If only she knew who he really was. If only she knew—
Oh, this was stupid! Just because the man was polite, and pleasant, and the only one who actually seemed to listen to her, she was acting like some little ninny of a girl. He would be well in no time, and then he'd be on his way again, and that would be the end of that.
Enough of this! Finist scolded himself. Maria was a sweet young woman and a kind nurse, and that was all.
True, they'd found they shared a love of music. True, they'd found they shared a love of the old tales, too. They'd even discovered in each other some of the same wry sense of humor. But Maria had never shown the slightest interest in him as anything other than an invalid. And he had no intention of making a fool of himself. Why, the woman wasn't even pretty!
Not conventionally pretty.
Not anything as blandly dull as pretty…
Nonsense!
Yet there was no denying her eyes were lovely, whether warm with concern or flickering with annoyance as they were right now for refusing to let her hand feed him any more soup. And her lips had such a charming curve to them. Indeed, the longer he gazed at them, the more he found himself wondering just what it would be like to taste their sweetness, to hold that warmly rounded body in his arms…
Hastily he turned away, embarrassed. This was his hostess, and he mustn't even think of abusing her hospitality. Scrambling for something safe to say, he came out with:
«Is that a gusla I see? Do you play?»
«A bit.» Maria raised a wry eyebrow. «Trying to distract me from the soup?»
He shook his head, grinning, and saw her look away as though trying not to laugh. «Very well.» Her voice was studiously level. «I'll try to pick out a tune or two, if you promise to finish the soup on your own.»
«Agreed.»
Maria bent intently over the little gusla, pretending to be very concerned with the exact tuning of its strings. She didn't dare look up at Finn, not just yet. She wasn't quite sure what had happened, or why, but as she'd stood over him, some little devil deep within her had suddenly made her very much aware of him, not as a patient, but as a man, had made her aware of the clean male scent of him, of the lines of that lean, elegant body… Boyar's daughter that she was, she'd never known more than the hastiest, most chaste of male kisses, but she wasn't naive, either. And in that confusing moment of awareness, she'd found herself wondering what it would be like to lie in a man's embrace, in his embrace.
Hot with embarrassment, she hadn't known what to do or say. And he must have been aware of it. Of course he'd been aware. Gentleman that he was, he'd given her the excuse of the gusla to give her time to get herself back under control. Gratefully she strummed the shining metal strings, trying to lose herself in the music—only to realize, horrified, that she was playing a love song.
«I think I hear my sister calling," Maria said hastily, scrambling to her feet. «I'd better go.»
«No, wait!»
«I'm sorry, I'll be back later. But right now, I really must leave!»
Once she was out of the room, Maria stopped, shaking her head ruefully. That had been a truly ridiculous performance. She would go back in there, and this time she would remember that she was his nurse, nothing more than that.
Soon enough the day came when Finist could stand without falling over and walk about the farmyard without panting after every step. He stood soaking up the strength of the warm sunlight, and told himself he had imposed here long enough. Surely he was strong enough by now to leave, strong enough even to fly all that long way back to his own lands.
And yet, the prince realized with a shock, he really didn't want to think of leaving. Bewildered with himself, he found himself picturing a certain sweet, strong, sensible face, brown eyes warm and bright and clever— Oh, come now! he chided himself. I thought you'd gotten over this! She tended you; it's natural to feel warmth towards your nurse. Think only of your people, your royal duties!
But look—there was Maria, going down by herself to the stream, graceful even burdened as she was with the yoke and water buckets, and he couldn't keep his gaze from following her.
Filled water buckets were heavy; she should not have to be carrying them alone. Even Vasilissa—
But Vasilissa, predictably, was having another of her nervous fits, huddling in her room, sure that sorcery surrounded them all. Finist raised a thoughtful brow. At first he had considered her no more than a typical example of too much close aristocratic breeding, her sudden mood shifts—from deepest depression to frenzied bursts of activity‑made all the worse by her father's pampering. But… could she, in her unstable mind, be sensitive to his true magical self? Yes, that was it. Such things had happened before. She was able to vaguely sense Power. Not that there was anything Finist could do about it. And her father and she were both so very sure magic was evil.
Indignant for Maria and for himself, Finist caught up with her as she struggled with the buckets and their yoke. «Here, let me help. That's too heavy for you.»
She shot him a look of insulted pride. «No, it's all right. I can manage.»
But he insisted, and she insisted, and of course, it ended with them spilling the water. Finist reached out hastily to steady the wildly swinging buckets, and somehow found himself holding Maria's hands instead, the two of them staring straight into each other's eyes. For a startled moment they stood like that, linked on more than the merely physical level.
And something deep within Finist said, quite calmly, Of course. She is the one.
But then that amazing moment had passed. Maria pulled her hands free, blushing a bit, steadying the buckets as best she could. Finist, shaken, could only watch her, speechless. And, forced to accept what he'd seen in her eyes, he could have cried aloud for frustration, because he'd seen the dawning of affection, even of something more—for Finn! All for Finn!
But how else could it be? He wasn't Finist to her. Thanks to his disguise-spell, she couldn't even know Finist existed.
Confused, overwhelmed, the prince couldn't think straight. What if he somehow got her to repeat «Finist» after him? That would break the spell and—
And probably frighten her. Her family hated and feared magic; he couldn't bear to see Maria shrinking back from him in terror-Enough. Grimly, Finist forced his wild emotions back under control. «This time," he said shortly, «let me help. That's no work for a lady.» The sight of her alarm at that dangerous word, «lady," brought his frustration blazing out of him as anger. «Yes, of course I know! How could I not know? Every word you speak betrays you, every word your father or sister—oh, yes, your sister. If ever a young woman was out of place away from servants and pampering, it's she! She has only the one servant here, and that's — "
«Stop that!» she snapped. «Do you think I enjoy this?
Do you really think I like being a—a slave? Someone has to do the chores if we're to eat and drink and be sheltered, and who else do you see, eh?»
Abashed, he muttered, «I didn't mean — "
«And Lissa‑Don't you think I've tried and tried and tried to get through to her? Dear God, how I've tried!»
The buckets and yoke slipped, unheeded, to the ground.
«Dear God," said Maria again, very softly. «Finn, you don't understand. You see, Vasilissa was never… strong, but she wasn't always like this. She was in love once; there was to have been a wedding. But then… things changed. Her betrothed believed what was said of us—even without proof, he believed. His family broke the betrothal, and with it, the last of my poor sister's strength. Now all she can see is doom, terror and doom, and I—I don't know what to do to — "