“Pawlin,” Emory said, his voice friendly now. “I did not know you had returned from the hunt.”
“I arrived with the sun this morning,” Pawlin said, smiling. “I would have hurried on the road home had I known you would be so quick with your own expedition, my lord.”
“’Tis ‘my king,’ now, isn’t it?” said Emory, gesturing to his crown.
“As I heard, my king,” Pawlin answered, and though he said the right words and made the right bows, his tone and carriage did not denote the difference in their ranks.
This did not seem to bother Emory, who laughed loud and walked away from Ama to clasp Pawlin by his shoulders in a rough embrace.
“So, it has come to pass,” Pawlin said when they split apart, “and your damsel prize is every bit as lovely as the legends told she would be.”
“Lovelier,” Emory said, an edge to his voice.
“Lovelier,” Pawlin corrected. “Indeed, lovelier.”
Now they were both appraising her, and Isolda too, and had she not held Sorrow in her arms, she would have felt naked under the scrutiny of their shared gaze.
“Lovely,” Emory said, “yes. But obedient . . . perhaps, no. Not yet.”
“Please, my king,” Ama begged, but for what, she knew not.
Emory bent and retrieved Sorrow’s leash from where Ama had laid it aside. He wrapped the golden chain around his fist—once, twice, three times—and walked slowly to Ama’s side.
“Dearest Ama,” he said, and his voice was gentle. It was playful. Was it not?
Sorrow growled low but fierce, and Ama dug her fingers into the kitten’s scruff, her manner of telling the animal to silence.
Emory’s gaze went to Sorrow, went to Ama’s white knuckles clutching the animal’s fur. His eyes narrowed, and for a flash Ama saw how much Emory would like to kill her Sorrow.
Emory reached out with his chain-wrapped fist and gently—so gently—he pushed back Ama’s hood. Cold rushed over Ama’s head, into her ears. She heard a ringing sound, high and sharp, and from inside her own head.
The cold golden chain brushed Ama’s cheek, along the length of her jaw, down the line of her throat.
“Please,” she said again.
Emory’s free hand took the leather collar, attached to the end of the chain, and drew it around Ama’s neck.
It fit her tight, but fit, it did, and he fastened the clasp so that it lay like a jewel in the soft depression where her pulse fluttered fast.
“Enough with ‘please,’” Emory said, his voice still light. “Now, say ‘thank you.’”
Fabiana’s King
By the time they neared the castle’s entrance, Ama had stopped pleading for Emory to take her off the leash. Her own hands could undo the buckle, that was true, but though that thought passed fleetingly through Ama’s mind, she dismissed it immediately, though she could not say quite why.
The first person to see her in this state of humiliation—other than Pawlin, who had chortled like it was the funniest thing—was an old man sweeping the stone path outside the castle’s side entrance. He looked up when he heard them coming, and his eyes went wide at the sight of them—Emory in the lead, the leash in his hand, Ama two steps behind, hurrying to keep up with the quick pace he set, the squirming lynx in her arms. Then he cast his eyes down quickly, as if he had seen something shameful, or private, and dropped to a deep bow as they passed.
The kitchen bustled, full of preparations for dinner, and Ama felt, in her arms, Sorrow straining toward all the savory smells. She tried to keep her eyes on the floor as Emory wove a path through the cooks and kitchen girls, all of whom stopped what they were doing, stirring pots, stoking fires, chopping vegetables, to drop into curtsies and say reverently, “My king.”
No one mentioned Ama’s current situation, of course, and more than that, no one even acknowledged her presence. It was so much as though she was invisible that Ama began to question her very existence—was she there, truly, on a leash, following King Emory through the castle kitchen? Or was she still abed, dreaming? Or perhaps she was somewhere else—somewhere farther away, and higher, much higher, somewhere thick with warmth and shine?
She was here, in this kitchen, on this chain. Her eyes glanced up and tangled with the gaze of the girl who brought her morning tray—the one Tillie had called Fabiana. Like the man outside, Fabiana’s first expression was wide-eyed; but then her expression shifted, and as she curtsied deeply, Ama sensed something akin to triumph in her voice as she said, “My king.”
All through the castle, Ama followed Emory, through the great hall and up the two sets of stairs and down the long stone hallway to the door to her very own chamber. Emory turned the door’s knob and pushed it open without a moment’s hesitation, as he owned this room as surely as he owned the rest of the castle.
There was Tillie, on her knees before the fire, a bucket of ashes at her side. She was filling the fireplace with fresh wood and kindling, and at this sight the tears that had stung Ama’s eyes began to spill.
“I return to you your lady,” Emory said jovially, thrusting the leash’s handle in Tillie’s direction.
Tillie stood, wiping her hands on her apron, and dropped a curtsy. “King Emory,” she said.
He thrust the handle again toward Tillie, who, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward to accept it.
Then Emory turned to Ama, his beautiful wide teeth exposed in a beautiful smile.
“No tears, Ama,” he said, wiping them gently from her cheeks. “That was just fun and games, after all.” And then he took her chin in his hand and drew her close, and kissed her forehead as if she were a child, and then he went away, at last.
When the door closed behind him, Ama released the choked sob she’d held in her throat all that time. She sank to her knees on the floor, set Sorrow down, and cried as if she were, indeed, a child.
Swiftly, Tillie sank down beside her and unfastened the collar from Ama’s throat. “Lady,” she said, her tone almost reverent. “Oh, lady.”
It was the gentleness of her voice that undid Ama completely. She slumped into Tillie’s arms, allowed the girl to guide her head against her chest, and lost herself in Tillie’s embrace.
Ama cried, and Tillie rocked her, and Sorrow came to comfort Ama, as well, butting the crown of her head again and again against Ama’s hands.
But one cannot cry forever. After a time, Ama sucked in air, and straightened herself up, and wiped her eyes with her hands. Tillie got up and went to fetch her a handkerchief, and with that Ama dried her dripping nose.
“Oh, Tillie,” she said, when she was able to speak again, “it was awful.”
“I can imagine it was, lady,” Tillie said.
Ama shook her head, remembering everything.
“Perhaps it was just for fun,” Tillie suggested.
“It was not fun for me,” Ama answered.
“No,” said Tillie. “Clearly not.” She stood, rather awkwardly, waiting for Ama to stand, and so Ama stood.
This seemed to relieve Tillie, this return to normalcy. She unfastened the cloak’s broach and laid the cloak aside. “Would you like something to drink, lady?” she offered.
“No, Tillie, thank you.” Ama found her way to the chair by the unlit fire. “Could you perhaps get this going?”