6.10

"So…" Silva asks, a gentleness softening the sharp tone of her curiosity. "What's this I hear about us taking a detour south?"

I give her a blank look while I knit on my nightgown. Grehafen is northwest. From Dwaline-Het, due north and south are only more of the Dwaline Mountains; Salles is southeast. Southwest is the Redskin Plain, named such due to the 'skin' of red earth that covers it, and for the reddish color of its famous horses.

She reads my silence correctly as cluelessness. "Charla congratulated me on Prince Aidan having promised to help the most notorious hermit around. He evidently relishes making people miss their appointments."

I flinch. That doesn't sound good. "South as in back to Salles or south as in the Redskin Plains?"

Silva pauses. "South as in 'nearing Breidentel'." That name sounds familiar. She explains, "Small kingdom on some of the uppermost Dwalines."

Elves. I stiffen. That's why I recognized it: it's an elvish construction.

…Actually, isn't that the kingdom whose royal bastard gossip purports me to be?

"From what I've heard of him, the hermit himself might even be elfin, at least in part—"

"He isn't," interrupts Aidan as he enters. "Some kobolds stole some naril he had; he's not as young or limber as he used to be, so he needs a bit of help getting it back."

He pauses. Silva watches him with an odd expression on her face. "Honestly, by the looks of him, I'm not sure he ever was limber, but that's irrelevant. If he's part anything other than dwarf, it's part giant."

A minority kind that grows unusually large. But… "Kobolds?"

Aidan nods sharply. "Yep."

I give him a long, blank stare. He doesn't get it. Of course he doesn't—I've forgotten the veil I'm wearing. "What's a kobold?"

Silva chuckles, suddenly more relaxed than she's been since my state as Aidan's presumed mistress started. "Little nimble creatures that like shiny things for their nests. Often take valuables. Some people even train the critters as thieves."

"So they're animals."

Aidan pauses. "Yes." He swallows noisily, and when I look at him I notice that he's just barely restraining himself from laughing at me.

I just look at him over my knitting.

"Why are we helping him?" Silva asks.

Again, a pause; then he shrugs and goes to a nearby table and pours himself some rakshi from the carafe there into one of the provided cups. "He needs it."

Silva frowns. "I'll rephrase that: what is he going to give that's going to help you against King Darnell and his legitimate heirs?"

I stare at her, thankful for the veil and its ability to hide that I'm staring. Unfortunately, Aidan loses his composure at that. He gapes. "Y… I thought you thought… I mean…"

"I did so think, up until, oh, two minutes ago." She glances between us. "You converse far too easily."

My fault. "Yie."

"And you may want to watch your elvish interjections."

Sound sticks in my throat. I swallow and nod.

"He says fire mages can burn spells, including curses," Aidan blurts. "When I said I knew a fire mage, he said he'd be willing to teach my friend if I did him a favor. Per popular gossip, he's disinclined to admit to others what he does for those who help him."

Silva's look at him is mild. "I heard that he likes making people miss appointments."

Aidan shrugs. "That, too, but that should help. A standard lack of eagerness for the wedding, to be expected in a situation like mine."

"Will he provide separate rooms for the two of you?"

He chokes on a gulp of mead. "If it comes to that, she's bunking with you."

Silva grins, looking happier than she has in awhile. "No argument here."

6.09

Aidan reclines on the couch. "Nice people, the elders of Dwaline-Het."

I fight the internal chill as I draw the water for Aidan's bath for him. It doesn't leave much energy for replying. "Mm."

He looks at me sharply. "Evonalé, are you—" Aidan stops suddenly, comprehension flashing over his face, and he laughs long and hard. "Charla?" he asks, when he gathers the breath to manage it.

I frown, irritated that he couldn't have warned me if he already knew of this. I pour the water into the basin. "She speaks elvish."

"Constantly." He takes a few deep breaths. "She is elfin. Even felfin, I believe. Her father was a refugee who died back when the Shadow first broke out in Salles a few years ago. Her mother is a halfling, human and dwarf, so she's more elf than anything else and likes emphasizing that for certain visitors."

"Like you."

He shrugs. "Salles is notoriously accepting of other kinds." His eyes shine as he struggles not to smirk. "And she's made more likely to use it with… encouragement."

I stare at him, trying to figure out what he's not telling me. He pointedly winks.

I scowl at him, not that he can see it behind my veil. "Thanks." I take up my knitting.

"Where are you going?" he asks as I turn the door handle.

I curtsy with mock politeness. "I'll be sitting outside while you bathe, Your Highness."

He looks from me to the water and back. "Oh," he says. "I thought…" Aidan shakes his head and comes my way, not finishing that sentence. "You go ahead. I'll check the market; maybe they'll have something for sale that we can use."

"Me?" I ask with enough incredulity in my tone to remind him of my station. "You're—"

"Someone with skin a great deal less sensitive than yours. Use the cursed bath." He gives a quick, false smile, and goes around me, removes the door handle from my hand, and closes the door in my face before I can frame a coherent reply.

