He seems a tad bit sensitive to the word “father.”

“Until I hear directly from my father about what I can and cannot do, I shall keep my own counsel. As you persist in reminding me so often, I am the Tine princess.” With that, Ceara walks past the angry Tine kin, face smooth and head held high. Croi and the other two handmaids follow her. Croi cannot resist looking back, however, and in Lorcan’s eyes, she sees the frustrated words his mouth is not allowed to utter.

She puts him out of her mind and focuses on the kin she is most curious about. The princess’s brownie mother, or Monca, as she is called. She looks around but doesn’t see anyone that looks like a brownie. Mouths shut and eyes looking directly ahead, the princess and her entourage walk past more tents, soldiers, and fires. Just before they reach the tented pavilion, the princess stops again, and everyone tenses.

“Monca!” the princess exclaims, her voice fuller than Croi has ever heard it before. Ceara moves to hug a short, plump kin with faded brown hair and wrinkled brown skin. Croi stares at the bits of the kin that haven’t been enveloped by the princess’s taller frame, and as though the brownie feels her gaze, she looks up, and Croi sees her eyes. They’re exactly the same size, shade, and shape Croi’s were before the Glamour started breaking.

Croi is struck mute; looking at her is like looking in a mirror at a past Croi given color by her experiences, and fine lines by time. She hadn’t been a complete lie. She had been a true brownie, at least on the outside. This knowledge is both sweet and bitter.

Croi ducks her head to hide her tears. She cannot explain her sorrow, and she would rather not reveal it.

“Who is this?” The brownie mother has a rich voice. It makes Croi think of nutmeg, hot drinks, and the Hag.

They have paused before the curtained opening of the pavilion, and a look at the tense faces of the guards tells Croi that the angry Lorcan has followed them here. When the kin soldier hears the brownie mother’s question, he turns in Croi’s direction. She tries to look as harmless as possible.

“You’ve met Fiona before, have you not?” The princess’s voice is disinterested as if Croi’s presence is common knowledge and does not warrant comment. Monca’s eyes sharpen, and she gives Croi a closer look.

“Avert your eyes!” Tinder hisses in Croi’s ear, and she hurriedly looks down at the ground, putting in more effort to seem timid and handmaidlike. Croi doesn’t know if she succeeds, but the princess avoids any further questioning by marching into the tent. Croi follows her with her eyes still averted. As soon as they’re inside, Tinder flies out from under Croi’s hair with a relieved sigh only to yelp loudly. Croi looks up to see everyone, even Tinder, sinking to the ground in a curtsy.