You may rise,” said the King. “What is your name, child?”

“Mirella, Highness.”  She bobbed her head again. “I’m the second nursemaid to the young prince.”

Ranald studied her features. He’d seen her before, though not with his son. When he saw Ruse, it was always with the Queen or the old nurse, Nan Maura. Nan Maura would often bustle in to tell him of his son’s latest accomplishment. It seemed Ruse had become quite adept at pulling the pins out of his mother’s hair. Or he’d eaten mashed fruit and was now breaking wind like a grown man. He wanted to see his son walk before he died, but for now Ruse was only a crawler. Ranald made a mental note that when this sick spell passed, he’d make a trek up the nursery stairs and try to coax a step. In time, he reminded himself, yet it was past time for the boy to be walking.

            He returned his attention to the girl.

            Last spring . . . a bout of colic . . . and now memory blossomed. Both his wife and the old nurse had been worn with care of the babe. He recalled Laveth mentioning they’d needed an extra pair of hands and then the girl had appeared, standing in the same spot, seeking asylum. She’d left the Shivelite camp for reasons he’d never clearly understood because the Queen had motioned for her hand-held message, read it, then insisted she was just the sort of girl who could help Nan Maura. A gentle girl with a patient look. She vanished into the nursery after that.

            Elymas stepped forward, looking her up and down. 

            “She’s a mere girl,” he sneered. “What can she know?”

            No one had thought to echo his sentiments. Somehow, the day had grown so extraordinary that it seemed only natural that a young girl, unfamiliar and unannounced, should rise in the presence of the High King and validate the claim of a once deadly enemy.