6.08

Silva awakens with a restrained moan, which wakes me up. She stretches a little, hampered by the confines of the carriage, though she has more space than we do, since she has a full side to herself. In my grogginess, it's not hard to pretend I don't see her keen examination of me by early morning light.

My teeth chatter, aggravating my headache. Making myself cold while traveling through a mountain pass probably wasn't one of my better ideas.

"Good morning," she says finally.

I look at her dully. She shivers from the cold and continues with the depressingly cheery front, reaching over me to mock-punch Aidan in the upper arm. "Morning, Highness. Let's enjoy the sunrise while stretching the kinks from our backs!" She reaches for the rope to alert the driver that we desire his attention.

"No," Aidan says softly.

Silva narrows her eyes at him. "Aidan…" she warns.

He lazily meets her gaze. "If you wanted space, you should have taken your own coach." He shifts and wraps his arm around mine; I flinch at his unexpected touch. "We'll enter Dwaline-Het within a few hours. We'll spend the rest of the day and the night there."

I flinch again. Dwarves. And I never have been able to remember which of the Dwarfdoms is which, even to know which ones are on rock and which are in it. I'm a bit better acclimated to climate extremes than a normal human—or even dwarf—thanks to elves' tendency to live in wastelands. A dwarf might notice that. They're used to living between where humans prefer and where only elves can thrive.

My chattering teeth bite my tongue, reminding me that I'm too cold. Maybe I could make myself sick; that would keep anyone from thinking that I can handle the cold a little overwell.

But in less than a week, I'll need all my faculties in my family's presence. I should warm myself.

I know enough about dwarves to know that using magic is a bad idea. Even dwarf sages are uncommonly skilled at detecting the residual traces magic leaves after use. That Aidan's new mistress can use fire magic is not a rumor I want to reach Father. Or Carling.

That leaves the natural methods for warming myself up. It'll be a few hours before we reach a fire, and I'm cold enough that waiting would be unwise. That leaves embarrassment as means for making my temperature rise naturally.

Embarrassment. I'm stuck in a carriage across from my magic tutor and beside my prince. What could I…

Oh. I start to warm even from the idea, but thankfully I'm cold enough not to blush easily. I bite my lip, hoping Aidan won't notice as I eye him sidelong. I'm a good enough seamstress to guess how he has to be shaped for his clothing to fit as it does—I've mended it enough to know it well. And I made those trousers.

I abruptly gulp down a squeak and flush, extremely warm, body shaking and teeth chattering thanks to the abrupt temperature change. The others give me odd looks; Aidan even reaches for my forehead. I jerk away from his hand, eyes shut against the too-vivid imagination I didn't realize I had.

Considering how Aidan must look beneath the clothing I've made and mended for him wasn't such a bright idea. Men of Salles don't wear undergarments.

[***NEW POST***]

"Rakshi, Mistress?" asks the dwarf-maid who's serving us breakfast.

I shake my head. I'm having millet enough in the porridge and bread to want to try it fermented.

That King Aldrik gets along well with dwarves and their candor doesn't surprise me. What does is that the other nobles of Salles do well enough that the Dwaline Dwarfdoms and Salles have long had a good relationship. And part of dwarves' candor is calling people as they are—or in my particular case at present, presumed to be.

Those presumptions also mean that I'm to be treated fairly and well, but if I speak while Aidan's talking, I'm to be ignored. Or so the precedent from earlier this morning suggests.

I don't quite understand all the nuances, but evidently that the concept behind the terms mistress and its dwarven equivalent don't quite connect. That Aidan and I have been assigned different rooms lends to that impression.

A small young serving maid, slightly less stocky than most and her skimpy ear hair neatly braided and tied with ribbons not nearly as garish as most dwarves prefer, refills my glass with water. I decide to try to use some of the very limited dwarven that I can read. "What is mistress?" I ask quietly, no doubt slaughtering the pronunciation.

She's startled at my addressing her, startled still more by my undoubtedly horrid attempt to speak her language, and stares at me for a few seconds before bursting into a smile. "The mistress is the lord's personal… maid," she explains and quickly refills Aidan's glass of water, too.

"Thank you." That much, at least, I've been able to pick up in properly-pronounced dwarven this morning.

I watch the young maid, unusually small-framed and tall for a dwarf though still stocky, as she fills everyone's water. She moves with an odd awkwardness, too; not clumsy, but she concentrates as she moves.

She smiles often and offers cheery comments, heedless of the differences in class between her and those she serves. Charla, I hear her called. I'm a surprised that I understood enough dwarven to understand her answer.

But then I recall her answer, and I chill. Her reply hadn't been in dwarven. She'd spoken elvish.

6.07

The colorless haze, again—this time without walls. The fog is the walls; the rope whip snapping towards me is the fog, insubstantial yet solid. My cry is soundless when it slices my side.

