Chapter 14: Mithian (part 2)
Or maybe Mithian's family would prove to be the second hurdle she and Merlin would have to overcome.
There sounded a knock on the door of her bedchamber as she sat before her mirror, watching her maid fix her hair. There hadn't been time for washing and drying, so Bronda had brushed and brushed it, and was just now finishing twisting and tying the braids back from her face into a patterned cap on the back of her head.
"Who is it?" Mithian called, first meeting Bronda's eyes in the mirror – hands busy, and she read in the maid's expression that she couldn't walk away to pull the door open for several more moments, yet. It was a confident knock, rather than tentative – she switched her gaze to the iron-bound oak door just visible at the edge of her polished-silver mirror.
"It's me," came the answer.
Bronda smirked, and Mithian rolled her eyes. One of her brothers, at least. Rodor always said, It's your father, her sisters-in-law usually just entered after a quick knock, the children didn't often bother knocking – which was why Bronda barred her door when she wasn't dressed. And Merlin, she guessed, would introduce himself politely by name. If he ever came to knock on the door of her bedchamber.
"Come in," she called back.
The door opened to admit Ybor, her second-oldest brother, who leaned back against it with his hands tucked behind him. He was built just slightly larger than Antor, though his expression was guileless as a child's and displayed the sense of humor of a younger prince who didn't carry the weight of inherited responsibility. His eyes were as dark as hers, where Antor's were a lighter brown, and Ybor wore his straight black hair long enough to cover ears and neck, brushed back from his forehead, and without braids. He and Crissa both admitted frankly, this was because his wife liked to run her fingers through it – and there was usually evidence of that at least twice a day.
"So he's here," he said.
Mithian hummed affirmative as Bronda pinned the last lock of her hair.
"He came himself," Ybor added. "And alone. To accept the offer of marriage?"
"Yes, yes, and – maybe," Mithian answered lightly, standing and turning to face him.
He blinked. "Maybe? What sort of answer is that?"
"The sort that lets me change my mind if we can't get along after a single season in each other's company," Mithian answered. With her hair finished, she was ready for dinner – and Ybor looked it as well, in his black boots, trousers, and jacket adorned with gold buckles, white shirt cuffs showing at his wrists.
"Ah," Ybor said, as if experiencing the greatest enlightenment. "Then he knows he's unbearably ugly."
"No," Mithian said, grinning but reining in the inclination to giggle.
"Old, then."
"You know he's not."
"Grouchy? Wall-eyed? Crippled. Scarred?"
Mithian paused in her repetition of the negative, at his last facetious suggestion. "I don't know," she said contemplatively, recalling the one missing joint on his finger. Did that count as a scar? "Not on his face, anyway."
"Hm." Ybor studied her, head to toe, and she knew he was realizing that she wore one of her best gowns.
A bronze-colored silk with full and trailing skirts, the under-sleeve tight to her arm and the over-sleeve open to her elbow, leaving a generous drape of graceful fabric. The neckline that scooped low at the bodice with a simple copper ribbon that complemented the bronze without matching. A round ornament was tied at the base of her throat, featuring tiny rubies set in the shape of flowers, and pendant crystals like dewdrops.
"You like him," Ybor concluded quietly. "You really like him?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't have persuaded Father to make the offer," she reminded her older brother. "Please try not to scare him off, the first night?"
"If he scares that easily, he doesn't deserve you," Ybor warned.
"Go escort Crissa," Mithian ordered, yanking the door against his weight til he moved to obey.
Refan would have made sure that Merlin knew when and where to come for dinner, to the point of waiting at the chamber, knocking and entering to help their guest finish readying on time, and leading him to the proper room. They didn't have many visitors here, and when they did, scheduling matters were usually casual and up to the guest's decision but for events like this – though Mithian thought Merlin was not used to being a guest in a royal palace, despite his recent promotions and his rumored visits to other kingdoms with King Arthur.
Because he was late. Only one or two minutes, but Rodor was already seated at the head of the table – servants lingering at the back doorway to serve when all the diners were in place. Mithian couldn't concentrate on what her two sisters-in-law were saying, and Antor and Ybor had arranged themselves suspiciously convenient to the open arched doorway that was the room's main entrance.
