Then he let me go, grabbed my hand and guided me into a building with a wooded sign jutting out of it that had a painting of the very village we were in on it over which it said, “The Riverside Rory”.
I let him do this and let him seat us at a table by the window and kind of let the proprietress fawn over us and let him order for me and took a sip of the crisp, cool, pale amber fluid that was set before me (which tasted vaguely of apples and strongly of alcohol) and I did all of this without word because the only thought in my head was, Whoa, I’m married to a prince.
I snapped out of it when something hit me and I focused on him to see he was watching me. Then I leaned across the small, clean wooden table toward him.
“Does this mean I’m a princess?” I asked.
He stared at me looking annoyed for a second then he sat back and sighed, “That’s what usually happens when a woman marries a prince.”
I sat back and looked dazedly out of the multi-diamond-paned, wavy-glassed window, mumbling, “Oh my God, I’m a princess.”
“Gods, that you would have granted me this boon when she wed me and with it gave me one night of this hot, greedy tart rather than the cold, selfish fish you gave me,” he muttered, my eyes moved to him and I saw he was speaking to the ceiling in audible prayer.
But his words penetrated so I leaned across the table again and asked, “What did you just say?”
His eyes cut to me. “You like being a princess?”
I sat back and threw out a hand. “Of course I do. That question is absurd. Any girl wants to be a princess. And in this world, I am one.”
“Well, you are one but you aren’t.”
I blinked as my happy, fairytale balloon deflated. “I am one but I’m not?”
“Love, you live in a house, it’s a nice house but you live there because you choose to live there. You warmed my bed like you warm my hides, you’d live with me in my castle.”
My eyes rounded and I breathed, “You have a castle?”
“Bloody hell, here we go again,” he muttered, staring at my face.
The proprietress arrived with wide, shallow pewter bowls filled with divine-smelling, delicious-looking, steaming stew and a cutting board resting precariously on her forearm topped with a fluffy loaf a brown bread, a knife stuck in it and a small ramekin of creamy butter at the side.
And when she did, I looked up and informed her, jabbing my finger at Tor, “He owns a castle.”
Her body jerked, her eyes shot to me then she dipped down in an awkward curtsy while still balancing the bowls and board.
“Yes, your grace,” she muttered, her eyes moving to my shoulder.
“Isn’t that cool?” I asked her and her eyes flitted to me then back to my shoulder.
“Cora,” Tor warned in a low voice.
I turned to him and cried, “Well it is, Tor!”
“Gods,” he muttered and I finally noticed the woman and her burden.
“Here,” I reached out, “let me help you with that.”
“Gods,” Tor muttered again as I took a bowl from her and set it in front of Tor.
“My,” she whispered and I looked up at her, smiled and divested her of the bread board.
“Heya,” I belatedly greeted.
“Erm… your grace,” she mumbled.
“This bread looks fantastic! And the stew smells superb!” I noted as I took the last bowl and put it in front of myself. “And what’s this I’m drinking?”
“Cider,” she whispered.