Mermaid_ A Twist on the Classic Tale - Carolyn Turgeon [42]
Gregor was like an anchor for her in the midst of all this confusion. Aside from Edele, he was the person she trusted most in the world.
“I have missed you greatly,” she whispered. She clutched her old tutor’s hand, feeling close to tears. Next to her, she could sense her father’s anger as if it were a stone wall.
“Let us eat!” the king said as the room erupted once more into cheers and stomping. All along the table, members of the court picked up their utensils and resumed eating. The musicians started playing a well-loved song, walking up and down the room. From the kitchen, the servants brought plates piled with cakes.
“You are not eating, child?” her father asked after a few minutes, turning to her.
She was surprised to see that, despite everything, he looked happier, more handsome even, than he had in ages. Since before her mother died, maybe. His dark eyes were bright, he was suddenly smiling and relaxed, where a minute ago he’d seemed overcome with rage. He likes this, she realized. He thrives on it.
And then she felt guilt and love flow through her, too. It had been too long since she’d seen him look happy.
“I am not feeling well, Father,” she said. “I’m still tired from the journey.”
“It is no wonder,” he said.
And her father reached out his large, ringed hand and touched her face tenderly, the way he’d done when she was a little girl. It took her by surprise, this gesture, and for a moment she again felt close to tears.
She sat quietly through the rest of the meal, pushing her meat around her plate, forcing herself to take a few bites of bread. The music became more boisterous, and some courtiers began to sing along. She watched Edele, sitting with a group of young noble men and women, laughing with her head back, her hair tumbling down her shoulders. She wished she could sit with them, carefree.
“Margrethe, would you accompany your old teacher on a walk in the garden?” Gregor asked as the servants cleared their plates.
“Of course,” she said.
He rose and gestured to the king, who nodded. Margrethe followed Gregor out of the hall, and through the doors that led into the heated, glass-walled garden, a project of her mother’s last years.
“Everything you have been through, it must have been very traumatic,” he said, taking her arm in his. They began walking along one of the pathways that wound past exotic trees that had come on ships from the southern part of the world. “I am so relieved, Marte, that you are safe. But I can see something is troubling you.” He looked at her carefully. “What is it?”
She looked at him, wondering how he always knew what she was feeling, and then, unbidden, the tears came, streaming down her cheeks. Sparkling like crystals in the night air. Above them, the moon was full and bright through the glass.
“What is it?” he asked, stopping and turning to her. “Did he hurt you? Is there something you’re not saying? When we received a report that Prince Christopher had been not only nearby but within the same walls … Oh, your father! That he had been right next to you, down the hall—it was unimaginable, what might have happened.”
“No, no,” she said. “That’s just it. I tried to tell my father this, Gregor, when he came to the convent that day. That he has it completely wrong. They all do. But he wouldn’t listen to me, and now there’s this talk of war, and it’s wrong, Gregor, all of it. He was not there to kill me.”
“What are you saying? Why else would he have been there?”
“He was not there to hurt me at all. I talked to him, to the prince. In the convent infirmary,