I panic at the injury to my stomach. I curl up to protect it as best I can. But much of it remains uncovered; too much. Its bloated size hinders my feeble attempts to shield it.

Thump-thump! I hear faintly, beneath the sounds of my own panicked heartbeat and ragged breathing. Thump-thump!

I can't escape the fog, but I scramble onto my feet and stumble away, fleeing the whip. Fog-ropes lash out and bind me, trapping me. I writhe uselessly against the bonds, a whimpering cry for help all that passes my lips. Anything else I try to say doesn't make a sound.

In the same moment that my unborn child kicks my insides, I hear him calling for me.

I jerk awake and automatically lurch away from Aidan, who whispers in my ear. His quick, firm grasp of my arms keeps me from landing on Silva, who sleeps across the aisle on the other bench. The carriage sways as it travels over the stone road, already starting its incline to cross the Dwaline Mountains.

"Evonalé," he whispers again. His fingers brush a lank bit of hair from my forehead, and I realize my damp chill. "Are you all right? It sounded like a—"

"Elves don't have nightmares," I interrupt. I hate these dreams—one more evidence that I'm Father's daughter, not Mother's.

Even the faint moonlight is enough for me to see his slight smile. "We do."

"I'm not a human."

"You're not elfin, not really," he unfortunately has enough sense at this late hour to be able to notice and point out. How, I don't know. "If not human, what are you?"

I flush, grateful that his eyesight isn't nearly as good as mine in the dark, though irritated by his alertness. "I never said I wasn't human. I said I'm not a human."

"But you're not an elf."

"No," I agree.

"So my question remains, 'My beloved daughter.' If not a human, if not an elf, what are you?"

That's a question I have to think about before answering. "Both. Neither. Not either."

"Oh, that makes it a lot clearer."

"Call me a sorceress, then!" I snap. He's far more awake than anyone should be who hasn't slept in twenty hours. I'm worse off, and I've caught a short nap. "Though summoning a simple inn to sleep in is beyond me."

Aidan leans back carefully, as far away from me as he decently can considering the confines of this carriage bench. "I'd rather not submit one of my subjects to our… situation."

"No, leave that to another king to deal with."

He shrugs. "Another king's subjects would be expected to come up with silly rumors about a traveling prince and how little or much he likes his mistress. My subjects, however, know me well enough by reputation that I'd rather not submit our little play to their observational skills or gossip."

I stare blankly at him for several seconds while my tired brain sluggishly untangles the sentence. He actually gives his subjects credit for brains. "Oh."

Aidan settles himself into sleep. "Let me know if you need anything—some water, a snack, a—" He frowns in irritation. "Oh, you know me well enough to know to ask." He puts his head down.

He's too intelligent, I realize, feeling sick. Too observant. Carling wouldn't dare risk letting him live, not long, maybe not even as long as she'll let me.

That danger gives me even more reason to break him out of this mess.

6.06

A week later, I squirm as I stand by Prince Aidan's bags, waiting for some of the castle menservants to come take the luggage to the carriage that'll carry us to Grehafen.

Silva doesn't know. And she'll be riding with us. We will have to keep her thinking what she does, thinking that Aidan's forcing me into being his mistress, that I'm terrified, that he has a yet-untamed violent and temperamental side…

Without spending enough time together to want to make this farce a reality. Aidan likes me enough that the idea's appealing; he's said as much.

This is going to be an exhausting, nerve-wracking, hazardous trip, and not just for me.

Aidan comes in and looks around, checking once again to make certain we've forgotten nothing of import. His light skin takes on the grey hue everything else does from my veil.

The veil is actually rather comfortable—or, at least, it would be except for what it signifies. I don't want to consider how much Aidan has used of his own royal allowance to buy my clothing. He holds a bag of things he's evidently packed last-minute.

I shiver when he looks at me, feeling exposed in my risqué grey gown despite the long boots and gloves that at least cover most of what the dress fails to.

I'm still not used to the high skirt that threatens to show my knees, as harlots' do, or the sleevelessness of the dress but for the wide shoulder straps. Despite the gloves, my shoulders are still left bare. Even Carling would think this improper for a maiden to wear, and she's grown up around the bad examples of her father's mistresses.

"Are you ready?"

I nod; my single bag sits among his. I try to avoid thinking of why.

He likewise nods in response, distractedly, and starts heading back to the door to probably go check on the horses again.

"Silva will be in the carriage with us," I blurt.

That stops him. Prince Aidan pauses before he turns towards me. "Yes?"

"How will we keep the… act like… make her still think…?"

A smile tugs his lips. "She won't expect me to… take my fun along the way, with her in the carriage. That's why she is sharing our ride, in fact; she insisted on accompanying us instead of traveling in her own." Which some people of the old school still think more appropriate for a promised maiden. According to the stories that gossips tell, philanderers usually seduce naïve young women while traveling.

