It is a bright summer's day quite near the solstice when Nemeth begins in earnest its month-long celebration of its one hundred and fiftieth year. There is a charge in the air and a genuine sense of festivity that has not been felt in the walls of the castle since Princess Mithian took her first breath twenty-two years prior.
Camelot and its party arrive near the last of the other guests in attendance for the celebrations. A carriage had been insisted upon for the occasion–the handiwork of Gwaine and Gwen both, whose unholy alliance proved to be a terror to the whole of Camelot, and the king and his manservant in particular–along with full formal dress for every last attendant, guard, and knight.
Merlin thinks it all a bit brash of them, but had wisely chosen not to fight his fair queen and the roguish knight on the more minute and less anxiety-inducing portions of their plan.
Travel to Nemeth had been long, arduous, and often boring, interspersed with only a few moments of excitement (such as young Tyrain straying too close to a cliff and toppling to a ridge, or the wild boar that was slain after charging Ylfa). Much to Merlin and Gwen's pleasure, they were not beset by bandits, nor mercenaries, nor roving gangs of Morgana's men for the whole trip. The affair left everyone rather bored, and so the entrance to the fair city surrounding Nemeth's castle was a welcome one.
The moment they had crossed the moat, Merlin had jumped out of the carriage and insisted upon walking alongside instead. Gwen, Leon, and Gwaine had been happy for the respite from his nervous energy, and allowed him the opportunity to stretch his legs and see more of Nemeth.
King Rodor and Queen Adelaine had obviously spared no expense. The road up to the citadel proper is lined with performers: fire-eaters, acrobats, contortionists, musicians. Around them, drawn by the parade of foreign nobility and the dawdling citizenry taking in the festivities, merchants and charlatans and traveling traders hawk wares from shop windows and beside small handcarts. The smells of summer flowers, grilling meats, sweet wines, and merry cooking fires hang low in the afternoon air. Small trinkets and jewelry decorating the people and streets of Nemeth seem to capture the golden summer light, reflecting it back at and dazzling the warlock as he walks.
He notices as they approach a formidable city gate with Nemeth's spires hanging precariously above and behind them, many young women standing atop the ramparts. As the Camelot contingent approaches, they reach down, then extend their hands over the edge of the citadel walls.
A rain of rose petals come shaking slowly downward, spinning on the wind and landing in small drifts like snow banks on thatched roofs and freshly swept cobblestones. A smile stretches over Merlin's lips, unbidden.
"Merlin," Gwen says softly, poking her head out of the carriage door even as it rambles forward. "Time to come inside."
Merlin takes a deep breath, then does his best to enter the carriage while it moves. Despite the slow pace at which their party creeps forward–he had been able to walk alongside their whole journey from the lower town to here, after all–he manages to stumble thrice during his attempt, and only successfully gets inside when Leon and Gwaine pull him bodily into the carriage.
The warlock collapses onto the bench next to his queen and shuts the door behind him. Gwen tuts gently and begins pulling at his tunic, his new jacket, his neckerchief. She fusses with his hair and bemoans the state of his boots.
Everywhere her busy hands go, his follow, pulling at his tunic and jacket and neckerchief until the new clothes are made somewhat comfortable on his frame in the wake of her ministrations.
"These are too tight," Merlin complains for the umpteenth time.
"They aren't tight," Gwen replies with a frown, licking her thumb and pulling at Merlin's hair. "They actually fit you, unlike your old clothes. How does your hair do this? It's entirely too long."
Merlin bats away her hands. "I haven't had the chance to cut it in a while. It doesn't look bad, does it?"
Gwen, Gwaine, and Leon all give Merlin a scrutinizing look. After a beat, Merlin throws up his hands.
"I think it makes me look older," he huffs, looking out the window. He watches as they crawl past the last of the shops and homes of the well-to-do in Nemeth who don't already reside in the castle.
Things are quiet for a moment. Merlin bounces his knee. Then bites at his thumbnail. Then runs his hand through his hair.
"Merlin," Gwen admonishes.
"This is insane," Merlin finally says. "Have we all taken leave of our senses?"
"You did that a long time ago, mate," Gwaine drawls, leaning back in his seat. "The rest of us are just following suit."
"We're helping a friend," Leon says, a bit more diplomatically.
