Later at the buffet tables, Myra reached for a glass of chilled cider. However, it happened to be the same glass that Owain reached for. He recoiled, knocking the glass from her hand, toward her face. Soren’s quick reflexes saved her from a face full of cider as he pivoted between her and the splashing drink, shielding her with his body. The cider cup shattered as it hit his back, sparkling glass and amber fluid raining to the floor.

Owain winced and backed away several steps. Bowing low, he said, “My humblest apologies to you both.” His sky-blue eyes were clouded as he straightened back up. With a sigh, he muttered, “I warned my brother this would happen.”

She side-eyed Owain as she stepped around Soren, hands fluttering over his back.

“How do you feel? Are you hurt?”

He pulled her back in front of him, stilling her hands. “I’m not injured, Myra. You have no need to worry over me.”

As he stood holding her hands, his velvet voice reassuring her, for the first time in a long time, Myra wanted to find her lifelong prince. Could he be the one? The true prince she’d searched for? How would she know?

A clap of thunder resounded, rattling the windows. She jumped, thoughts interrupted.

“Are you afraid of thunderstorms, Myra?” Soren asked, in his velvet-soft voice.

She shook her head. “No. Just startled.” She flashed him and the other two a winning smile. “I haven’t been paying any attention to the weather today.”

Fawx winked. “That’s quite understandable.”

She giggled and Soren scoffed. Someone had called a servant over to clean up the cider mess. Looking around the room, she realized most of the guests had retired. She glanced out the windows and her eyes widened. Through the torrents of rain streaming down, she saw only darkness.

“Where did the time go?”

From his two-yard distance, Owain replied, “I’m afraid we have monopolized it, Myra. For better or worse.”

Everyone laughed. The pattering rain filled the silence that followed.

Myra swung her hands. “Well, I suppose we should all turn in.”

The others rushed to agree and fumbled over each other to bid her goodnight. As they neared the hallway, a pounding on the entrance door halted them. She nodded to the weary chamberlain and he swung open the door. Drenched and dripping, a young man stepped inside and sneezed.

Myra rushed over to the sopping gentleman.

“Who are you?”

He wrapped his arms around himself as he shivered. “R-r-r-Ronan W-w-w-w-Weylyn.” He forced the answer out through his chattering teeth.

She looked to the chamberlain, who stiffened.

“The Honorable Ronan Weylyn, Taran of Dinas Tov,” the chamberlain stated, wide-eyed.

A flock of servants arrived with blankets and warm beverages. She took the stack of blankets and plopped them in Soren’s hands, assessing her charming trio. Two were clearly there to help, but Owain was at his usual distance, scuffing his feet along the ground. She dismissed him for the night. She caught Fawx’s eye and motioned to the beverage tray. He jumped to prepare the tea.

As she wrapped blankets around the sneezing Taran, she ordered, “Soren, bring a chair, please.”

He thumped down the nearest chair —an overstuffed, plush armchair­.

With a sneeze, the soaked man protested. “I couldn’t possibly sit in such a lovely chair in this state. I’d ruin it.”

“Nonsense. How long have you been on your feet in this rain, Your Honor?” Myra stared him down.

“As long as necessary.” He stared back, unruffled.

She pushed him into the chair and roughly handed him a cup of tea. “Drink this slowly. When it’s gone, the servants will show you to your rooms.” She gathered up her followers and shooed them away. “I’m Myra, by the way. Myra Wellington. I’ll introduce these fools,” she smiled, “to you in the morning.”

“Myra,” he called to her as she left. “Thank you for your kindness. And please, call me Ronan.”

She smiled and nodded.

In the hallway, Fawx caught her by the arm, stopping her for a moment. He whispered, “Don’t be too hard on His Gracelessness. He’s the one who rallied the servants and suggested we all go help you.”