No matter that the man already has a mistress—he can easily take the other who rides with them. Never mind that Queen Yuoleen's fall came during a horseback ride turned picnic.

"But when we stop to sleep—"

"Yes?"

I remind myself that his sharpness isn't from anger. "I should probably have a few bruises the next day." We'll be taking a leisurely week for the nigh eighty-league trip.

He flinches. "You don't expect me to inflict that?"

It's good for him. He's too protective of me, a whelp. "Yes."

Aidan's brown eyes are wearied as their owner stares at me for several seconds. "One stop," he agrees in resignation. "I'll only cause it once."

"And take liberties?"

"Power—" He swallows the curse as he stomps away. It takes him a good minute to resume control of himself and return. "Hold your hand, touch your shoulder, all right. I've done that before. Arm around the waist, perhaps. But we are not sharing a bed."

I stiffen. "Of course not!" I'm not fool enough to think that a safe behavior for a man and a woman who wish to avoid intimacy.

"And I'm not kissing you."

That could harm the credibility of our charade. I pause and consider my response. "What quality of mistress I must be if my master won't even—"

My face in his suddenly-there hands halts my tongue, my mouth abruptly dry. This is better, I repeat firmly to myself as I fight back the internal chill and icy tears.

"Why do you fight so, Evonalé? Why fight so strongly for something you don't want?"

I keep my face as impassive as I can while the uncontrollable cold tears run one at a time down my cheeks, his hands, to moisten the cuff of his sleeve.

He scowls at my refusal to reply, stroking my cheekbone with this thumb. "Whatever you do in this game, don't play temptress," he murmurs. "That's not one of the roles we've established."

And he doesn't trust himself with temptation if I entice him, I assume. The knowledge makes my stomach churn.

Some small part of my mind realizes I could use that to my advantage if I ever need to escape Drake's abuse. There are ways to ensure that a child will likely be by one lover and not another.

My stomach twists within me at the thought. No. Royal bastard by incest I might be, but I am not a harlot.

But if I can't avoid it entirely, I'd rather be used and have a bastard sired on me by my old friend than by my half-brother. Aidan wouldn't brutalize me. That thought has more appeal than I like admitting, even to myself.

He still holds my face in his hands. I examine him, the temperature conflict between fear and embarrassment from my thoughts now keeping me at a more normal temperature.

I step back, just enough to pull away from him. "Highness?"

"Yes, Evonalé?"

The way he looks at me makes my stomach jerk in yet another direction. It's wrong, those thoughts. Aidan's going to be hurt enough by my death. I'd be a horrid person to intentionally add more guilt to that.

I shake my head; William clears his throat from the doorway. "Pardon, Highness." From the tension in his mien and voice, I doubt he means the apology. "I'm here to fetch your bags."

And the act continues.

"Come in."

William gathers the last of the bags in this one trip. He tries to step between me and Aidan, to separate us, to give me space away from the man who's evidently abusing me. Aidan doesn't allow it and takes my arm. With a glare at his prince, William leaves the room with his load.

Maybe I should check the food; I wouldn't want one of the well-meaning but mislead servants to attempt to assassinate Aidan. His grandmother killed her husband, King Jarvis by poisoning.

I follow, carrying a small one of my knitting on one arm while Prince Aidan escorts me by the other arm through the castle to the carriage.

I say 'escort,' but he keeps a firm grip on my elbow. I mutely let him pull me along, letting myself be slow, labored; bent. I shuffle my feet, avoid others' gazes; flinch away from Aidan's gaze.

From others' responses, I'm apparently doing very well in my imitation of Mother, of the girls I saw when I was small who had caught Father's eye. Some relished his attentions. Most didn't. A fool could realize that Father was no man that a woman would want to marry, for her own sake.

Now I just need to convince myself that entire façade is a good thing.

6.05

It could have been worse.

As I stare at the shredded fabric, the strewn furniture, and the utterly destroyed balcony, I force myself to remember that. I'm not sure I want to know what spell or spells Silva used.

Tried to use, rather. She's been unconscious for the past two hours. Faed Nirmoh doesn't look too worried, though, so I'm pretty sure Silva's ignorant attempt to 'free' me from Aidan hasn't cost her sanity.

I stoop to right one upended stool, but Aidan's slight headshake catches my eye. I stop and straighten slowly into my now-customary anxious slouch. Keeping myself cold helps with the acting, though it also makes my cut feet and hands hurt more.

I notice William's glare at Aidan and flinch away. It shouldn't have surprised me, with the lax attitude of Salles' rulers, that others show their fury at and contempt of the Crown Prince for his presumed abuse of me.

They shouldn't, though. Showing your ruler you hate him… it's not right.

The other servants help me a lot, now. My work's usually done by the time I find it. When I do find it. They apparently relish sending me on lengthy searches throughout the castle, to keep me away from Aidan.

Then there are their pitying looks. I avoid them.

Ironically, the nobles have taken Aidan's violence as proof of my prior innocence. A few avoid me from embarrassment, but others—most—treat me civilly.