"That's right," Guinevere agrees, shooting the head knight a thankful look. He nods back at her. "If everything goes to plan, Merlin–and it will–we will leave these celebrations with a deeper alliance with Nemeth and a happier princess more capable of exerting her agency over the court. Isn't that why you agreed to help in the first place?"
"Yes," Merlin grumbles, biting at a thumb again.
Gwen watches him for a moment, then sighs. "Didn't you bring gloves? Perhaps you should wear them."
Merlin looks at her in surprise, then down at his hand. He nods and reaches beneath his feet for his pack and takes out a fine pair of thin, black gloves. He puts these on. After a moment, however, lacking some kind of action to focus his energy, he begins fiddling with his neckerchief. It is one of his many new articles of clothing, but not one the queen remembers having commissioned: black fabric, embroidered with a complex pattern in red, blue, and silver threads, detailing images of hawks taking flight.
"This is a lovely thing," Gwen tells him, reaching over to fix it again. She ignores Merlin's small noise of protest as she does so. "Are these hawks? Like Nemeth's sigil?"
"Not just any hawks," Gwaine observes.
Gwen looks at him in askance, but it is Leon who answers.
"He's right. Those are merlins."
A subtle blush extends from Merlin's neck to his ears. He goes to fiddle with his neckerchief again, and Gwen once more calmly swats his hands away from it.
"It is not one I had made for you," Gwen says carefully.
"No," Merlin agrees, pulling at it again. Gwen rolls her eyes and leaves him alone, so he adds as an olive branch, "A friend got it for me."
"Your friend has good taste," Gwen hums.
"And deep pockets," Gwaine says, raising an eyebrow.
"It was not bought," Merlin protests. He adds, almost as an afterthought, "Nor stolen."
"Made, then," Gwen says appreciatively. "Fine handiwork."
Merlin shifts in his seat. His knee goes to bouncing again. A hand rakes through his hair, now long enough to brush into a slight curl against his ears and eyebrows. It is longer than he usually wears it, and the thought of that fact alone inspires some trepidation in him. It seems that every part of this endeavor inspires some trepidation, and his mind has become accustomed to simply looking for the next thing to worry over.
"Is it the nobility?" Gwaine asks. At Merlin's questioning look, the knight elaborates, "That's making you so nervous."
"No," Merlin responds with a frown. "Why would they make me nervous?"
Leon chuckles. "Almost anyone else in your position would be frightened witless. Courtiers can be fearsome creatures."
Merlin shrugs and says, "They're just people. As long as they aren't actively trying to get us killed, I'll be fine."
"They're just people, yes. But people you will need to impress," Gwen reminds him gently. "It's okay if you're nervous about that."
The warlock furrows his brow and replies, "I'm really not. Should I be?"
"No, no," Gwen tells him, patting his hand. "Of course not."
"So if it's not the nobles…" Gwaine says, smirking, "is it the princess you're nervous to see?"
Merlin makes a face at his friend, which makes Gwaine, Leon, and Gwen all laugh. Merlin scrubs at his face and then messes up his hair again. The queen's hands twitch as if moving to correct the exact fall of his hair again, but she manages to restrain herself. In lieu of actually fixing it, she sighs at Merlin again.
"This is going to be an insufferable trip, isn't it?" he asks no one in particular.
"Maybe," Gwen tells him, glancing out the window again as trumpets announce their arrival to those in the courtyard. "Then again, maybe not."
Merlin crowds her to get a glance outside. The parade pulls the carriage past phalanx of servants, all standing in neat and attentive rows about the courtyard. A few people rush forward, moving to help relieve Camelot's traveling party from their mounts and luggage. Merlin spots more than a few familiar faces there: Octavia and little Henry, red hair shining beneath the summer sunlight; Roderick running forward with the rest of the stable hands, his own dark brown eyes studying the ranks of Camelot's servants and attendants; Darla, covering her mouth with a dainty hand as she yawns; Greta, sneaking a taste of some snack or another she snuck into the courtyard.
As the rows of servants give way to the nobility, Merlin spies, too, the figures of Sir Fred, sandy-haired with that great big beard, laughing heartily at a joke passed along from another jovial looking knight. Not too far away, Lord Rian stands with his parents, the esteemable Sir Galahad and Lady Lian, all of whom look in good spirits, if slightly bored.
Then the carriage pulls to a stop. Standing somewhat along amid the gathered servants and denizens of Nemeth's castle are the royal family. King Rodor stands in gallant silver and blue, strong and not a day older than the last time Merlin had seen him during Arthur and Mithian's doomed courtship.
