have passed in his wanderings, which could explain the anachronistic behavior our dear, intolerant Willoughby takes such issue with.”
Will made a rude gesture in Robin’s direction.
Appalling behavior! But I couldn’t expect better from commoners who spent their youth among soldiers. They wouldn’t know what to do among more polite company. Just like I didn’t know what to do among them.
Maybe it was a blessing they couldn’t see me, and I didn’t have to interact with them. Though I interacted with Robin just fine, and he…
My thoughts halted as a memory tugged my mind towards snippets of songs and stories I’d heard on rainy days in court, both prior and during the war.
“I know of an Alan-a-Dale!” I blurted out. “Could he be the same person?”
“I’ve heard of an Alan-a-Dale!”
Agnë had spoken in unison with me, but Robin answered my question. “Either that, or he’s from a long line of bards using that name.”
Will continued his disapproving muttering. “Whatever he is, he’s annoying. Never knows when to shut up.”
Curiously, Meira joined him, just as cranky. “Bards are always annoying. And after so many overdramatized songs, you lose all tolerance for that whining string instrument they play.”
Where had Meira heard a wandering bard? Were there even bards still in this day and age? They were an outdated concept, lost to the growing urbanization of the western end of the Folkshore, and the growing wave of industrialization. We now had professional singers and composers traveling to sing on elaborate stages in opera houses, to paying crowds.
Unfortunately, Arbore wasn’t leading the Folkshore in those arts, with the most inspired music coming from our former enemy, Avongart. At least they didn’t have the prettiest lyrics, too. Those came from Campania, with their vowel-filled language just lending itself to musicality.
“I, for one, can’t wait to hear him,” I said. Not that my input would make any difference. It would go as unheard as my ambition for music. “I haven’t sung in so long, and even longer since it’s been of my own accord.”
“People forced you to sing?” Robin sounded taken aback.
I sighed. “Demanded and expected me to. To entertain others, and only the approved material. Always one of five songs. You can only sing the same songs composed to flatter royals so many times.”
“Did Prince Jon have you sing vacuous amendments to Father of the Realm daily?”
“Not daily, that would have driven me insane, but, Gods Above—how did you know?”
“That pig and his ilk are just that predictable.”
Before I could even consider taking offense, Little Jon’s voice joined in, a thrumming bass even my boneless self could feel. “Please, don’t talk about that man. Keep talking about the lunatic singer, or about those monstrous imps we could find here—just not him.”
“What’s your issue with Prince Jonquil?” Agnë asked.
A chorus of outraged voices rose, Meira’s among them. So she, too, shared their terrible opinion of him? And she’d never told me. Of course.
“I don’t like to be reminded His Vileness exists,” Little Jon growled. “Because it makes me want to curse my parents for naming me after him.”
“You were named after him of all people?” Agnë, despite trying to not badmouth my uncle, seemed to cringe at the thought of him being anyone’s namesake. “Why?”
Jon huffed a mighty exhalation. “My father is a proud immigrant, his family having fled the Northlands when he was a child. He decided to name all his children after members of the royal family to embody his love of this nation. My eldest sister is Florentina after His Majesty, I am Jonquil like him, and my younger brothers are Oleander and Rowan, after the king’s uncles.”
My father and nine of his predecessors were called Florent, as per tradition. Also, my younger siblings, Esmeralda and Florian, were named after our parents—their fresh start after presuming they’d end up losing their older children to the Spring Queen’s wrath. But to find that strangers had my family as namesakes was simply fascinating.
Leander himself was named for our great-uncle Oleander. Mother had objected to her firstborn being named after a poisonous plant, and Father had compromised by dropping the first letter, saying it now sounded based on the Orestian name Leandros.
If only he could have found as clever a compromise to his broken engagement with the Spring Queen, I wouldn’t be Ghost Girl now.
My thoughts halted as we traversed farther into the fairy path, and I just felt it. We’d left our realm behind.
The transition was subtle, yet indisputable, not unlike when we—the Final Five vying