Page 32 of Whispers of the Starlit Sea (Avalore Chronicles #1)

S orcha sat on a low stool while Ailsa flitted about the room, gathering items. Servants hurried in and out, lugging buckets of steaming water behind a screen.

Sorcha watched it all through a fog, barely responding as Ailsa and a maid with a pleasantly lined face helped Sorcha out of her damp clothing, peeling off her boots and soggy stockings to reveal her pale toes, the skin wrinkly and sore.

They gave her privacy to remove her underclothes and climb into the little pool.

She sank into the steaming water, which wrapped around her like a hug.

The chill clung to her until the heat sank into her bones.

The woman approached and, with gentle hands, massaged flakes into her hair that turned into a sea-foam, fragrant with the scent of the heather-strewn moors. Sorcha rubbed the bubbles between her fingers, wondering distantly if she would vanish as easily as this foam did.

Would Arick try to hold on to her the way she held the foam in her palm? Or would he walk away, leaving her to disappear on the waves with the rising of the sun?

She pressed a hand to her sternum, where the ache so often marked their separation.

No, she knew better. He would wait. His own kindness wouldn’t let him walk away.

But even more so…the magic had been trying to tell her something for a while, and though she wasn’t sure he even knew, she was sure of it — he cared for her as much as she cared for him.

Strange how comforting that was — to know that she mattered to someone. That someone would miss her. Not just as an extra Healer or as an annoying little sister wanting to tag along, but as her.

Yet…there was no point. In less than a day, she’d be gone. Washed away as though she’d never existed.

Her mind refused to go near that thought.

Ailsa and the woman spoke around her, sometimes asking questions, their voices drifting in and out like the waves on the sandy shore.

She lifted her arms when prompted, though the movement didn’t feel like hers.

The woman scrubbed her skin, but the pressure barely registered.

She rose when beckoned to do so, and they wrapped her in a robe as soft as the cooky’s fur, then they tucked her into the bed, where she lay in silence, eyes dry and burning.

She avoided thoughts of Arick, as though they were guarded by a ring of electric eels, poised to sting her if she drifted too close. Instead, she thought of her father. Of her mother and sisters. Of Rona. Of anyone other than Arick.

And then she couldn’t stop thinking of him. The memories came unbidden, precious and sharp. She gathered them jealously, pouring over each one like a pearl.

The stranger who had pulled her from the water and immediately found something for her to cover herself with. Who had carried her despite his own exhaustion. Who had offered her a safe place to stay.

The man who had introduced her to his friends, never minding that she could barely walk and spoke not a word of his language.

The friend who had made her part of his world. Who had laughed with her after being soaked in the rain. Who had risked everything to help her family.

Who had fought his way back to her, even injured and in pain.

A sob escaped as she pictured the way his hazel eyes crinkled when he laughed.

The sun shining on his curly hair. His quiet strength, which he offered her when she needed it.

His lean, strong hands that he’d used to find a way to speak with her.

The way his face lit up when he noticed her enter a room.

The way he had wanted to kiss her.

The tears came at last, hot and drowning. She rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. Sobs wracked her until she couldn’t breathe. And the familiar ache tightened ever so slightly around her heart, reminding her she wasn’t alone.

A rick closed the heavy door on the flurry of preparations and schooled his features to hide his own swirling thoughts.

The central hall held the usual mix of nobles and visiting dignitaries.

Guests were already starting to arrive for the ball in a few hours, and servants passed around trays of light refreshments, a teaser of what would come later during the formal supper.

Banners in the kingdom’s blue, green, and gold tartan hung from the balcony railings, and garlands of ivy and summer blooms wrapped the columns in cheerful defiance of the storms that had plagued the coastal city.

Arick kept his head down as he crossed the hall.

A bath and a few hours of rest had soothed the worst of his exhaustion but not his thoughts.

After a brief conversation with Thomas, he had set out to find the king.