And a few of the noblewomen treat me with even the tad of friendliness some think due concubines. With the noble families' common marriages of convenience, not a few prefer their spouses' use of alternative sources of, ah, comfort.

Not that I'm even a concubine—if my situation were true, I'd at best be an unwilling mistress. Concubines have contracts, and their families are reimbursed for their daughters' infamy. And a concubine's children by her lover receive some financial support, even after the contract ends.

Upper middle-class women and lower nobility are concubines. Poorer girls are mistresses and prostitutes—rarely courtesans. Most courtesans are girls like me, baseborn children of the court who decide to take the only high-class position available to our type of girl.

And in all this mess, there's Lallie, who now works thrice weekly around the castle and gives me a little secretive smile or wink when I see her. Geddis avoids me from discomfort, but I sometimes catch a glimpse of her confusion as she sneaks a studying look at Aidan.

That at least those two have realized that something very different must be happening for the prince to be alive gives me as much concern as it does comfort. Surely it will occur to Silva, too. I'm surprised it hasn't already.

Or has it, and might she have intentionally attacked in such a way that it would be as ineffective as much as it seemed legitimate? The prophetess has enough intellect in her to be devious, when necessity dictates it. Anyone who doubts it need only watch how she manages the nobility who scorn her.

Not that their scorn of her makes much sense. Even if her father were exiled, Silva's status as Prophetess of the King should be unaffected by her family line. Something else must make them hate her so, but what? She is no baseborn waif, but some now treat me, the Crown Prince's presumed mistress, better than the King's own Prophetess. It makes no sense.

Sometimes I wonder how much I don't know about the people around me, but I try not to think about it much. If I haven't learned it by now, I doubt I will before Drake or Carling kills me.

Or I kill myself. I don't consider that possibility much. It's frighteningly tempting. I don't want to face Drake's abuse, but if that somehow ends up freeing Grandmother's people…

What right do I have to rid Aleyi of me without fulfilling the prophecy, and without doing what I can to make sure Aidan's own life isn't cut short by a treacherous wife?

And I suspect, as poorly as Aidan is certain to take my pending death, my death at my own hand… would not be good for him.

I feel awkward as I stand in the room, servants milling around to pick things up, but I, the cause of the mess, am banned from helping as sure as if Aidan had slapped me for trying. Not that he's ever actually hit me. I'm disinclined to give him opportunity.

"Evonalé!"

I jerk back and trip at his unexpected sharp statement by my ear. William catches me and glares at Prince Aidan. I squirm a little, but he still holds me fast, moving me away when Aidan reaches for me.

The prince's angry expression makes me flinch, again, when I notice it. William feels it and pulls me behind him. "Haven't you done enough to her?!" the Runner angrily demands. "You've betrayed her trust, hurt her in a way no woman should have to endure, destroyed her prospects—"

My laugh interrupts William's irreverent and foolhardy tongue-lashing of his prince, my overloud, hysterical laugh. I never had prospects, and I know the tone of my laughter reveals it.

Others' confusion ensuing from my laughter's revelation quickly sobers me. Servants aren't stupid. They've known there's something odd about me, just not what. My laugh, my revelation that I never expected to marry, has likely already confirmed to the faster-witted ones that I'm a royal bastard. Any less of a father, and I would not have needed to flee my native kingdom.

Properly, I'm what nobles mean when they say "child of the court." Probably. I'll find out at Marigold's next sewing lesson after she hears the gossip. I'm sure she and her father won't mind the chance to deride me.

I hiccup once, still fighting the urge not to laugh again at people thinking that I, a baseborn whelp with a death sentence as surely as if I stood on the executioner's platform, had actually hoped to marry someday. Sure, I've known they expected me to marry, but that they'd thought that I would want to marry had never occurred to me.

"William." Aidan's voice is stern despite the low tone. "Step aside."

"You two-faced—"

I yank myself from William's grip before he can hang himself and shuffle to the side, away from William, but not towards Aidan, either. Of all I learned from Mother, I never would've thought that this would be of use. That's one place where my background has prepped me well. I know how a stolen woman can be.

"Will—" That's too secure. I swallow and make my voice waver. "Will Silva be okay?"

"Ah, let's use our minds, shall we?" Most people think of this particular tone of Aidan's as condescending. Very, very few realize it's his tone for when he longs to knock some sense into the pompous idiots of his social stratus so the social rules can be sensible but realizes there's nothing to be done for it.

Then again, very, very few have seen him actually slap a girl.

His forced calm makes a stroll of what would otherwise be pacing. "Silva's beau, Faed Nirmoh, has been attending her. Faed Nirmoh's job is analyzing and containing insane mages. Silva has an unfortunate appointment with insanity at some point in her future, but as her beau has not declared her in need of containment, I am certain she is well. Enough."

