Brine and Bone Page 2

  The prince, whose searching eyes observed the fog above, inhaled sharply and coughed. He reached trembling fingers toward his mouth, but she stayed his hand.

  “You’re dehydrated,” Magdalena said. “The water and this are the best I can do. I’ll cut up the rest and you can work on it while I get some help—”

  “Don’t leave me,” he said again. He shifted the sliver of plum in his mouth to talk around it. Every phrase he spoke was a labor. “Give me a minute. I’ll come with you.”

  She couldn’t stop the disbelief that cut from her throat. “Your Highness, you’re not leaving this cove on your own two feet.” The only path in or out was the rock-strewn trail by which she had come, a trail that only manifest when the tide went out, and that would require far too much effort for someone in the prince’s condition to navigate. She glanced anxiously that direction. The sooner she went for help, the better. Her initial, overwhelming gratitude at this miracle of finding him alive had faded in the reality before her: she could not transport him from this place on her own. She would collapse beneath his broad-shouldered physique if she tried.

  She would have to leave him, trusting that he would remain safe in the sheltered cove, that no chittering deep-sea creatures would prey upon him in her absence.

  Anxiously she scanned the lapping waters again for any sign of bulbous eyes. Nothing but foam-crested waves met her gaze. She cut another sliver of plum and fed it to the prince.

  “I have to leave you here and go for help,” she said.

  He chewed the slice, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “You have to?”

  “You need more treatment than what I have with me, your Highness.”

  “I have a name, Malena.”

  Her brows shot up, and so did the defensive wall around her heart. She might have attributed his words to delirium or shock, but he was more alert now—alert enough that she wondered at his resilience.

  Her voice turned curiously detached. “Does everyone at court address the crown prince by his name?”

  He wheezed a feeble scoff and rolled his head on her cloak, his eyes focusing further up the cove. “If my father gave an award for the longest-held grudge, you’d win it no contest.”

  She’d never heard such cynicism from him. The prince was charming to a fault, not cynical. Still, she tightened her resolve. “There’s no grudge. I’m only following the rule.”

  He pinned her with a stare. “The rule, Magdalena, was that I couldn’t show favor to one person over another. You and I are the only ones here, so I’m not favoring you over anyone else.”

  The spark in his eyes soothed her worries over his health. She sliced the plum again, a larger piece, and tucked it between his lips. “So if there were others with me, you would ask them to call you by your name as well?”

  Exasperation crossed his face. He struggled to sit up, but she pushed his shoulder to the ground, for the moment stronger than him.

  “I am dying,” he said around pieces of half-chewed fruit. “Is this how you treat a dying man?”

  But he wasn’t dying, and they both knew it.

  She glanced wistfully in the direction that she had come. “If I don’t tell someone soon that I’ve found you and you really do die, your father will have me arrested and thrown in his dungeons.”

  “If you leave me here alone, I will have you arrested and thrown in his dungeons.”

  “You need treatment, your Highness.”

  “Just use your magic to heal me.”

  “That’s not how my magic works. You know it’s not. Or—” Her face flooded with embarrassment, for why should he know any such thing? Most people’s magic worked that way, so naturally he would assume hers did too. Quietly she rephrased her statement. “It’s not how it works. I can’t heal you.”

  “No. You can only feel what’s wrong with me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat as she met his studious gaze. He remembered. “That’s right,” she murmured.

  “So what is wrong with me, Magdalena?”

  She pursed her lips and listed the symptoms she had sensed. “Which is why,” she finished, “I should be finding someone to help you.”

  “No. You should stay here and feed me more of your cloying plum. Help will find us.”

  She shook her head in frustration. “No one but me knows you’re here. No one is going to come.”

  “They’ll come looking for you when you don’t turn up. Won’t they?”

  The way he asked her, as though questioning whether anyone would even miss her at the seminary, made her question it as well. Master Demsley had known what a state her mind was in. He might leave her to her own devices for the whole day. The fog steadily dissipated, and the muted disk of a sun behind it would burn hot as it climbed higher in the sky. She would need to shelter the prince. The vibrant color on his forehead, on his arms and at his throat, testified of his prolonged exposure already.

  His voice stirred her from her observation. “You worry too much. More plum, Magdalena.”

  “I thought you said it was cloying.” But she cut another sliver and placed it in his waiting mouth.

  He chewed, thoughtful. “In truth, it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Better still because it comes from your hand.”

  Her expression turned instantly sour, and he huffed a laugh. Though it was at her expense, she was glad to see the humor return to his face.

  “You haven’t changed at all,” he said.

  Regret snaked through her. “Neither have you.”

  “And why should I? Everyone’s always told me I’m perfect.”

  She cut the next piece a bit too viciously. He wasn’t ready for it, but she pushed it between his teeth anyway. Mentally she resolved to ignore whatever else he might say.

  But, as was his nature, he prodded at her.

  “Court is so dull without you. Why did you never return?”

  She spared him an incredulous look, her quickest defense against a rising blush. “I’m bound to the sage’s seminary.”

  “But surely you have holidays. Breaks. Weekends. You can’t be in classes every single day of the year.”