And then she could see him. In the shadow of the hall's end, and under the arch – past her brothers – hurrying toward them with eyes and fingers busy on the bottom button of his jacket.
Antor stiffened and questioned the room, "Do you smell that?"
Her sisters turned to him puzzled – Crissa actually sniffing the air curiously. Rodor's silverware clinked beside his place, and Mithian's eyes were on Merlin as he paused, next to Ybor whose back was turned on him as he faced his brother.
"I do smell that," Ybor declared. "Smells like… they're trying to keep a pig in the scullery."
Amylia inhaled sharply, catching on to the deliberate insult; Crissa smothered an unladylike snort. Mithian kept very still, watching Merlin not react.
"Smells like it got out," Antor corrected.
"Like farm manure," Ybor agreed. "Someone tracked something in."
Mithian watched Merlin glance down to his boots, and her heart sank. He wouldn't understand; he'd be embarrassed, offended…
"No, that's an ingrained smell," Antor decided. "Long exposure. Can't wash out."
"In that case, you might want to speak to your manservants about the soap they're providing for your use," Merlin spoke up, perfectly courteous. Humor lurked in innocent blue eyes; Ybor turned so that both princes were looking at the new arrival. "Providing you are using any. I can recommend an import from Camelot if you'd like – we find it removes offensive odor from any source."
And he smiled.
Crissa wasn't hiding her giggles, anymore, and Mithian could feel the same bubbling up inside.
Ybor said, "Oh," a long drawn-out sound of mock disappointment, and punched Antor's shoulder lightly. "He meant you."
"He meant you," Antor immediately contradicted.
Mithian let her smile free; it was good for her eldest brother to let go of kingdom-sized responsibilities and indulge in a bit of family silliness. And she was proud of Merlin's daring response.
"He meant both of you," Rodor interjected from his seat. "Now sit down before the food gets cold."
The men were arranged on the king's right by rank and by age, their mates – prospective, in Merlin and Mithian's case – across the table from them. Her brothers came to hold chairs for their ladies; Mithian paused as Merlin adjusted her seat to murmur at the shoulder of his deep-blue velvet jacket.
"Full points to you for that round, I think."
The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile, and he rounded the table to seat himself half a second after the king's two sons. As the kitchen servants filed into the room with covered dishes and steaming platters, Merlin said, "Your Majesty, I was given to understand your grandchildren join you for dinner, most nights?"
"Mm. They do," Rodor answered, helping himself to a section of roast chicken, carved and piled high – three of the birds altogether, Mithian estimated.
"Five going on six, I understand – you're to be congratulated, all of you," Merlin added, glancing around the table and gaining contented smiles from the mothers. Then, more tentatively, "I hope I'm not the reason for their absence tonight?"
"Of course you are," Ybor stated, serving himself from the platter in the servant's hands – then pulling the man back to select another piece, just as Merlin prepared to receive the dish. "We plan on addressing all the topics tonight that aren't fit for children's ears."
Merlin gave Mithian a worried-puzzled look – which was diverted by Amylia's tsk! of disapproval.
"Such as?" Crissa asked, sounding confused also.
"I'm not sure I want to know," Rodor commented, generously buttering the sizeable chunk of bread he'd torn from the great round loaf.
Mithian tried to convey support for their visitor, in and around both of them selecting their portions from the serving dishes in the hands of their silent audience.
"Such as," Ybor echoed his wife, leaning into Merlin's space to point with his dinner knife, emphatically at the last finger on Merlin's left hand. "How that happened."
"Ybor," their father said, in a tone of familiar warning. "Our guest is going to think we are all savages, here in Nemeth."
"Not at all," Merlin said, meeting Mithian's eyes, then looking at the other two ladies before addressing the king again. "After almost five years serving Arthur, and quite a lot of that time spent among his knights, I very much doubt Your Majesties can shock me."
"Can we at least try?" Antor said sardonically, eyes on his plate as he plied fork and knife.
"Someday I'll introduce you to Gwaine and Percival," Merlin answered, leaning forward to see the prince regent past Ybor. "That is, unless they find that romance tames them."
Antor snorted without looking up. Ybor lifted his head to bare all his teeth at once in a meaningful grin at his wife; beside Mithian, Crissa smothered her own snort in her napkin.
