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a nearby bench and I find myself reminded of the girls accompanied by their maids outside. This time, though, I’m comforted by her watchful eye. Eron wouldn’t approach us here.
    Margary pulls me to the edge of the row of hedges and crouches, careful not to soil her dress. I kneel between her and Sarabel and peek into the hedge. In the space between two gnarled trunks, on a carpet of bright green moss is a tarnished silver jewel box standing on its side. A little path of smooth colorful seashells and pebbles leads up to it, and inside is a tiny bed draped with a canopy of fine lace.
    “What a fine little house,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
    “It’s a fairy house,” says Margary.  She takes a cube of sugar from a fold in her dress and places it carefully on the edge of the box. “They love sweets.”
    “Do they?” I ask, leaning in for a closer look.
    “Oh, yes.” Margy’s brown curls bounce as she nods. “Twig loves sugar cubes, they’re his favorite.” She looks up and around as though expecting something. I turn to Sarabel, who is covering a smile with her hand.
    “Twig?” I ask.
    “Twig is Margy’s special friend.” Sarabel’s nod tells me I should play along. “Perhaps we should give the fairies a little room,” she suggests as she stands and brushes a bit of grass from her cream colored skirt. Margary shakes her head and adjusts the sugar cube. “I thought you wanted Azi to teach you sword fighting?” Sarabel coaxes.
    “After he comes, she can,” she says. “He’s still very shy.” Her tone tells us her answer is final.
    “She and I will take a walk, then,” Sarabel links her arm through mine. “I think he might be frightened with too many of us watching.” Margary nods, her eyes locked on the house with determination.
    “Every day, it’s something new,” Sarabel laughs softly as we stroll away. “Yesterday she wanted to be a knight like you. Today, she invents fairy friends to play with.” We walk together and she guides me deeper into the gardens, where the park grows wild on the other side of the palace wall. Sunlight sparkles through the canopy, casting shadows that dance with the breeze over the carpet of grass below.
    “Do you remember when we were her age?” I ask. “We were just the same.”
    “Except we were the fairies,” Sarabel laughs. “I think I still have the wings we made from Gaethon’s parchment tucked away.”
    “Oh, I had forgotten all about that!” I laugh. “He was so furious!” All those years ago, Sara and I had decided we needed proper wings to become fairies. I stole a sheaf of Uncle’s parchment from the table in the guild hall and tore it into pieces that were perfectly wing shaped. Sara had been delighted, and we ran through this very garden holding our wings out and flapping them and pretending to fly. It didn’t occur to us I had sacrificed a particularly difficult bit of my uncle’s research for our game until he found some of the discarded fragments of paper lying about the hall the next day. Uncle had been terrifyingly incensed with me. Thoughts of my uncle and his ruined parchment remind me of Rian and the hastily scrawled note he passed to me earlier. I remember what he wrote and I think of how odd it is to be reminded such an obscure legend as the fairies twice in one day.
    “What do you suppose got her thinking of them?” I ask as we settle on a bench beside the wall. I can barely see Margary in the distance where she continues to kneel at the hedge, seemingly in conversation with her own hand.
    “Eron read to her from a story book that Princess Amei brought from the Isles,” she replies. “It’s a rather old one with stories I’ve never heard before.”
    I press my palms flat against the surface of the bench at the mention of the prince to stop my hands from shaking.
    “Ah.” I manage. I’m not quick enough to hide my discomfort. Sara notices.
    “Azi, did Eron...?” She trails