  “What few I have I use to visit my parents.”

  He grunted and looked away. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you didn’t like me.”

  Magdalena’s scowl deepened. “Don’t sulk, your Highness. You know that everyone loves you.”

  One brow arched. “Including you?”

  Her mouth thinned. If he remembered her, he already knew the answer to that question. “I said everyone, didn’t I?” She chipped another slice of plum from its stone and held it toward him.

  The prince took it from her. His eyes danced with mischief. “I used to get out of so many awful outings thanks to you.”

  “I know. And everyone always blamed me for spoiling things.”

  “I’m glad my little contrarian hasn’t changed, but I do wish you would find the time to visit me instead of your parents. Even once or twice a year would have staved off my boredom.”

  Magdalena burrowed deeper into her cynicism. “If I were anyone else I might mistake your flirtation for something more serious, Highness.”

  “If you were anyone else I wouldn’t flirt,” he replied.

  Her heart flip-flopped in her chest. The firm conviction that he didn’t mean anything—that he was only staving off his boredom—kept her senses in check. “You’re too bold, especially for a crown prince.”

  He rolled up onto one elbow, the better to pin her with a stare. “And why shouldn’t I be? I just almost died.”

  Magdalena prodded at his shoulder, but he was stronger now and resisted her. “Yes, and everyone thinks that you are dead. I should be looking for someone to help you instead of sitting in the sand feeding you bits of plum.”

  “You’re helping me. Lend me your lap, would you?”

  Before she could even think to protest, he flopped his head onto her folded legs, his cheek upon her thigh as though she were a conven
ient pillow instead of a human.

  “Your Highness,” she hissed, her blush renewing tenfold. “I’ve already given you my cloak to lay your head on.”

  But he closed his eyes as though asleep, and all he said was, “I have a name, Magdalena.”

  Mortification crashed upon her like the waves against the shore. She swallowed the knot that worked up her throat, tempering her embarrassment behind indignation. “You have my cloak, Prince Finnian.”

  He only settled against her with a sigh. Sleep reclaimed him all too readily, and Magdalena, well aware of how near his brush with death had been, resigned herself to playing the role of furniture for an hour.

  Chapter 2

  The seminary halls buzzed with excitement. Magdalena would sooner have retreated to her room than tread the gauntlet of gawking girls, but Master Demsley kept a firm hand upon her arm, under strict orders from the prince not to let her run off. Finnian, weak as a kitten, lounged upon a stretcher carried by the school’s gardener and Master Demsley’s personal assistant, Simon. He kept his eyes shut and his limbs loose for dramatic effect, posing a picture of tragic, iconic heroism. The image spoiled only when he would crack open one eye to check that Magdalena had not bolted.

  Master Demsley himself had come looking for her by sea, with Simon to row the dory. Their astonishment at discovering her companion had fueled a rather hasty journey back. The only hiccup came in Finnian’s reluctance to board a boat of any type, but his objections dissolved when Magdalena hopped in and offered to row the dory home while the pair of men carried the prince over the narrow ridge. Master Demsley watched the exchange with a shrewd eye. His assistant, less subtle, openly gaped.

  “If this thing capsizes, I’ll have you flogged,” the prince told Magdalena when he curled up on the flat bottom of the vessel.

  “It won’t capsize,” she said. The fog had cleared to reveal a blue sky with fluffy white clouds strewn across its expanse. Even the wind only waffled the water, barely more than a breeze.

  Relief at their rescue had loosened the knot of anxiety in her chest. Had the day waxed much hotter, it would have forced her back to the seminary on her own, with worry for the prince’s safety in her absence and whether she could convince anyone that he had truly washed ashore. Master Demsley peppered her with questions as he tended his royal charge on the journey. Finnian endured the transfer of responsibility without a word until the dory ran aground. Magdalena, all too eager to escape his presence, had already climbed halfway out when he ordered her to stay. Master Demsley sent Simon ahead for help while everyone else remained with the boat.

  “You don’t need me anymore,” Magdalena had whispered to the lounging prince, but he ignored her.

  By the time Simon returned, having dispatched a messenger to the palace and retrieved the gardener and a stretcher, faces lined the windows of the seminary perched on the cliffs above. The braver girls ventured out into the yard, and a squeal of recognition from their midst sent the whole company aflutter.

  “A miracle!”

  “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

  The rush of excitement pulsed against Magdalena’s senses until she wanted to retch. The girls’ joy turned to envy as their attention shifted past the prince to the tiny entourage that attended him, and to her in particular.

  “If her magic told her he was alive, she should have let us know instead of hogging the news.”

  That wasn’t how her magic worked, and as magicians themselves they all knew it. Logic and reason had fled their ranks, however.

  Master Demsley gave his own chambers, the finest in the seminary, to the prince and set the gardener to watch the door against any enterprising visitors. He and Simon administered fluids and salves while Magdalena edged closer to the exit.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Finnian called.

  An exasperated huff left her lips. “You don’t need me here, your Highness.”

  “I’ll tell you when I don’t need you.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather I was gone?”