A sigh escapes more lips than mine, but I think I'm more reassured than anyone else is by Aidan's statement. Another reminder that I'm the only one present who knows he is—that we are—acting.

I'm exhausted, which helps me not notice Aidan's approach and therefore wince when he grips my arm. Everyone watches me; I shake my head with the determined awkwardness of someone who'd rather be hurt than get others hurt, and duck behind Aidan. They'd intervene, help me, if I asked.

Not that I can. I can't ask it of them. Though the gossips now probably wag their tongues, declaring me a masochist.

Would it be wicked for me to ask the Creator to speed me to my impending death? I weary of living.

6.04

"What? Not tempted?" Drake laughs with perverted amusement. I writhe, fighting to free myself from the grip he has on my arm. It hurts awfully; bruises form.

In the colorless haze of the dream, I can only tell that the figure chained to the wall has been a prisoner for a long time. The quiet voice is male. "Hardly."

"When did you last see a woman, Liathen? Don't tell me you don't find her at all appealing."

"I am reminded of my mother."

I shiver, recognizing the tone of Drake's laugh. The pain will start soon.

A bit of fire breaks off from the torch on the wall, white in this bleak monochromatic cell. It slowly moves towards me. I should move away, I know, but I feel myself falling forward, towards it—

Falling backward wakes me up.

As my mind catches up with me, I feel Aidan catch me. "Evonalé?! Are you all right?!" I shake my head to clear it. That dream was a bit stranger than usual. I've had vague images of that prisoner before, that was the first time I'd heard his name. Liathen. Like King Liathen, forefather to Queen Yuoleen.

Then I realize I'm in Prince Aidan's arms, and I fling myself away. My forehead hits the bedpost; I yelp.

After a few seconds of white light, my eyes focus on Aidan. He looks aghast, half-risen to come to my aid. "I'm sorry—forgive me—I—"

"You didn't tell Silva?!" I blurt, hotly furious at what I know the Prophetess will now think of him. "Did you not tell your father, either?!"

"Father did know; he's the one who gave me permission and means to do this to begin with. Fael Honovi respects him… as much as she respects anyone. Who isn't faery. Or as old as she is."

"And Silva?!"

"Faed Nirmoh said not to tell her, that it would work better if we didn't."

I growl. "As if she's not going to try to break me out of here."

He hesitates. "Right." His discomfort soars. "Which is why Father advises we go on a bit of a sabbatical…"

Alone together, I know he's not saying. "And you'd rather risk an angry prophetess after you."

Another pause. "Yes."

"Because you don't want Fael Honovi to kill you." I almost regret my harsh tone when he flushes, but only almost. It's good for him.

He clears his throat. "You… believe that's all. That hinders me. Your godmother's protection?"

I bite my lip. No, I don't, but he can't afford to like me, not like this. But I know what killing his fondness for me can cost me.

What does it matter? Let me have reason to fear him. It won't matter for long.

"What other reason can you have?" I finally reply.

"A little respect for a woman I care—"

Enough of this! "You shouldn't care!" I snarl. "You can't afford it! I—"

"What, because you have some prophecy hanging over your head, I can't—"

"I'm a bastard, Aidan!" I snap in exasperation. "Born on the wrong side of the bedsheets? With an uncle as my father!"

"I know," he replies coldly. "You think you're the only family with cause for shame in the closet? That doesn't matter, what your father did, what your grandmother did. Those aren't your actions."

I poke him in the chest. "Crown prince," I remind him. "Who will rule if you don't?"

"And there's a little betrothal looming over my own head." Though sour, he doesn't block his voice from being wry.

I hide my relief that at his apparent comprehension. He can't afford to care for me, not unless he wants to die. "I don't want to hear any nonsense about you 'caring' for me, again. Understand?"

"It's not…" He frowns, brow furrows as he avoids my gaze. Prince Aidan nods in resignation. "I understand, Your Highness." His lips quirk at my glare.

"And I'm not a princess."

He draws a quick breath and slowly releases it. "Of course not." He goes to the far corner, away from the broken window and the chiffonier, and pulls up two short stools I hadn't previously noticed. There's no way to leave from that side of the room. He graciously offers one stool to me.

My hands and feet remember to start throbbing and stinging from the bruises and cuts. "Thank you."

He's gone for only few minutes before he returns with a large bowl of steaming water and a towel. He sets them down on the floor by my stool. "For your feet. I sent to Ygrain for a plantain poultice."

That herb actually helps me, unlike peat. "Thanks." I watch him cautiously as he takes a seat, himself. I recognize the politely nonchalant court face he wears, and I pay attention for hints of his true emotions beneath it. He's hiding them unusually well, today.

The water feels so good, soothing as it helps work the glass out of my feet. I sigh heavily and relax. "Thank you," I say again.

He shrugs, still watching me. Then he looks away and rolls his shoulders in a stretch. "So, did you have something else to scold me about, or should we discuss where to take this foolhardy plan from here?"