"Forgive me if that was your way of politely diverting attention," Amylia – the next queen of Nemeth and a consummate hostess - said smoothly. "But I am curious about your injury, if it is a story that can be comfortably told at-table?"
"Give the shortened version," Ybor suggested, with a devilish glint.
Rodor cleared his throat in clear admonition; Mithian wanted to kick her brother under the table, but the corners of Merlin's mouth twitched.
"Um," he said. "If you insist. It's not anything I'm ashamed of, but… after I was arrested for sorcery. Uther hired a questioner."
"Oh, this is not a conversation for dinner," Amylia said immediately.
Both princes ignored her. Ybor sat back, and Antor ducked his head to wipe his mouth on his napkin before twisting in his seat to face their guest.
"Who?" Ybor asked.
Merlin suspended his own tableware above his plate, giving Mithian a look of apology. She wanted to protest, it's not your fault; she wanted to assure him, he didn't have to say anything, but he was already turning to the other men.
"Aerldan?"
Ybor shook his head to deny knowledge of the name, but Antor straightened – and Rodor also. "Ay damn, boy," the king said calmly. "Thumbscrew, then?"
"Yes, my lord."
Mithian had to close the sight of Merlin's long slender – gentle – fingers from her eyes. Beside her, Crissa mumbled a similar oath, more femininely.
"Of course you held your tongue like a man," Antor said. "Take your secrets to the grave and damn him, and all that."
"No, actually." Mithian looked at him, hiding neither his damaged hand nor his eyes as the windows to his soul, from any of them. He added in explanation, "Arthur asked me to tell the truth. He thought it would keep the questioner from hurting me – and I did want Arthur to understand, too – but… I think Aerldan didn't believe what I told him."
"Why not?" Mithian spoke, drawing his attention to herself as one person, away from a roomful of curious strangers.
He gave her another sweet, private smile. "Arthur says I have a habit of making the truth sound ridiculously unbelievable. I think that's his excuse for never believing me until the truth is obviously trying to kill him."
"But you have magic, don't you," Amylia said, sounding genuinely distressed. "Why didn't you use it to escape the questioner?"
"Because…" Merlin laid down his silverware and leaned forward over the table. "That might have saved one man's life, but changed nothing. It was worth it, in the end, for Arthur to hear the truth about magic that his father had rejected – and now the ban is repealed in Camelot, and the laws fair for every man."
For a moment Mithian watched her brothers absorb that, frowning thoughtfully. Rodor faced his heir to say, "It is a rare knight who will submit to personal torture, just to tell his sovereign he's wrong."
Ybor turned in his chair to put a big hand gentle on the younger man's shoulder. "I think that deserves a pass for the rest of the night," he said, with more seriousness than he usually showed.
Amylia murmured, "Thank goodness."
"Just for tonight," Ybor clarified.
And on the heels of that, bending forward to fork a bite of chicken into his mouth, Antor added, "Welcome to the family, Merlin."
Merlin met her eyes, raising his brows slightly. She smiled – couldn't help a covert sigh of relief. Or the wave of warmth that rose to her face at her brother's assumption.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin's first day in Nemeth was spent almost entirely, walking and talking, and Mithian was both surprised and pleased that her suitor proved an easy and uncomplicated companion.
Together they strolled to examine both floors of the receiving chamber quite closely – she giving explanation and sometimes a related anecdote, and he occasionally making a comparison to Camelot's citadel. She learned almost nothing of him personally, however, and began to feel that she was sharing too much of herself and her family. Boring him with her stories, even, though he never sighed or answered vaguely or looked away somewhere else.
But.
Then they dressed in cloaks and gloves and left the palace to pace around the hill. Defining outbuildings and crossing the grassy ditch circling the royal seat of power like a great waterless moat, over the natural bridge. They wandered and she pointed out the blacksmith's forge and the herbalist's garden and the tanner's vats – from a distance – and the dyer's and the weaver's, and it was almost a different Merlin at her side.