Next to him is a woman with long, silver hair tucked into an elaborate braid that cascades over her shoulder. Her eyes are large, dark, and intelligent. Even this far along in the day, when her husband is obviously fatigued, if happy, she seems spry and energized. Her gaze flicks over the party from Camelot, seemingly watching every movement of the people present before they come to a rest on the carriage. Merlin guesses this is the mysterious Queen Adelaine.
Just behind them are who must be their royal attendants, Sybil among them. Sybil smiles largely and she, too, studies the group from Camelot to look for familiar faces.
A bit to the side from her parents, and a little removed from the staff as well, is Princess Mithian. Her shining, dark hair is pulled into braids to mimic her mother's. It falls over her shoulder and peeks out from beneath the cloud of pastel yellow fabric pinned beneath her gold tiara. The veil falls around her dark hair, over her slim shoulders, and billows out over her emerald green dress to drape across the white stones of the castle steps.
She looks like summer personified. Ruby earrings glint in the sunlight beneath her veil, hints of golden slippers peek out from beneath her skirts, and puffs of yellow and pink and red flowers adorn the fabric of the glistening green dress. A golden locket hangs low on her chest, which she fiddles with as her dark, intelligent eyes flick to the banners held aloft by the flag-bearers in Camelot's party.
As she sees the flags, her eyes go wide, even before the royal criers announce in unison, "Her majesty the Queen Guinevere Pendragon of Camelot, accompanied by Lord Merlin of Ealdor, Advisor to the monarchs of Camelot, and Sirs Leon and Gwaine, Knights of Camelot and Knights of the Round Table."
Gwen sits forward to obstruct Merlin's view. His large, blue eyes look at her, caught between anticipation and fear. Her hand darts out to grab his and gives it a brief squeeze.
"Are you ready?" Gwen asks lowly.
"Of course not," Merlin answers immediately. "Let's do this."
Leon nods at him, then opens the door and clambers out. Gwaine gives Merlin and Gwen a wink, then saunters out next. The queen squeezes Merlin's hand again, then pulls it to get him somewhat crouching, but on his feet in the carriage. He takes a deep breath and steps carefully over her skirts to exit. Luckily, Gwaine and Leon are outside, loitering in a strategic position so as to subtly help him out of the carriage.
The warlock straightens, then offers his hand to Guinevere. She takes it daintily and exits, blinking furiously a few times in the bright sunlight before directing her face quickly into a smile.
Mithian's hand shoots into the air and gives them a wave. Gwen, Merlin, and Gwaine return the favor in kind, while Leon returns with a polite nod.
The monarchs begin slowly moving down the steps toward their newly arrived visitors. Rodor and Adelaine arrive arm-in-arm, smiling genially at Guinevere, the woman who ensured their daughter did not marry the then-Prince Arthur.
But their smiles seem genuine and their disposition pleasant as they arrive at the carriage to greet the queen of Camelot.
"Queen Guinevere," Rodor greets, giving the queen a deep bow. "Hello."
On either side of him, Mithian and Adelaine dip into a curtsey. Queen Guinevere returns the favor.
"We are honored to host you, your grace," Adelaine adds.
"And we are honored to be here and receive your invitations," Guinevere says, standing once more. "May I introduce Sir Leon, Head Knight of Camelot."
Leon gives both the monarchs a bow, then takes Mithian's hand to brush the air above her knuckles with his lips in a perfunctory and polite greeting. Mithian dips into a slight curtsey, focusing politely on the ground before her, the soft fabric of her long gloves whispering sound as she takes her hand back to lift her skirts slightly in a curtsey.
"Sir Gwaine of Camelot," Guinevere says.
Gwaine dips into a bow just deep and stiff enough to be passable as polite. He flips his hair slightly, saunters forward, and plants a kiss on Mithian's knuckles. She raises an eyebrow at him and gives him a sparse curtsey in return as he goes back to his place behind Queen Guinevere.
"And Lord Merlin of Ealdor and Camelot," Guinevere says, slightly correcting the announcement of the criers.
The warlock steps forward, once more running his hand through his hair, but this time attempting to convey it into something appropriately kempt. He bows deeply, his right hand securely against his left hip, his left hand in the air next to him.
"King Rodor, Queen Adelaine," Merlin says, his voice dipping into that low gravely tone known only to sincerity, "it is an honor to celebrate Nemeth's one hundred and fiftieth year with you."
