The Queen's Price

SIXTY-FOUR

It wasn’t reasonable to expect a return letter so soon—Saetien wasn’t even sure her letter had reached SaDiablo Hall yet—but she still felt disappointed that there wasn’t anything for her in the morning delivery of letters and messages. Then again, she’d been tired and angry when she’d written the letter, and she didn’t quite remember what she’d said, remembered only that she’d been angry with Butler about neglecting his garden. So maybe her father didn’t think it was worth a reply.

No. She knew him better than that. He would reply.

Same routine as yesterday, only this time she wasn’t acting like the foolish sheep trying to bolt from the pasture before she was rounded up.

The Warlord hitched to the cart would take her to the cottage? Yes.

The adult Sceltie Warlord would keep an eye on his lone human sheep unless Caitie joined her again to double his flock? Yes.

Shelby coming with her without the drama of the dusty shirt? Yes.

Food, water, hat, gloves, and everything else that someone else deemed vital to her spending a few hours in a garden away from home and could be packed into the cart? Yes.

Was it like this because she was in Scelt, or had it always been like this whenever a female went anywhere or did anything—this bringing along a hill of essentials—and she hadn’t noticed because whoever was standing escort was the one who carried everything?

And if this fussing was considered necessary for a witch who wore Purple Dusk, how much more did a Queen—any Queen—have to put up with? Were men who served in a First Circle trained to be subtle about packing up supplies for a simple visit, as if the Lady were a witless puppy who couldn’t take some responsibility for herself?

She used to get so annoyed with her father when the two of them were going somewhere and he’d ask her if she had everything she needed and she’d brush off the question, impatient to get started, only to later discover that he hadn’t brought something she considered vital. She got even more annoyed when he quietly reminded her that packing personal items had been her responsibility, even if he would have been the one who carried them for her.

He’d been teaching her to take responsibility for herself, something she hadn’t appreciated at the time. Had he extended that same courtesy to his Queen? Or were the rules different and a Queen wasn’t expected to have enough sense to bring her own handkerchief because there would be a dozen men ready to hand one over if she sneezed?

And yet a Queen was expected to have the training and wisdom to rule over people’s lives. Hundreds and thousands of lives in villages and towns and cities and Territories. In a whole Realm.

As the Warlord trotted toward Butler’s cottage and Saetien kept an arm around each Sceltie, she wondered if Jaenelle Angelline’s life had felt constricted by so many powerful men waiting to take care of the least little thing for her. And she wondered how Zoey was doing now that the young Queen was living at the Hall.

Saetien figured that Kieran and his family realized she and Butler were no longer talking about Wilhelmina Benedict, but no one hinted that she should end her visit. She was still on her heart quest. It had just taken a different direction.

How long would she be allowed to stay? The garden still needed a fierce amount of work. Would her father allow her to stay long enough to complete it?

Waiting for Butler to step out of the cottage, she looked over the beds she’d cleaned up and she felt proud of the work. Felt pleased that she’d made a friend who also enjoyed working in a garden. Whatever had been damaged inside Caitie’s brain might make her vulnerable at times, but she was smart in many ways, simple in some ways, and always sweet natured. And she was kind.

The coven of malice would have torn Caitie apart.

Would she have let Delora do that to Caitie or someone like her? Or would she have drawn a line to protect someone else if the price had been Delora’s friendship?

Jaenelle Angelline would have had the courage to draw the line and hold it, regardless of whose friendship was lost or any other personal cost.

“The garden is looking much better, but you don’t have to do this,” Butler said when he walked up to her a few minutes later.

“Someone has to.” The words had more snap than she’d intended, but her thoughts had left her unsettled. Again.

He didn’t respond immediately.

“If you don’t want to talk this evening . . . ,” he began.

“I remember being told that I was dreams made flesh.” The words came out in a rush. “When I was little, I remember someone telling me that. It made me different. Special.”

“Different? Maybe. Special? Certainly.” Butler looked away, something he often did when the subject at hand became difficult. “A woman feels the first signs of a child in her womb and cries with joy. A man lays a hand on his lover’s belly and feels a fierce love along with the first flutter of life from the child they created. Isn’t every wanted child special, Saetien? Isn’t every wanted child the parents’ dreams made flesh?”

Pain. The words were spoken calmly enough, but underneath them Saetien heard pain. “Were you a wanted child, Butler?”

Even in the failing light, she saw his face harden with bitterness and regret.

“No,” he said too softly. “We weren’t wanted.”

He turned and walked back to the cottage. Closed the door.

Saetien rushed to the door, but it was locked—and Butler didn’t answer when she pounded on the wood.

“Butler? Butler! Who is ‘we’? Butler?”

No answer. Her question had reopened an old wound, and she didn’t know how to fix it.

She waited awhile, then contacted Kieran to come pick her up.

As they drove home, a thought circled: who was the other unwanted child? And why, even after so many years, did the knowledge that they had been unwanted hurt Butler?