He left off calling her Princess or My Lady, and began to amuse her with stories of the common people of Camelot, quirks and quarrels and kindnesses – once or twice lapsing even further back into his past in the village of Ealdor. She began to glimpse deeper into his character, to guess that his lack of ornament was by his own choice, not his king's neglect, that his too-fine-for-a-servant clothing was a concession to Arthur's wishes to honor him and give him more. She saw that there were things about him that probably changed, through his contact with the nobility and fighting men of Camelot – and guessed that there were also things about him that would not have changed, and maybe never would.
The next day was slower and less full, as she had to think more deliberately upon destinations and sights that were new and interesting – the armorer, the dairy, the cobbler… There were people in the town spread about the capital hills that used magic in their trades – in small ways, but Merlin was interested in all of them, and Mithian was surprised to realize that dusk had come unexpectedly upon them again, and that they were once again late for dinner.
A mistake that raised eyebrows again – but as the children were at table with them, the conversation mainly centered around provision and correction for the little ones, tale-bearing of the day's events to their fathers and grandfathers. Mithian was glad to see that Merlin seemed perfectly comfortable in company with the children.
"Have breakfast with me tomorrow," Amylia whispered, as she and Crissa and a pair of nurses herded the children off toward their beds.
Mithian nodded agreement, and sat up for another hour listening to Merlin relate more of the events of his latest travels with Arthur, various changes to the governing of the other kingdoms. She noticed that Merlin didn't falter or stumble over his words in speaking to the king and princes – though of course what he told them and how he said it was affected by the fact that he wasn't a native loyal to Nemeth. He spoke carefully and honestly – sometimes thoughtfully offering a more personal observation in answer to a question from her father or brothers, sometimes respectfully declining to state an opinion.
She heard of Arthur placing knights in Alined's court and winning favor with both king and prince of Mercia. She heard of Gawant's slower-but-willing change in their policies on magic – of King Odin's treachery and defeat, and the probable ascension of Sir Isdern to Lord of that territory, someday king, but maybe that depended on Arthur's pleasure.
There were still worries, of Cenred's abandoned territory, of sullen Caerleon and the volatile Southrons and the rumor of Saxons in the north and east – but Merlin was to be in Nemeth all winter; there was no need to exhaust topics of discussion immediately.
"You are quiet, Princess," Merlin said, walking her to the foot of the stair that led to the royal wing, lingering behind the other men.
Princess. Because now they were back in the palace. She thought he wasn't even aware of how his surroundings seemed to influence his behavior. But confidence in familiarity was not something she could command out of him – only coax subtly, maybe.
"We have had a great deal of exercise, yesterday and today," she observed, and a wrinkle formed between drawn brows.
"I've worn you out," he said. "I'm sorry – it was too much, too quickly – but you know you don't have to –"
"It was fine," she interrupted, joining her right hand to her left at his elbow to squeeze his arm earnestly. "A lot of walking – but I thoroughly enjoyed myself."
"Good," he said, with obvious relief. "I guess I am used to being active all day, myself… What do you wish of me, tomorrow?"
It was late, which was why she couldn't immediately think of a good answer. She'd entertained female guests, before – painting and music and embroidery and gardens – but their male guests had always spent more time with her father and brothers. She'd already shown Merlin most of their capital, palace and town, so… perhaps a journey to the Labyrinth? Or a visit to the sword-smiths down the coast, where the most famous metalworkers used magic to aid in creating unique blades?
She said, "I'm going to have breakfast with my sisters, but after that…?"
He smiled and quipped, "You mean I get to have a late morning?"
"As late as you like." She was aware that her father had paused at the door of his chamber – to see that she entered hers, and alone, she supposed, though surely he couldn't seriously doubt her or her suitor. "Goodnight, Merlin."
He gave her a little bow, pressing her hand once, and turned back down the hall that led to the guest quarters.
She watched him til he passed from her sight - then wondered why she'd done so.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"Mama, but I don't like strawb'ry jam," Crissa's daughter complained loudly, from the larger lower table set separately from that shared by Mithian and her two sisters.
Four going on fourteen, they agreed whenever the little girl wasn't present.
"Try the apricot, then," Crissa advised – which quieted her daughter with new focus, and rescued the nurse currently supervising the whole table. Turning back to the two of them, she added, "I'm only saying, his manners are nice, but not natural. There's a difference. He's paying attention, and Ybor and Antor don't have to."