Mithian takes half a step forward, dark eyes roving over the man before her as he raises himself back up to his full and considerable height. He wears not one of the over-large and long-sleeved shirts she had become so used to in her time in Camelot, nor does he wear one of his ratty neckerchiefs, nor the boots with holes in them, nor the jacket that smells of lavender and rosemary and wood smoke.
Instead, he wears a black jacket and cream-colored tunic, both well- and close-fitting enough to show the long, lanky muscles of his lean frame. Black breeches are tucked into new, shiny, black boots, and a familiar-looking neckerchief decorates his neck.
He looks different than the last time Mithian saw him, and it is obviously not all in his garb. He stands straighter, more square, though he retains that impenetrable casual air about him that manages to impart confidence rather than arrogance. His face seems more angular, more shadowed, but those intelligent blue eyes retain that glint of humor and mischief that the princess had come to associate with the man.
Even here, among royalty and nobles and scholars and servants alike, Merlin seems to know something no one doesn't, and derives some sense of surety and even amusement from it.
Merlin catches Mithian's gaze. Her breath stops in her chest.
"Princess Mithian," Merlin says lowly, taking a quick step forward.
Mithian offers her hand on reflex. Merlin's own gloved hand reaches out and guides her hand slightly upward without ever even making contact, their gloved hands hovering just a breath away from one another.
It is nonetheless close enough that Mithian can feel the heat from Merlin's palm just beneath her curled fingers.
She watches as Merlin's lips, still curved in a slight smile, brush the air above her knuckles. He stands again and takes a step back.
"Lord Merlin," Mithian breathes. "A pleasure to see you again."
Mithian's hand hangs in the air a moment longer before she lowers it, clasping it in her other hand before her.
"It is so lovely," Mithian says, clearing her throat and looking away from Merlin to smile at Guinevere, "to see all of you again."
"We feel similarly, Princess Mithian," Guinevere says with a smile. "I assure you."
"I have heard many tales of those in your retinue," Adelaine comments, glancing over at Leon and Gwaine, then giving Merlin a look again as if she could see through him. Merlin shifts slightly on his feet. "Stories of the bravery of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table have come so far as to even reach us here in Nemeth."
Gwen smiles and takes the comment in stride, replying, "We are flattered, Queen Adelaine. I hope you have only heard good things."
"Quite," Adelaine says, her dark eyes flicking back to Guinevere from Merlin.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Rodor says, stepping forward.
The king offers a hand to Merlin. The warlock studies it for a moment, then extends his own hand and shakes the king's. Rodor's eyes twinkle as if he is in on a joke that no one else has heard.
"Congratulations, Lord Merlin," Rodor says, "on your promotion."
Merlin's blush grows. "Thank you, King Rodor. You are entirely too kind."
"Promotion?" Queen Adelaine asks.
Merlin clears this throat and says, "I was formerly the king's manservant."
"And," Mithian says quickly, "the physician's assistant, of course."
"And already an unofficial advisor of sorts to King Arthur and I," Guinevere adds calmly. Her smile is polite but genuine as she looks at the King and Queen of Nemeth. "The promotion was in name, mainly, instead of capacity."
"I see," Adelaine says, leveling her gaze once more at Merlin.
He offers her a nervous half-smile before someone intervenes. Mithian steps forward, capturing Guinevere's arm in her own and leaning in toward the queen with great familiarity. Her parents look on mildly, attention now diverted from the former manservant greeting them.
"Will you and your company indulge me by attending a dinner tonight?" Mithian asks the queen of Camelot. "I know you are tired from your travels, but some friends and I are gathering for a night of intimate celebrations before things begin in earnest, and I would be honored if you and yours would attend."
"Of course," Guinevere answers. "We would be delighted."
"Wonderful," Mithian answers.
"We are so happy to host you, Queen Guinevere," Adelaine says, dark eyes moving toward the entrance to the courtyard, beyond which another party approaches. She looks back at Guinevere and flashes a polite and deferent smile. "We hope that the comforts and diversions of this celebration will distract you from the absence of your husband."
"King Arthur sends along his gracious well-wishes and regrets," Guinevere tells her. "He wishes he could be here, but is erstwhile occupied by rumors re-emerging of the witch to the south. I hope my presence here can be some recompense for his absence."