I start, jostling the bowl as my temperature also rises. I hadn't realized I was scolding him, scolding my own prince! "Your Highness—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupts, weary. "You didn't like Silva's ignorance. That was at her fiancé's insistence. She also has to come to Grehafen, and…" He pauses, obviously unsure if I should know this or not. "Being a Hearer makes her more susceptible to having others hear her mind, unfortunately."

I stiffen. I hadn't even thought that perhaps Father or Drake or Carling might be able to access others' thoughts. Of the threesome, Drake's least likely to have studied it; and I'd bet more than a quen that Carling has the ability. "Is it believed…?"

He shrugged. "It's a possibility."

I shiver. "But what of us?" Wait… I stare at him in remembrance of his inexplicable magic-based trick, earlier. "What was that… shield that you had earlier, blocking Silva and me from…?"

Prince Aidan smiles. "I thought you'd never ask."

I blush and look away as he starts to unbutton his shirt. "Highness…"

"Just the collar," he says in quiet reassurance. I look back up to see him duck his head and pull a chain from around his neck. He shows it to me, draping it across his palm.

Something about the chain… feels… strange, like when I was in the Wailing Marshes. There's magic in this metal. "Naril?"

He nods sharply. Only that rare metal can have magic fused into it. Few have the skill to metalwork naril, and very few of those aren't dwarves.

"It's a shielding charm. An advanced mage can work around one, but if they don't know you're wearing it…"

The shield would bring me that much more time to defend myself before one of them killed me. But… "Me?" What of him?

"You're the one with the probably lethal prophesy dangling over your skull."

I give him a long look. He keeps his court mask. He knows I'll likely die, and he still fosters his fondness for me? Has love made him foolish?

—No, don't think that. He doesn't love me. He can't.

"You're the prince helping this whelp fulfill that prophecy," I quietly remind him.

"Who is well-allied enough that they have a vested interest in keeping him alive, at least until he brings his… wife… home." He says wife as if the concept disgusts him. Carling likely does.

In a swift movement, he takes the chain and drops it over my head to land around my neck. I gasp at the initial contact, startled by the buzzing sensation that steadily diminishes as it adapts to my own grounding in the magic surrounding me.

I try to avoid heating from Prince Aidan's too-close contact. One of his hands rests on my shoulder while the other brushes my cheek. He drops his hands when I flinch away, and he touches the chain on my breastbone, instead.

"This will only shield from magic aimed towards you, not at you," he warns. "And even then—"

"They can work around it, once they know it's there." It will not block nothing that specifically calls me by name. Once they recognize me, I'll be on my own entirely. "I understand."

6.03

It takes barely a fortnight to prepare for the farce. I've… behaved normally, as best I can. Ygrain and a few others have asked me if I'm unwell, so I daresay my best is an ill job.

"William's making a cooking spoon for his bride!" hoot some of the other Runners and servants. If William were an elf, he'd be able to fry an egg on his skin, with how red his face is, right now.

Even I smile a little. For them. Some will feel guilty enough about my lot once I'm dead; I don't need to add to their pending burden.

Silva laughs with them and gets a few good-natured teases of her own. Everyone knows her wedding is some day in the next year, but I have yet to find someone who will admit when it is to be.

I can't bring myself to laugh with them. Things are going to get uncomfortable for me very quickly, very soon, and I'm not looking forward to seeing everyone's expressions when that happens.

A bottle shatters on the door's frame. The laughter stops as everyone turns. The room's tension catapults when Silva leaps to her feet in alarm. "Your Highness!"

The universal anxiety helps me act as if I don't know what's happening. I hope to the Creator this works. Carling detests physical violence.

The prince stumbles in as if drunk—and from the smell, I daresay he's at least partway there. "Can you not… shut your mouths?!" he grumbles, his glower focused on me.

Guilt and worry pierce me at Silva's frantic glance my way. Silva doesn't know?! "Your Highness—"

Aidan comes my way. Silva tries to interfere. He shoves her aside. I wince for Faed Nirmoh's sake, then realize that I should've said something, too.

That's when others start realizing what's happening. Cries of "Your Highness!" and "Get his father!" don't give him pause.

I cry out as he yanks me off my seat by the hair. He shakes me and shoves me down in time to deck Silva, again. "You little wench!"

I choke on tears. He yanks me up—I squawk from another strike. "Y—y—your H—highness, I—"

"Taking advantage of my father's good graces, threatening him with your faery godmother."

He grips me by the back of the neck and shakes me. "You made her up, didn't you?! You little baseborn—"

I think that if this weren't staged I'd already be screaming. "Your Highness!" I shriek, hoping I sound like I'm begging. "I—I don't know what you're talking about; she's not made up; she's…"

Another fist grabbing my hair to pull me up interrupts me; he wraps his arms around mine. I writhe and twist and squirm, to no avail. The only one older than the prince in this room is Silva, and she's groaning from I don't know what.