"Don't bother to, you mean," Mithian said. "I think it's because he's a guest, more than because he was raised a commoner. He was perfectly polite in Camelot, even before he knew who I was."
Except for the moment he bowled me over and protected my body with his…
Amylia made a sound of agreement. "It's not as though he's stiff, or terrified of making a mistake – on the contrary, he seems to have relaxed somewhat. What are you going to do with him today?"
Crissa snorted, and Amylia elbowed her, and Mithian felt heat rise at the half-understood innuendo.
"I don't know yet."
"Well, you could always –"
A knock sounded on the main door of the chamber, and Amylia's two oldest children – Gunnor and his six-year-old sister – looked up expectantly. The men of their family knew their plans this morning, and in any case would walk right in. The door opened to show the right half of Refan, the steward's assistant, evidently arguing with someone in the corridor.
"No, don't bother them, I'm early –"
"It will not do to have a guest loiter in the hallways unattended," Refan responded, and turned to look at their table – probably at Amylia. "Merlin of Camelot, Your Highnesses."
"Please show him in," Amylia said immediately.
Refan looked back to the shadowed hall, and Merlin sidled around the open door, keeping his hands behind him and his back to the wall as the steward's assistant shut it. He wore a white shirt under a red brocade tunic - embroidered over the heart with a gold symbol that Mithian assumed was the Pendragon crest – whose bottom edge fell a third of the way down his thigh.
"I'm terribly sorry for interrupting," he said, not really entering the room. "I was just going to wait, but Refan is very proud of doing his job properly…"
"Not at all," Amylia said. "Have you eaten? You can join us with an extra chair, if you don't mind drawing it yourself…" She glanced around the room to locate the nearest one.
"No, I've eaten already," Merlin said, meeting Mithian's eyes to smile. "Thank you, though."
"I thought you were going to sleep late this morning?" she said, dipping the tiny silver spoon into the salt cellar to flavor the boiled egg she'd just cracked and halved.
And then he ventured forward a few steps. "I thought I did. Rising early is kind of a habit."
"A servant's habit?" Gunnor called from the other table, up on his knees to reach for more honey, as the nurse and his siblings were distracted by the visitor. He'd picked up on his father and uncle's teasing of their guest, it seemed.
Mithian held her breath, but Merlin grinned over at the boy. "An outlaw's habit."
"Oh…"
A drawn-out sound of envy; they'd heard how Merlin had commonly spent his time between his incomplete execution and Arthur's coronation favor of freedom. For her part, Mithian was always relieved that Merlin betrayed no self-consciousness in speaking of his past, though she suspected he tailored his tales somewhat for his audience.
Crissa's daughter chose that precise moment to explode.
"No, I hate ap'icot! Get it away!" she screamed, flinging the jar away from the table.
Mithian watched the vessel with its sticky contents arc for the expensive woven rug; Crissa gasped.
And it stuck motionless in mid-air – not even dripping. Right between Mithian and Merlin, as it happened; she stared transfixed at his outstretched hand, reaching as if he could physically catch it, and at the golden gleam of magic just fading back to blue in his eyes.
"Nice catch," Gunnor said approvingly.
Crissa sighed, slumping back in her chair – but her relief was premature. The little curly-haired princess – generally upset at the new baby's addition to their family, according to Amylia who'd know – shrieked with temper. And began throwing everything within reach, off the table as fast as she could.
Merlin caught them all – none falling, none even hitting each other in the air.
The nurse at the table struggled to reach the tantrum-thrower, hampered by the baby in her arms. Amylia's youngest, only two, joined in tossing objects; Gunnor shouted, "Naughty, naughty!" gleefully, and his gentler six-year-old sister began to cry.
Merlin gestured with his other hand, immediately lifting every other object on the children's tabletop three feet in the air, out of reach.
"Good heavens," Crissa said, heartfelt like she'd say something stronger if it wasn't for the children's presence.
"Nothing spilled," Amylia said, rising from her seat – but Mithian couldn't tell if she was giving or asking for reassurance.
"Where do you want it all?" Merlin asked, gold swirling and glinting from his eyes.
"Oh – just put it…" Amylia glanced around, distracted by Crissa leaving the table and going to meet the nurse with the baby.