"But of course," Rodor says merrily. "Since we are planning a tournament, I daresay many are glad of his absence this time around, your grace. By the way, I would much like to speak with you about Morgana…"
Rodor and Adelaine each take one of Guinevere's elbows and lead her away.
Having been relieved of the monarchs, Merlin glances around, then winks at Mithian.
"The prat promoted me. Can you believe it?" he asks conspiratorially.
"Yes," Mithian replies immediately. "I just didn't expect it. Lord Merlin? Your last letter contained two pages about your imaginary duck, and nothing about your promotion to a lordship!"
People begin to move with some urgency around them, either getting to work or spying someone they know and rushing over for a hello. Mithian takes a quick step closer to be able to hear Merlin better above the hubbub.
"Well, I must save some news for when I was to see you," Merlin tells her, eyes crinkling from his smile. "Otherwise, how am I to maintain my mysterious reputation? And Sir Quackenfell is not imaginary."
"Right," Mithian says, elongating the word. She gives him a slight curtsey and says, "It is good to see you again, Lord Merlin. I'm honored you came. It is such a pleasure to be among friends once again."
Merlin bows again, but this time the gesture seems softer, more intimate and respectful rather than dreadfully stiff and polite.
"It is such an honor to be considered such a thing," Merlin replies, his voice low once more. "Particularly by such an accomplished and fearsome person such as you, Princess Mithian."
Servants rush to and fro, fetching and ferrying packages and people about the courtyard. Amid the noise and movement, Merlin hears a high-pitched shriek, followed by the appearance of a little boy crowned with shining red hair squeezing between the legs of passers-by to get to him.
"Merlin!" Henry exclaims, crashing into the warlock's legs.
Merlin laughs, reaches down, and swings little Henry onto his hip.
"Master Henry," Merlin says jovially. "It is good to see you again."
"How's my ducky?" Henry asks immediately.
"Still ill, I'm afraid," Merlin replies. "Would you–"
"Merlin!" another little boy shrieks. Lord Rian comes running up and tugs at Merlin's sleeve.
"Lord Rian," Merlin says, bowing as well he can with a little boy in his arms. "How do you do?"
"I'm ten now," Rian reports. "So now will you tell me what to do when faced with a dragon?"
"I've told you, Lord Rian–" Merlin says sternly, and Rian grumbles the answer in unison with the manservant-turned-lord, "run fast."
"How's Sir Quackenfell?" Henry whines, pulling on Merlin's collar.
"Well–"
"Merlin!" Sir Fred booms across the courtyard.
The warlock turns and grins as the burly, bear-like man lumbers through the sea of people to get to him. Fred gives Merlin a hearty clap on the shoulder. It seems as if the gesture has so much force to it, the slighter man should easily crumble beneath its weight. However, Merlin just gives Fred a broad grin.
"Good to see you again, Sir Fred," Merlin says. "How's the stew been on patrol lately? Poison anyone yet?"
"Oh, ho," Fred says, laughing. "Just the once. And is that Sir Leon I see?"
Fred moves past Merlin, thumping him on the back again as he goes, to greet Sirs Leon and Gwaine, who each exchange a hearty handshake and laughter with the older man.
"Ducky?" Henry demands again.
"Right," Merlin says. "Sir Quackenfell–"
"Merlin!" another voice calls, and the warlock turns forward again to see a slip of a young woman with soft red-brown hair and bright green eyes. She smiles with all the diffidence and fragility of a new spring blossom, and when she approaches, she gives Merlin a small curtsey.
"Darla!" Merlin exclaims. "How lovely to see you."
"And you, my lord," Darla says, which makes Merlin roll his eyes.
"Oh, none of that now," Merlin tells her. "Just call me Merlin, of course."
Darla's smile widens slightly. She goes to say something, but is quickly cut off by the arrival of Octavia, huffing and puffing from the exertion of fighting through the crowd to find Henry.
"Oh!" she exclaims, and dips into a curtsey at seeing Mithian and Merlin. "My apologies your grace, my lord–"
"Really now, Octavia," Merlin says, "surely not you, too."
Octavia smiles and collects a whining Henry from the warlock, who passes the child over easily but with a rueful smile.
"I must show you the due respect, my lord," Octavia returns. "You'd better get used to it."
It looks as if Merlin is gearing up for a more vehement protest, but is interrupted by the arrival of Sir Galahad and his wife, Lady Lian. Galahad gives Merlin a strong handshake, and Merlin and Lian exchange a bow and a curtsey respectively.
