Fool’s Assassin

People make mock of a girl or boy’s first love, calling it puppyish infatuation. But why should not a young person love just as wildly or deeply as any other? I looked at my tutor and knew that he must see me as just a child, small for my age and provincial, scarcely worthy of his attention. But I will not lie about what I felt. I burned to distinguish myself in his company. I longed to say something charming, or to make him laugh. I wished that something would happen that would make him see me as important.

But there was nothing about me. I was a little girl, dressed in very ordinary garb, with no exciting tale to tell. I could not even enter the conversation that Shun began and then guided so carefully to herself and her sophisticated upbringing. She spoke of her childhood in the grandparents’ home, telling stories of the various well-known minstrels who had performed there, and nobles who had come to visit. Often enough, FitzVigilant would exclaim that he, too, had heard that minstrel perform, or that he knew Lady This-and-So from a visit to Buckkeep Castle. When he mentioned a minstrel named Hap, she set down her fork and exclaimed that she had heard he was the most amusing of minstrels, knowing every humorous song that one could sing. I longed to open my mouth and say he was like an elder brother to me and once had given me a doll. But they were talking to each other, not me, and if I had spoken it would have seemed I eavesdropped. In that moment, though, how I longed that Hap would suddenly drop in on one of his random visits and greet me as kin.

As if that would have increased my standing in Scribe FitzVigilant’s eyes. No. For him, the only person at the table was Shun. She cocked her head and smiled at him as she took a sip of wine and he lifted his glass to her and smiled back. My father spoke with Riddle about his return to Buckkeep, when he would depart, messages he would carry to Lord Chade and Lady Nettle and even to King Dutiful. The grapes at Withywoods had done well, and there were preserves he wished to send to Lady Kettricken as well as a sampling of wine now aged five years from the Withywoods cellars that he felt showed great promise.

And I sat silent among them, cutting and eating my meat, buttering my bread, and looking away whenever Elm came into the room to put out a fresh dish or to clear plates. She was old enough now to serve at table, and her apron of Withywoods green and yellow suited her very well. Her hair was smoothed flat to her head and the length of it was pinned in a neat coiled braid on the back of her head. I wanted to lift a hand to my own head to see if my pale thatch of hair was still combed neatly or wandering on my head like torn corn silk. I put my hands under the table and clasped them tightly together.

When it was time to leave the table, my tutor moved quickly to slide Shun’s chair back and offer his arm to her. She took it readily and thanked “Lant” very prettily. So. He was Lant to her, and Scribe FitzVigilant to me. My father offered his arm to me, and as I looked up at him in surprise, his dark eyes danced with amusement as he flicked a glance at the young couple. I looked at Riddle, who rolled his eyes but also looked charmed by their behavior. I found nothing amusing about it.

“I think I shall seek my own chamber now,” I said quietly.

“Are you well?” my father asked me quickly, concern in his eyes.

“Quite. I’ve simply had a long day.”

“Very well. I’ll tap on your door later to say good night.”

I nodded. Was he warning me to be where I said I’d be? Well, I would be. By then. I took a candle in a holder to light my way.

Lady Shun and Scribe FitzVigilant had not even noticed that we had paused. They had moved out of the dining room and were headed toward one of the cozier sitting rooms. I didn’t want to see them sitting and chatting together. I turned away from all of them and strode away, my hand cupped to shelter my candle’s flame.