"I'll hold him, if you can take her away to the nursery –"
"No I won't go!"
Mithian moved to take the two-year-old from the pregnant Amylia, both of them watching their niece throw herself down from the chair – throwing the chair down, too – and begin to kick and pound the floor with her fists, screaming all the while. Returning to her chair to settle the littlest girl of the family in her lap and try to scoop egg from its shell one-handed, Mithian wondered if she ought to warn Merlin, yes this had become typical. A phase, they were all hoping.
Gunnor had climbed onto the table to continue eating his breakfast from the floating plate standing up, and Amylia was caught between trying to drag him down, and console her second-born daughter. Merlin gave Mithian a worried from, then gestured to return all the thrown bits and pieces, food and dish, to the children's table. Crissa knelt and called her daughter's name, trying to get her attention, but the little girl shook her light-brown curls vigorously to deny her mother.
"Can I try to distract her?" Merlin called, eyeing the children at the disorganized table – Gunnor still standing, eating a crumbly biscuit with his fingers – before looking back to distraught mother and daughter.
"Please!" Crissa responded, sitting back on her knees to clutch two handfuls of her own braided red-brown hair.
Mithian leaned forward attentively, forgetting her breakfast.
Merlin glanced about, then his eyes gleamed again, and the napkin that had dropped from Mithian's lap when she stood, hopped and brushed its way across the floor. Right to Crissa's daughter, where it dragged over her hands – tightened into fists and pulled back – and over her rumpled curls. Merlin moved forward, folding his legs to sit on the rug as the napkin continued to tease.
The screaming sobs lessened, quieted; Mithian thought she was not the only one holding her breath as the distraught little lady lifted her head.
The older two children – Gunnor and his sister – held still at the table, watching. The two-year-old in Mithian's lap bounced like she wanted to be let down to pursue the enchanted napkin. Crissa's daughter gave it undiverted attention.
Merlin spoke, and Mithian recognized the cadence of a spell, though not the words. The napkin twirled itself, the middle bunched into a ball and the edges trailing – like the head and gown of a dancer – dancing.
"Oh!" Amylia said in surprise, as the other napkins from the table spun up into the air, then down onto the floor to join in.
Mithian lifted her elbow involuntarily at a gentle tugging, and the other napkins from the ladies' table did the same.
"Oh," Merlin echoed, sounding surprised himself. "Well, all right then."
"Did you just make that spell up?" Crissa demanded incredulously, as her daughter scrambled up off the floor, tear-stained and enthralled, and curled into her mother's silken lap.
"It's not always safe to do," Merlin said, looking endearingly pleased with himself. "But dancing napkins shouldn't cause much harm."
Mithian felt willingly enchanted, herself.
Crissa's daughter clapped her hands and leaned forward – then frowned up at Merlin. "They all wadies," she said, dissatisfied. "They need gen'lemen."
"Do they?" Merlin said to her – tossing a funny smile at Mithian.
"Here!" Gunnor called, stepping down from the table to the seat of his chair, and lifting the honey jar into the air in suggestion.
"That'll make a very sweet gentleman," Crissa laughed.
The sorcerer reached – with his hand and with magic, and the honey jar bobbed down to the open floor dusted by the skirts of the dancing napkins. He spoke again, and the jar dipped and clattered on its base, putting Mithian in mind of a jolly old bachelor enjoying himself in the midst of a flock of delicate young ladies.
"Merlin, look out," Amylia cautioned, as several more dishes rose from the table – tea-cups, egg-cups, spoons. Mithian gripped the salt-cellar, and it settled back quietly enough – though the spoon rattled twice like it still wanted to join the dance.
The two-year-old was bouncing Mithian too; Amylia's daughter clapping her hands and Gunnor trying an impromptu jig on the seat of his chair. Merlin leaned closer to the four-year-old in Crissa's lap.
"Do you know why they're dancing?" he said softly, and answered his own question. "Because they're cheerful."
"They're happy to have jam, no matter what kind it is," Crissa added meaningfully. "They couldn't dance if they were busy screaming and kicking the floor, could they?"
