The Shining Falcon

And yet, the prince realized with a shock, he really didn't want to think of leaving. Bewildered with himself, he found himself picturing a certain sweet, strong, sensible face, brown eyes warm and bright and clever— Oh, come now! he chided himself. I thought you'd gotten over this! She tended you; it's natural to feel warmth towards your nurse. Think only of your people, your royal duties!

But look—there was Maria, going down by herself to the stream, graceful even burdened as she was with the yoke and water buckets, and he couldn't keep his gaze from following her.

Filled water buckets were heavy; she should not have to be carrying them alone. Even Vasilissa—

But Vasilissa, predictably, was having another of her nervous fits, huddling in her room, sure that sorcery surrounded them all. Finist raised a thoughtful brow. At first he had considered her no more than a typical example of too much close aristocratic breeding, her sudden mood shifts—from deepest depression to frenzied bursts of activity‑made all the worse by her father's pampering. But… could she, in her unstable mind, be sensitive to his true magical self? Yes, that was it. Such things had happened before. She was able to vaguely sense Power. Not that there was anything Finist could do about it. And her father and she were both so very sure magic was evil.

Indignant for Maria and for himself, Finist caught up with her as she struggled with the buckets and their yoke. «Here, let me help. That's too heavy for you.»

She shot him a look of insulted pride. «No, it's all right. I can manage.»

But he insisted, and she insisted, and of course, it ended with them spilling the water. Finist reached out hastily to steady the wildly swinging buckets, and somehow found himself holding Maria's hands instead, the two of them staring straight into each other's eyes. For a startled moment they stood like that, linked on more than the merely physical level.

And something deep within Finist said, quite calmly, Of course. She is the one.

But then that amazing moment had passed. Maria pulled her hands free, blushing a bit, steadying the buckets as best she could. Finist, shaken, could only watch her, speechless. And, forced to accept what he'd seen in her eyes, he could have cried aloud for frustration, because he'd seen the dawning of affection, even of something more—for Finn! All for Finn!

But how else could it be? He wasn't Finist to her. Thanks to his disguise-spell, she couldn't even know Finist existed.

Confused, overwhelmed, the prince couldn't think straight. What if he somehow got her to repeat «Finist» after him? That would break the spell and—

And probably frighten her. Her family hated and feared magic; he couldn't bear to see Maria shrinking back from him in terror-Enough. Grimly, Finist forced his wild emotions back under control. «This time," he said shortly, «let me help. That's no work for a lady.» The sight of her alarm at that dangerous word, «lady," brought his frustration blazing out of him as anger. «Yes, of course I know! How could I not know? Every word you speak betrays you, every word your father or sister—oh, yes, your sister. If ever a young woman was out of place away from servants and pampering, it's she! She has only the one servant here, and that's — "

«Stop that!» she snapped. «Do you think I enjoy this?

Do you really think I like being a—a slave? Someone has to do the chores if we're to eat and drink and be sheltered, and who else do you see, eh?»

Abashed, he muttered, «I didn't mean — "

«And Lissa‑Don't you think I've tried and tried and tried to get through to her? Dear God, how I've tried!»

The buckets and yoke slipped, unheeded, to the ground.

«Dear God," said Maria again, very softly. «Finn, you don't understand. You see, Vasilissa was never… strong, but she wasn't always like this. She was in love once; there was to have been a wedding. But then… things changed. Her betrothed believed what was said of us—even without proof, he believed. His family broke the betrothal, and with it, the last of my poor sister's strength. Now all she can see is doom, terror and doom, and I—I don't know what to do to — "

She stopped, biting down on her lip, and Finist, aching, almost took her in his arms. But… they would be Finn's arms. Instead, he echoed softly, «Things changed. Maria, what things? Is there really nothing I can do to help?»

She gave him the faintest wisp of a smile, raising a hand to nervously brush back her hair, stalling, plainly aching to confide, plainly fearing to trust. «If only there were.»