  “Why? You’ve already seen me at my worst. Maybe you can come give me a shave.”

  Her expression flattened. “I’d hate for my hand to slip and cut your throat.”

  The prince’s brows shot up. Master Demsley and his assistant both turned such shocked looks upon her that she blushed a vibrant hue, but she didn’t retract the statement.

  “Simon will give you a shave if you wish it, your Highness,” said the schoolmaster with all decorum.

  “I rather think I do,” Finnian said, his voice stiff. As the assistant scurried to retrieve the needed supplies, the prince leveled a crusty glare at Magdalena. “It’s a capital offense, threatening to harm my noble person.”

  “I said I didn’t want to cut your throat,” she replied. “My hands aren’t steady right now.”

  He grunted, a furrow between his brows.

  “Have you eaten anything today, Magdalena?” Master Demsley asked in a casual tone, seemingly intent upon applying salve to his patient’s sunburn.

  The prince’s frown deepened. She averted her gaze as her blush heightened. “No.”

  Silence filled the room, smothering her until Finnian broke it. “Why haven’t you eaten?”

  Magdalena glanced sullenly to the door, her denied escape. Master Demsley answered for her.

  “Because she fed the only breakfast she took with her this morning to you, your Highness.” He finished his application and surveyed his glistening work with a nod. “Shall I have refreshment brought up? It will be plain fare, I’m afraid, until we’re certain your stomach can handle more.”

  “Yes,” said the prince, “and bring enough for her, too. I can’t have a woman fainting on my account. Sit down, Malena. You’re not going anywhere.”

  She scowled. Tempted though she was to remain standing out of spite, her harrowed night and stressful morning were catching up with her. If the prince truly meant to keep her in his sight—for whatever purpose he chose—she might as well sit.

  “Not there,” he said when she dropped into a chair on the far side of the room. “Bring it over here and sit by me.”

  A glance from her schoolmaster warned her to swallow the retort on her tongue. Obediently she dragged the chair across the room and set it by the prince’s bedside, where she had a prime view when Simon returned and administered the requested shave.

  Not that she watched.

  Her hands jittered in her lap. Her emotions, kept so tightly wound within her, threatened to burst from their confines. She focused on the window and the tufts of clouds beyond its diamond panes. Movement encroached her periphery. The prince’s hand groped the air as he held his head and neck steady under Simon’s razor.

  Magdalena intercepted the flailing appendage. “What are you doing?”

  His grip tightened. He said not a word but kept her hand prisoner with his.

  The shave was nearly complete when a hiss emitted from Simon’s lips. Magdalena sat up straight, instinctively squeezing the prince’s fingers. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bruises on his neck,” said the assistant. “They look like—” His voice abruptly cut out. Red flooded his face to the tips of his ears.

  “Like what?” the prince asked.

  “Never mind,” said Simon quickly. He resumed the shave, moving to block Magdalena as she craned her head to glimpse the mysterious injury.

  Prince Finnian was no so easily fobbed off. “They look like what?”

  “I spoke out of place, your Highness. Forgive me, please.”

  “Magdalena, what do they look like?”

  Simon cast a self-conscious glance over his shoulder, but Magdalena had already seen the marks upon the patient’s neck. A series of small, mottled purple circles twisted up his throat toward his ear. Her hold upon the prince’s hand went slack as she contemplated exactly what he had been doing when the storm hit his ship. Before she could pull away, he tightened his grip.

  Master Demsley, curious, wandered aroun
d from the other side of the bed. He readily supplied the answer no one else would give. “They look like love-marks, your Highness.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The mark made when blood vessels break under pressure from suction—”

  “I know what a love-mark is,” Finnian interrupted, his exasperation almost palpable. “Why are there any on my neck? Magdalena, just what were you doing while I slept on the beach?”

  Her jaw dropped and she jerked her hand, but he had anticipated this reaction and held fast.

  “I’m joking,” he said over her indignant squeak. “But I’ve no more idea how I got those marks than you do.”

  “I can think of some possibilities,” she said, still trying to wrest her hand from his determined grasp.

  Master Demsley decided it best to intervene. “A number of sea creatures might cause such marks: octopuses have suction cups on their tentacles, and certain fish and eels attach themselves by a similar method. The bruising is at least a day or two old, and it was beneath the growth of facial hair. It’s safe to assume it’s a relic of your ocean ordeal, your Highness.”

  This glib explanation didn’t clear the prince of the debauchery that such marks usually indicated. Instead, flimsy and implausible, it gave him an excuse that no one would question outright.

  But Finnian replied in stiff tones, “We don’t have to assume anything. We have an empath right here.”

  The weight of his words hit Magdalena like a fist to the gut. “I hardly think—” Her protest died in her throat as three pairs of eyes pinned her with open expectation. Her voice lowered to a mutter. “It’s no one’s business but your own where you got those marks, your Highness.”

  “Yes, and I would very much like to know.”

  By the mulish set of his jaw, she could see that he wouldn’t permit her to refuse. Embarrassment rose upon her face. Grudgingly she closed her eyes and allowed her magical senses to expand.