She opened the door and gasped. “What’s he done to you now?”
“No.” Achan held up the knife. “I did it to myself…trying to shave.” He forced his voice to imitate Prince Gidon’s lofty tone. “My prince demands it.”
Gren rolled her eyes. “You silly boy.” She took Achan’s hand and led him to a chair by the table, then went to the fireplace. She rose on her tiptoes and reached onto the mantle searching for something. Her brown skirt swung like a bell above her bare ankles. “But your lip, Achan, how did you do that?”
The Fenny cottage was like most in Sitna: a small main room with a fireplace and a table, then two more rooms in back.
Achan sighed. “Ah. Well, Sir Kenton punched me.”
“No!” She carried a roll of leather to the table, lips parted. “What happened?”
“I struck Gidon.”
Gren’s gasped. “You what?”
Achan told Gren about his day as she filled a basin with cold water and set it on the table. Then she lifted the kettle from the hearth and added hot water, testing it with her fingers.
She clicked her tongue, her eyes darting about his face. “What a mess, Achan. We can’t have you looking half dead if you’re to go to Mahanaim with the prince. You might even stand before the Council.”
“No one will pay any attention to me. I’m sure Gidon will have a hundred errands to keep me occupied, like fluffing pillows and feeding him grapes.”
She swabbed a wet rag over his face, then lathered soap over his cheeks. She unrolled the leather and held up a knife-like razor. “The right tool helps.” She sharpened the blade on a leather strop, set it at the top of his left cheek, and slowly drew it down.
As Gren scraped the hairs from his face, Achan studied her brown eyes, her dark eyelashes, and each freckle on her nose and cheeks. She wiped the razor on a rag and a wispy chestnut curl fell over one eye. She raised the razor to his face again and blew the tendril aside.
“Thank you, Gren. You’re a true friend.”
She beamed.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“Father. He’s been making me practice on him for…when I’m married.”
Achan looked to his lap. He didn’t want to speak of this again. There was nothing to be done.
Gren’s voice came soft. “I’d much rather marry you, you know.”
He flushed, feeling awkward in the silence that followed. When he looked back to Gren, she was busy on his right cheek. He changed the subject. “Gidon asked about you. About taking you with him…as his…uh…mistress.”
Gren’s eyebrows sank. “Why would he want me?”
“Who wouldn’t want you?”
She smirked and worked the razor over the strop again. “That’s sweet, Achan, but Prince Gidon can have anyone. He was probably only trying to upset you.”
Achan hoped that was all. “Would you…want that, though?”
She scowled and softly slapped his cheek. “Achan Cham, what a thing to ask a girl! Of course I wouldn’t want that. No amount of wealth could make that a desirable life. Not that I’d have a choice in the matter if it were so.”
Achan went red again, but relief melted his anger some, knowing he was right about Gren, that neither wealth nor title would sway her heart.
She darted behind him, pressed one hand to his forehead and the razor to his throat, and hissed in his ear, “But if it were so, he wouldn’t take me without a fight.”
Achan laughed at her caviler attitude, but he had a feeling it was the fight Prince Gidon enjoyed most. He kept that thought to himself.
When Gren finished with his face, she held a finger against his chest. “Wait right there.” She scurried down the hall and returned with a vest. She held it up. “It’s finished.”
His eyes bulged. This was more of a doublet than a jerkin or vest. It was sleeveless except for little caps shooting off the tops of the shoulders. A v-neck yoke cut across the chest, and below, tailored seams encased the waist before flaring out in a short peplum. It was tan, doeskin suede. And altogether beautiful. “My doe?”
She nodded, eyes sparkling. “Try it on.”
She helped him pull off his cape, then put on the jerkin. He held his breath to stifle his reaction to the pain when he reached back for the second sleeve. He didn’t want Gren to know about Myet’s workmanship. She fastened the silk ties into bows down the front. His chest swelled. She was so thoughtful to make this from his deer.
“It will look even better with the brown shirt.” Gren swiped her hands over his dingy white Kingsguard sleeve. She ran her hands down either side of the laces, as if inspecting her own handiwork, then looked up, smiled, and took his face in her hands, one on each stinging cheek. “You’re destined for more than the life of a stray, Achan Cham, that I know.” She rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips.
Heat flashed over him as if he’d stepped out of the shade into the sun. Gren had kissed his cheek lots of times but never—
The door swung open. Gren’s mother stood in the sunlit opening, one hand on her hip, the other holding a bundle of fabric against her chest. She shut the door quickly. “You both are too old for these types of visits. This is vastly inappropriate, more so than ever with Grendolyn’s betrothal.”
Achan looked to the floor, seized by a different kind of heat. He shuffled his feet and desperately wished he could vanish.
Gren stepped away and set about clearing the shaving materials off the table, her voice shaky as she defended herself. “Achan needed help shaving because the prince—”
“Achan will have to take care of himself from now on.” Her mother set the fabric on the table and sighed. “I know you’re friends, but this must stop. Forever. Now, say your farewells. Your father is not far behind.” She walked past the table and into the back room.
Gren rolled the razor and strop inside the swatch of leather and did not look up when she whispered, “Farewell, Achan.”
A horrible ache welled in his throat. He glanced at Gren, who returned the leather roll to the mantle and stood poised like a statue.
In a hoarse whisper Achan said, “Gren, I…”
She looked up and shook her tear-streaked face. “Don’t.”
He walked to the entrance, dragging his feet. His boots scraping over the dirt floor sounded extra loud in the silence. He turned back and met her forlorn gaze. She glanced away.
He stood at the door. “Thank you, Gren. For everything.”
14
As much as Vrell did not want to see Macoun Hadar again, she guessed she had better report to breakfast. The sooner she learned how to contact Mother, the better.
She took the time to pray, then wandered up the staircase uncertain of what she would do when she arrived. If only she could find Carlani first. He did not threaten her, and she thought of him as an ally. They both served the same master, anyway.
A chambermaid carried a basket of clothing down the stairs.
“Excuse me,” Vrell said. “Where could I find Carlani’s room?”
“He sleeps on a pallet in his master’s chamber,” the girl said. “Master Hadar is very demanding.”
“Thank you.” Vrell continued to the eighth floor. She should have guessed. Servants often bunked in their master’s room in case they were needed at any hour. Someone as old and odd as Macoun Hadar would not want to be kept waiting. Strange that he relied on such a snail of a servant.