Thomas had wanted to join him, but his steward had insisted the prince needed longer to prepare for the ball, seeing as it was in his honor.

The king hadn’t been in his private chambers, so Arick sought him in the more public offices.

But to get there, he had to pass through the central hall.

Exhaustion still tugged at him, but he needed to talk to his uncle as soon as possible.

He passed a guard, refusing to make eye contact lest the man shout for his arrest. What would his punishment be for freeing the merfolk?

MacIsaac and his cronies had made their stance clear, but King Craig had been tight-lipped on the topic.

Either way, Arick was prepared to face the consequences. He’d gone against the council, so there was every chance they would imprison him for it. He only hoped his uncle would take pity on him and allow him one last night with Sorcha before locking him away. One last chance to break her curse.

Tightness wrapped around Arick’s chest, but he no longer resented it.

It was a welcome reminder that Sorcha was nearby.

He adjusted his path so as not to cause her extra discomfort and turned down the corridor to the council chambers, the bustle of the hall fading behind him.

A servant with an empty tray was just leaving the receiving room beside the main chambers, so Arick quickened his steps to catch the door before it swung shut.

Upon seeing the occupant of the room, he sought to slip out again without being noticed, but it was too late.

“Arick! Come here, lad,” the rotund Lord Beattie called out to him, scone crumbs flying as he beckoned with a hand full of his snack.

Groaning inwardly, Arick stepped back into the room, schooling his face to not betray his eagerness to leave. “Lord Beattie, how are you today?”

“Good, I’m good,” he said, pausing briefly to stuff the scone into his mouth as more crumbs dusted the front of his well-adorned jacket. “You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

Arick folded his hands behind his back and adopted the relaxed but attentive stance he’d learned in the navy. But inside, his thoughts churned. This was wasting time when he had so little of it left with Sorcha. “Why is that, sir?”

“Well, I was hoping you’d have an answer for us today. We haven’t got much time left, you know.”

Arick took a deep breath to control his impatience. He didn’t have time to rehash this argument. “I believe I made my answer perfectly clear already. I will not commit treason by taking my cousin’s throne.”

“I can understand where you’re coming from.

You love the boy. And MacIsaac — well, I can’t blame you for getting a stick up your spine around him.

The man does the same to me by times. But you have to look at the facts.

Thomas’s recent attempt at convincing the council that merfolk exist is a clear indication that he’s not ready to be king. ”

Arick opened his mouth to protest, but Beattie waved him off.

“Let me finish my points before you argue.” He helped himself to another scone, smearing liberal amounts of clotted cream and jam on it before taking a massive bite.

A glob of jam stuck to his beard. “Where was I? Oh yes. Young Thomas. You were there. Even with your help, he could barely finish his speech, and, well…the council ripped him to shreds, didn’t it?

Is that what you want for him for the rest of his life?

Wouldn’t it be kinder if you stepped in? Saved him from all that?”

Arick shifted his feet. Seeing Thomas humiliated like that had been hard to watch. He’d give a lot to ensure that never happened again.

“Ah, I can see it on your face. You know I’m right. You can do some real good. The people respect you. And without the stress of the crown, Thomas may even thrive. Spend more time with his animals. He’s a good lad; I’m not denying it. But he’s not ready to be king.”

Arick dragged a hand over his face. He’d tried so hard to help Sorcha. They’d stopped the storms, yet she was still a human, still in pain. If he couldn’t save the woman he loved, maybe he could help his cousin instead. Maybe doing something would ease the helplessness clawing at his chest.

He shifted his weight, rolling the idea around in his mind. Could he do more good if he took on the role of crown prince? More than as an advisor? More than Thomas could?

Beattie slurped the last of his tea. “Look, I won’t push you to give me an answer right now. But you need to decide. The coronation is tomorrow. The king will need to know before then.”

He lumbered out of the room, humming to himself, and shut the door behind him.

Leaving Arick alone.

With his thoughts.

And that was the worst possible thing he could have done.