On the twentieth night of her nocturnal studies, Alethea was planning to test her fluency in Fish-speak. She’d gotten better at packing for these excursions – her bag had fewer books and more changes of clothes, and a pack of matches in case she failed to conjure any light – and had become so efficient that she could listen for the night watchman’s heavy tread, seize her satchel, and be out the garden door before he’d turned the corner past Tristan’s room. This night, she had packed early, and was waiting impatiently for the footsteps that heralded her freedom. Her hands were shaking slightly, both from the fatigue of so many nights with little sleep and the anticipation of adventure…enough that when she did hear the signal, her tea sloshed over the rim of the cup and soaked the front of her blouse.
“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” she spluttered, replacing the cup on the saucer with a clatter of china and lunging for her wardrobe. There was time to change, but it might mean hiding in a doorway or slipping into an empty room later on, if her timing were not precise. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons until enough were free to pull the offending garment over her head. There were new, different footsteps in the hall now, but Thea was distracted by her frantic quest to change, and did not hear them. Newly dressed in a cotton shirt with lacing at the neck (left unlaced), she shrugged a leather jacket over her shoulders, snatched up her back, and threw open the door just as a voice started “Thea, it’s me…”
She collided with him halfway through “come in,” their foreheads striking with an audible thunk. “AH!” she yelped, falling backwards a step, and taking Tristan with her – her hand had clenched instinctively on the front of his shirt. They both tumbled back into her bedroom, somehow remaining on their feet. “Tristan? What are you–wait” she hissed, interrupting her own question and reaching past him to push the door shut. The movement brought them alarmingly close; if she hadn’t been rubbing the red bump on her head, she might have blushed at the brush of her chest against his. Instead she grasped him by the shoulders and gently guided him away from the door, with a finger over her lips for silence.
“Miss? Is everything alright? I thought I heard a shout,” came the guard’s hopeful voice beyond the door. He was one of the younger ones, stuck with a late watch as a sort of initiation to the trials of duty, and always eager to run into her if her nightly escape was ill-timed. Alethea winced. “Yes, thank you! Just a…mouse? It’s run off now, though!” There was a beat of silence, as she realized her mistake.
“Do you need me to remove it, for you? It wouldn’t be any trouble– “
“Nope! No, thank you! It’s quite gone, I think and, ahhh” she yawned exaggeratedly, “I’d better get to bed…too much excitement for one night, I think…Goodnight, Charles!”
“Well, if you ever need anything…goodnight, my lady…” his voice was a little wistful, and there was a tense pause where he paced just outside, obviously reluctant to resume his beat. Alethea glared at the door, her eyes wide with frustration, mouthing “go on, go” over and over with a restless shooing gesture. Who knew how the other guards’ patrols would line up, now. When they finally heard his dragging steps tramping down the hallway, she took a deep breath, and finally gave Tristan her attention.
“I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?” Her hand lifted, as if it might have been on a path to brush the wild hair away from Tristan’s face, so she could take a proper look at where she’d struck him, but then it changed course and pulled a strand of her own hair over her ear, instead. It had been a long time, she realized. It had been a long time, and some of that was coincidence…but some of it was because every girl in the castle was vying for his attention, and Alethea was not used to being the one chasing. Every other boy’s eyes just followed her; she’d never had to ask for anything, or tell anyone how she felt or what she wanted. What was she supposed to say? Tristan, I’d like to spend some time with you. Tristan, I like you. The words sounded leaden, stupid. “Were you coming to see me, before I accidentally attacked you?” she asked instead, with a little half-smile, and turned to make a small effort tidying her desk. It was littered with open books on magic and journals for notes, pencils and pens and drawings and diagrams, and more than one old cup of dried tea. It was unlike her to be so messy, and she wasn’t keen to explain what she had been up to.
Though the fact remained that she was dressed for an adventure outside, with a satchel slung over her shoulder, forgotten. |
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