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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
For the second time in her life, Saoirse swore at the mirror to Otherworld. She swore at Siofra, who barred her from it. She swore at Faolan, who stopped to help wicked faerie queens at a crossroad at midnight. And finally, she swore at herself for swearing.
Awake through the night, pacing before the great hearth, indignant anger had boiled into an iron focus. I am not helpless, she told herself as she considered her options. Siofra had destroyed the easiest path to Otherworld. Old tales told of mushroom rings and faerie hollows in ancient trees. Faolan had described following wisps, jumping into a pond deep within the forest.
But had that been during the full moon?
Saoirse did not remember. Did the phase of the moon matter? The stories of the fae world were always filled with strange, complicated rules. Perhaps faerie pools only worked during the harvest season or aglow in wisp-light, or perhaps only for foolish horse boys chasing after cats.
To go in search of Otherworld with only a faint idea of how to find it?
The old Saoirse would do something like that, the princess thought as she paced. The old Saoirse would fly from the castle without another thought. Confidence and passion in place of a plan, she'd have searched and searched until there was no place left to look.
The old Saoirse had a father, a king of legend, who protected the realm. Her chest ached at his memory, his legacy. The old Saoirse had not understood the plight of the people. Her people.
But it's Faolan! She protested to herself.
Releasing him from the engagement, informal and desperate though it might have started, was the work of the new Saoirse. The Saoirse who wanted to be passionate but controlled, mighty and empathetic.
Faolan might not have made an excellent king, but she still liked him very much. He was still good and kind. He still made her smile. Despite her noble intent, it did not erase the hurt of cutting that potential thread of love. Siofra's feelings—so clear on that sliver of human face, so bright in her shiny black eye—had awoken a strange tendril of jealousy.
Rationally, Saoirse knew this fledgling envy was unfair. A princess's life was one of privilege and duty. Yet her heart pined for what might have been. Memories of his laughter in the sunshine of Otherworld, of sleeping in the stable, of his sheepish grin—why did everything seem so wonderful now that she could not keep it?
"You're being petty," she told her foolish heart, rubbing at the lines between her furrowed eyebrows. She stared at her reflection in the gilded mirror, at the proud, tired princess who stared back at her. "The new Saoirse serves Mide first and her heart second."
Faolan is part of Mide, her heart whispered. You could serve both.
A pause.
"Well it's hard to argue with that logic, isn't it?" she asked the mirror, unable to suppress the curve of her lips. Inspired by her own cleverness, Saoirse made a stop to the most silent wing of the keep before bolting to the stables, smiling at the cook on her flight through the hall.