"Our apologies for Rian's excitable nature," Lian says.
"He seems inspired by your tales of bravery," Galahad tells him with a smile. He puts a large hand on Rian's shoulder and pulls the now-sheepish boy back a step. "I believe he's said on more than one occasion that he wants to be like you when he's older."
Rian blushes. Merlin grins and says, "Is that so? Why, I thought you wanted to be a knight, Lord Rian."
"I do," Rian insists. "But I also want to be like you. Not every story of King Arthur has his knights in it, but every story does have you in it."
Merlin's brows furrow. "Really?"
Rian shakes his head energetically, and Henry does the same.
"If you didn't know already," Galahad says, eyes twinkling, "you're a bit of a folk hero here in Nemeth."
"You jest, surely," Merlin says, laughing.
Lian smiles, but retains a serious mein when she says, "Not at all. Your stories have spread far and wide even here. I am sure there is not a child in Nemeth who has not heard your name, especially in conjunction with your king and queen's."
Merlin's eyes widen, then flick over to Mithian. She shrugs a delicate shoulder and gives him a smile.
"Perhaps you could come to the servant's quarters tonight," Darla says, quiet enough that Merlin has to bend forward slightly to hear her. "You could tell us stories like you did in Camelot."
"Oh, I'm sure the Lord Merlin has more important things to do than entertain the likes of us," Octavia says.
"I'd love to, Darla," Merlin says with a smile. "Only I believe it may be later than normal, as I have an invitation to dine with the princess. And if I am wise, I will not refuse her."
Mithian feels her face grow hot and looks away momentarily, searching for some kind of diversion. She watches as servants of Nemeth hurry about the carriages and horses, carting away various pieces of luggage. Something one of them removes from the carriage catches her eye, and she narrows her eyes slightly to catch a better look.
"Why on earth did someone bring an empty cage all the way from Camelot?" she asks.
Merlin turns around, then hurries over to the servant taking the cage down from its place secured to the back of the carriage. It exchanges hands, and the warlock walks back over, peering through the wicker top into the cage.
"It's not empty," Merlin says. He lifts up the basket so Henry and Rian can both see it. "I brought Sir Quackenfell."
Mithian looks at the cage, then at Merlin. Galahad, Lian, Rian, Octavia, and Darla all do much the same.
"Merlin, the cage is empty," Henry says. "Did Sir Quackenfell escape?"
"No, no," Merlin says. "Just ill. He's been invisible for two days now."
Merlin frowns at the cage, then looks back up at Henry, his face completely serious, yet his eyes somehow still twinkling.
"I'm looking into it," Merlin informs the child sagely.
"Oh," Henry says. Then he waves with delight at the cage. "Hello, Sir Quackenfell!"
"I really should get him to my rooms," Merlin tells his audience. "I need to do a few more tests before dinner. Fairy Fever is very complex, you understand."
"Right," Galahad says slowly.
"It's so sweet of you," Lady Lian says, trying to recover from her husband's awkwardness, "to have brought… Sir Quackenfell… all this way just for little Henry."
"Well," Merlin says, shifting the wicker cage in his arms, "he requires a certain amount of looking after, and King Arthur is of course too busy to have done so in my absence. So I thought I could just bring him with me. For safekeeping, you understand, as well as to visit the boy who saved his life."
Galahad laughs. "We are certainly happy to be graced with your humor once more, Lord Merlin. I hope to see much more of you in the coming month."
"And I you, good Sir," Merlin says, affecting a bow.
Galahad and Lian lead Rian away to catch up briefly with Gwaine and Leon. Octavia and Henry wave at Merlin, then excuse themselves, and Sybil runs up to give Merlin a quick hello and drag Darla off for some chore or another.
Mithian smiles at Merlin. He returns it with a big, crooked grin.
"It really is so sweet of you to bring an empty cage this whole way just to entertain little Henry," Mithian tells him. "I can think of not many men who would think to do such a thing, and far less who actually would."
"But I didn't bring an empty cage, princess," Merlin says, furrowing his brow again.
Mithian glances down at the wicker cage in his arms, her eyebrow raised in disbelief. She opens her mouth to protest again, or perhaps chastise the man for his continued silliness, but is cut off.
Something inside the wicker cage quacks.
"As I said," Merlin says, frowning down at the supposedly empty cage, "I'm looking into it."