To break his family's curse, Faolan mac Domnall seeks to marry the beautiful Saoirse, princess of Mide. Spirited and outspoken, the wild Saoirse wants nothing more than to escape the life that's been decided for her. Determined to outmaneuver a twis...
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"I have no patience for weaving," the princess sighed enviously. Her eyes followed Siofra's hands at the loom.
At first, Siofra thought the princess's rapt attention would irritate her after the many days working. Faolan always found a chore, but his princess only found curiosity. Questions upon questions, words upon words. Why does sunshine have to be in that weave? Why are you leaving spaces? Why happy thoughts?
Siofra had spent so many years avoiding speaking and refusing to smile; the pain of cracking the tough bark of her face deterred happiness. She had only pulled the simplest threads with the easiest patterns. Strangely enough, the more she spoke and smiled and wove, the easier the movements became. It still pained her, but the pain was less and less.
"You seem to have patience for very little," Siofra replied wryly, her mouth twitching. "Hand me the next spindle."
The princess laughed her bell-like laughter, setting the crowd of pixies perched on the window into an excited flutter. Even more than Faolan, the princess attracted the fae to her presence. She was winsome and wild, waves on the cliff, wind through the trees. Like a human sun, the fae flocked to bathe in her warmth.
"My father would agree with you," she answered cheerfully, handing Siofra a spindle from the basket.
Turning to take it, Siofra frowned. It held the sunshine she had collected, dim as dust next to the golden joy of the princess' spindles.
"Not that one," she rasped.
"Why not?"
How can I explain misery to someone who has never felt it?
Shrugging, Siofra fingered one of the bright lines of happiness tied into her weaving. She tried to explain. "I have little to be happy for. I don't want to sully the weaving with my memories."
The princess frowned, examining at the weak glow. That pinch in her eyebrows, the look in her indigo eyes warned Siofra that there was another brewing storm of questions.
"What memory is this, Siofra?"
She asked so plainly, with such a matter-of-fact tone, Siofra replied despite the reluctance.
"It's my last memory of the Dreamweaver." She would have liked to leave the answer at that; but she knew a simple answer was not enough to satisfy this princess.
The full story, I suppose, she thought. Beginning from the beginning, Siofra breathed a shaky sigh and said, "he left to convince the queen to lift my curse. He blamed himself for it.
"His mate, Caorthann, was sick. So sick that there was no cure or herb or magic to save him. But when fae are gravely ill, sometimes they glamor themselves as children to be cared for by humans.
"But Caorthann refused to leave. He said, 'I would rather die here with you, than live alone in the human world.'
"So the Dreamweaver waited until Caorthann was too sick to protest. He glamored his mate to look like a baby he had seen in a human village. He left Caorthann as a changeling in her place, in my place.
