queen. Ciatlllait raised her head, and Aowyn knew the woman feigned concern. Aowyn clenched her fists and marched over to her family. She placed herself between her brothers and Ciatlllait. Choróin, Aodh Caoin Croí, Lorgaire and Rógaire bore their mother away to her chambers. Aowyn glowered at Ciatlllait as the handmaiden followed after her mistress. AogánEagnaí, Aowyn’s closest brother, stepped to Aowyn’s side and watched Ciatlllait leave.

Aowyn made a fist and ground her thumb against her fingers. A crease strained her brow.

Eagnaí regarded his younger sister. “I don’t trust her.”

Aowyn glanced at him. “That makes two of us.” She studied her 15-year-old brother. Eagnaí was fairer than his brothers. He had the same amber eyes, but his hair was more ginger than red.

“I am glad I am not alone,” Aowyn said.

Eagnaí clapped her on the shoulder and offered a smile. “We’re going to get through this. No matter what happens to Mother, we will always be a family.”