Fatalistic.

“Stop reading my mind. It’s rude.”

It is my mind too.

Croi flushes at her other self’s words. If she could, she would be willing to let her navigate their body for a while, but it doesn’t seem to work that way.

“You didn’t come for breakfast!” Tinder’s high-pitched voice reaches Croi, and she turns to see her exiting the pavilion perched on the princess’s shoulder. The handmaids and Monca follow close behind. The princess regards Croi with a tranquil expression, her eyes clear. The brownie mother, on the other hand, has her eyes downcast. Is her refusal to meet Croi’s eyes an admission of guilt?

“Why do you look at Monca so?” the princess asks coldly. The brownie mother looks up and puts a wrinkled hand on the princess’s arm, to quiet her perhaps. Croi can’t presume to know the workings of a brownie mind.

“Ask her what she was doing last night under the cover of a rowan tree. See what she says, and then tell me you blame me for the look I’m giving her,” Croi replies, surprised by the sound of her own voice. It sounds different, deeper and hoarser. Like something that has been burnt.

“Monca?” the princess says, turning to the brownie mother.

The brownie’s face drains of color, and she retreats a few steps, nearly falling in her haste to be away from Croi.

“What happened?” Tinder flies over to Croi, looking uncertain. Croi’s suddenly glad for the veil covering her face and hiding her expression. No one will like what it shows right now. She gives the pixie a quick glance but keeps her silence and is glad she does so when she spies Lorcan over the princess’s shoulder. Even though he can’t see her smile, the fae soldier’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare when he sees her. For a minute it is unclear whether he will join the group, but then his lips tighten and he moves toward them with long, unhurried strides. He looks rather worse for wear; the night left its mark on him.

“My lady, we will be leaving in fifteen minutes. Please prepare yourself.” Lorcan meets Croi’s eyes, perhaps thinking it unbecoming of a fae of his stature and authority to give in to fear, but whatever he sees in them adds to his disquietude because he turns on his heels and leaves abruptly.

Tinder looks at his retreating back, then at Croi. “Did he do something to you? Did you do something to him?” The brownie mother flinches at the question, and the princess’s eyebrows draw together.

“He found out that I am not entirely as weak as I look,” Croi says, and turns to the horses.

“You don’t look weak at all, though,” Tinder says. Croi glares at her, and she hurriedly flies to Ceara.

The princess is having a whispered conversation with her brownie mother. Monca finally excuses herself. “I’m not sure what happened between you and my brownie mother, Fiadh, but if she offended you in some way, I apologize on her behalf,” she says when it becomes clear that Monca is not going to confess. “Will you still ride with me today?”