The little girl's eyes widened as she pondered the dancing tableware. Mithian hoped this might be a lasting lesson – but her niece was only four, after all. She released the youngest from her lap; the two-year-old bounced unsteadily across the floor to join the dance with happy ungraceful glee, and Mithian didn't even hear the door open.
"What on earth is going on here!" Ybor's voice rose above the noise. He wore chainmail under the forest-green tunic embroidered with Nemeth's black rampant bull; his gloved hands were on his hips, and a ferocious scowl on his face.
His daughter jumped up from her mother's lap, to clasp her arms about his legs. "They dancing, Daddy! They like ap'icot jam!"
He gently disentangled her; the other three children didn't bother taking notice of his arrival til he stepped forward, glaring at Merlin, and declaring thunderously, "I will not allow this to continue!"
"Ybor, the baby," Crissa admonished from the floor.
Facing Ybor, Merlin's expression was hidden from Mithian, but he put both hands flat on the floor to either side of himself, as if ready to scramble to his feet. The little dance had halted, the napkins wilting down to the stone of the floor.
"I will not have my privilege usurped by an interloper!" Ybor continued wrathfully. Mithian slid to the edge of her seat uncertainly, before her brother concluded with the petulance of young Gunnor, "I am the favorite uncle!"
Mithian sighed. Gunnor cackled, stomping his feet on the chair, and Crissa rolled her eyes at her husband as he bent to lift her to her feet. Merlin did scramble up then, but he was grinning.
"The first chance I get," Ybor added, "I'm going to tell your king that I caught you playing tea party with magic, with the girls and the children!"
"Oh, no," Merlin said, with such obvious dismay that Mithian giggled.
"Oh, yes," Ybor said. "There's only one solution – if you redeem yourself on the training field. I can be impressed into holding my tongue."
"Or blackmailed," his wife added composedly, checking her baby in the arms of the nurse – who looked slightly overwhelmed, in Mithian's opinion.
"I don't have a choice, do I," Merlin sighed, looking from Ybor to Mithian.
"Nope," the prince said cheerfully.
Even though Mithian had been unsure how exactly to spend the day with her suitor, she found she felt a touch of melancholy to be deprived of his company – as if she missed him already, and looked forward to being with him again before he was even gone. She was at his side before she knew it, reaching to slide her hand into his for a quick squeeze – that he seemed unprepared for.
"I'll come to rescue you in an hour or so, if you need me to," she whispered, lifting on her toes to be closer to his ear. He ducked his head slightly to hear her better. "I'll find some excuse why I need you to attend on me, and not them."
"If you like," Merlin whispered back agreeably.
"No telling all my secrets!" Ybor warned her. "Then I can't go easy on him."
"Good luck, Merlin!" Amylia called from behind the table, as Ybor threw his arm around the younger man's shoulders to draw him to the door.
"And thank you!" Crissa added.
"I want to go too!" Gunnor declared, but his mother had a hold of his collar, as Merlin managed one last smile at Mithian before the men disappeared.
"You have lessons," Amylia reminded her son, who was immediately – and unsurprisingly – vociferous in protesting.
"Speaking of sweet gentlemen," Crissa murmured, bending to retrieve the honeypot, and lifting her eyebrows at Mithian.
Who flushed, but didn't try to hide a proud smile.
It took some time to get the children on their way; the nurse took the baby and Mithian and Crissa picked up the floor while Amylia kept her two-year-old from the scatter of enchanted table objects before two kitchen servants arrived to clear it all away.
"The window in my sitting room," Crissa said with suspicious neutrality, "overlooks the training field. If you ladies have the time for leisure, that is?"
"I'm sure my plans can wait," Amylia said, smiling, "and I think Mithian is required to watch, don't you?"
Crissa hummed, giving Mithian an arch look.
"Well, I can't deny I'm curious," Mithian said, picking up the two-year-old and settling her on her hip. "And you two never need an excuse to watch my brothers practice the sword. Will there be wagering this time?"
Crissa snickered, and led the way.
A/N: Admission: I had the scene from "Sword in the Stone" in mind when I wrote the tea-party napkin-dance… And btw, there's quite a bit more romance before anything heads near the fan, in case you're like me and start getting jumpy when Merlin's life gets too idyllic… You will recognize the moment everything starts going downhill, I promise, no need to squint for it.