You are a coward, some part of me said. If that is what you truly believe, go and tell Flidais so. Tell her outright that her statements disturb you, that they are not in tune with the way you want to rule your people. Tell her that if she cannot change, you will not wed her. If you go ahead without taking any action, what follows will be on your own head.

‘I can’t,’ I murmured. ‘You know all the arguments, Bramble. Haven’t I been over them a hundred times? I should never have trusted in my dreams. Come, we’d best be going back while we can still see the path before our feet.’

But when I looked down, I saw that Bramble had fallen asleep on my knee, quickly and completely, as if she had not a care in the world. I did not want to rise and disturb her. She looked so perfect, her small form curled neatly save for one paw that was up against my chest as if to ensure I would not go away and leave her. As I sat holding her, with the light fading around me, I was reminded of the portrait. I remembered how I had felt on the day my mother had first shown it to me; it had been as if all my hopes for the future were contained in that one scrap of painted wood. At first glance I had been transported into a world of ancient story, a world where true love won out against all odds, a realm in which dreams and magic were as real as growing crops or settling disputes over drains. What had made it so remarkable? What had touched me to the core?

Flidais’s beauty had certainly played a part. But Flidais in the flesh was every bit as lovely as her painted image. The portrait was an excellent likeness. I desired my betrothed; that had been well and truly proven. But I could never love her as I had loved the woman in the portrait. I recalled the curve of her wrist as she supported the little dog; the graceful, tender position of her fingers against Bramble’s neck. The look of devotion in the dog’s eyes as she gazed up at her mistress. Most of all, the expression on Flidais’s face. I had seen sweetness, honesty, perhaps a little shyness. I had seen a dreamer like myself; I had seen a young woman who understood hope and magic and beauty. Surely no painter was clever enough to build so many lies into a portrait. When the image was created, neither the artist nor the subject had known anything about my character. There could have been no reason to work into that depiction everything that would most touch my heart.