Page 101 of The Faerie Handmaid

“I miss you both,” Morgana said bleakly.

Braithe looked up at her. “But I am here, Priestess.”

“For now,” Morgana said.

Braithe didn’t answer, but she was not surprised that Morgana already knew of the king’s command. He had framed it as a request, but Braithe and Lancelin both understood that was mere courtesy.

Morgana said, “Emerlyn is coming in the morning.”

“Councillor Emerlyn?” Braithe blinked. “Did she not refuse your invitation before?”

“She says she has been considering it after all.”

“When did you speak with her?”

Morgana looked away. “Today. In her private chambers in the Council Hall.”

“Priestess Morgana,” Braithe said sternly. “How did you come to be in the White City?”

Morgana turned back to her, and her face was like that of a child caught in some mischief. “As a goshawk,” she said. “That is how. And,” she added, her lips curving, “it was glorious.”

Despite Braithe’s assurance that she needed nothing, Dafne returned to the Blackbird’s chamber with a pitcher of ale and two cups, along with thick slices of bread and a little dish of fresh butter. She glanced respectfully at the Blackbird lying so silently on his bed, then set her tray down on the table. Eyeing the two hard chairs, she said, “Priestess Morgana, you need cushions if you are to keep vigil.”

Morgana said, “Thank you, Dafne. I believe they would be helpful.”

Braithe said, “I will fetch them. Dafne, go to your bed. It will be a long day tomorrow.”

“For us all,” Dafne said.

“Yes,” Morgana responded. “For us all.”

When Dafne had gone, Morgana said, “It will be good to have you here to greet Emerlyn, Braithe. “Everyone will be curious and perhaps not perfectly courteous.”

“Has there ever been a fae visitor?” Braithe asked.

Morgana gave a tiny sniff at the irony of the question. “Not that they were aware of. I have asked the councillor not to mention my parentage.”

“Nor your connection to her.”

“That particularly.” Morgana poured out ale for them and found the bread and butter tempting. She had eaten after resuming her own shape but was hungry again. She was not particularly tired, though. Perhaps, she thought, it was the brevity of her flight. Or perhaps, with practice, shapeshifting would not exhaust her as it once had.

She said aloud, “Everything is changing, brat.”

Braithe dimpled, and quoted:

The skylark flies far from her nest

And finds it changed when she returns.

The nestlings think it is she who has changed.

The pieces no longer fit together.

“I suppose I am the skylark and you the nestling.”

Braithe sobered, and her dimples disappeared. “At one time, I would have said that was true, Priestess.” She paused. “But I am no longer a nestling. I have found my own wings.”

Morgana nodded, though the pain of imminent loss ached in her throat. “Of course. Of course you have. And that is just as it should be.”