I'm shocked that she doesn't cast a spell, but maybe she doesn't know any defense ones that would work properly within a group of people. I realize that I should probably be pulling my magic, too.

He said he'd handle that, I remind myself without reassurance. I struggle to grab the magical threads with my mind while fighting physically. The purple magically-induced fire appears behind him, and I mentally jerk it towards his back—my magic hits something—

I screech from the pain that explodes in my head. His arm moves downwards to get a firmer grip on me, around my waist. The half-drunk Prince Aidan drags me out of that room.

So that's why Silva was groaning. It takes me 'til halfway down the next hall to recover enough from the pain to continue my necessary fight and screams. And I'm used to pain.

I flinch at Prince Aidan's grunt when one of my flails strikes him. But he still holds me fast.

With a quick prayer to the Creator, I draw a breath. "Fael—"

His arm in my mouth halts my screech and he whisks me the rest of the way to his suite, aided by my reflexive curling up. I grimace the apology I can't say and chomp down on his arm.

"Curse you, wench!" He tosses me on the floor. I scramble to my feet, trying to look frightened and not relieved that he still blocks the doorway.

He's glaring at me. That, I do find frightening. I'm not acting when I try to flee around him when he steps towards me.

That just ends up with me in his steadfast grip, again. I squeal and struggle and strike him and start to fear that this might be getting too realistic.

"Highness! Highness, please!" I consider conjuring another fire for all of a second before deciding against it. The headache still lingers from last time.

I hear myself shrieking as he drags me through his suite. He flings me into his bedroom and slams the door closed behind me. I fling myself at it, but I fail to open it before he locks it. "Yie, no!" I cry. "Aidan!"

He leaves. I scream and pound the door. My hand bruises. The window's glass breaks easily, but it's too high up for me to climb. Blood pools from my hand and bare feet from the shards.

I whip around, scanning the room for another route to escape. The plants lining the walls don't help—I need to stay tense to keep up the pretense, not relax.

I pause upon noticing a full-length mirror beside his chiffonier, the carved and polished wooden frame matching the chest of drawers.

Why such a large mirror? Aidan isn't vain.

But that distraction helps me calm enough to remember the unlocking spell Faed Nirmoh taught me. And that this entire farce was planned.

I hear no one nearby; I can only suppose that Aidan locked the door to his suite, too. I lean against the door, away from the broken glass. I slide down the door to my knees, exhausted.

As sleep takes me, I realize Aidan's flight bodes poorly for our idea. He wasn't supposed to leave. If he didn't trust himself around me in that incident, how much worse will it be when we are stuck, together, for days on end?

I shiver. At least, whatever happens, I won't have to survive it for long. It'll soon be over. And I'll have the satisfaction of knowing that I've done whatever was possible to try to free him from Carling. At least.

6.02

After an hour in Aidan's old schoolroom thinking of ways to offend my offensive family, Aidan speaks up. "You really think Drake will try to take advantage of you?"

I yelp as my needle plunges into my hand from my jerk. "Now it speaks."

Aidan ignores my sour tone. "But you're his sister."

Pressing the needle wound firmly with one hand, I turn from where I sit near the fire with the sewing and give my prince a long look. His expression is confused and disgusted at the idea. "I know," I remind him.

"You don't really think he'd…" Aidan swallows uncomfortably. "His own sister?"

"Half sister," I correct, releasing the pressure. My hand still hurts. Maybe I should use duller needles. "And yes."

"But you're siblings. It would be like me… Claiborne… Ulgh."

I sigh crossly. "It would amuse him," I say loudly, fumbling as I try to return to my sewing. My hand hurts too much. I fling the cloth from me with a huff. "It's like a family tradition, all right?" Yes, I really wanted to admit my incestuous birth aloud to Prince Aidan, to the man who I've been told would have me for a wife if he could. As if I'll even live to marry.

"Tradi…" Aidan's confusion fades into pale disgust. The white tint of his skin turns almost green. "Because your father… your mother. His… sister." He nods. "Right."

"Half sister." I don't point out the futility of this effort to plan if he's taken this long to realize the importance of it. "That didn't sound like an idea."

Aidan springs to his feet and paces madly. "Look—it's not—I'm—" He takes a few swift turns around the room before he turns on me. "I do have one , but you'll… lose it, go off, positively hate it." He continues pacing. "I just wish I could think of something else… Something would have to irritate Carling enough to want to call this wedding off."

I think of this kingdom's wealth, size, strength, and allies. It's an advantageous match for her. "No, probably not."

I don't think Aidan means to be as threatening as he looks when he whirls on me at that statement. "No?! Nothing?!"

He comes closer, eyes wildly moving around as he thinks. "I guess you're right. I could bring my own bastard son and his mother with me, and that accursed witch wouldn't care."

I blink. "You have a son?"

"No!" Aidan snaps and abruptly moves away, again. "So. We're left with keeping you alive. Huh. A way that you couldn't be noticed—Makish take them, I can't think of anything else! What—"

He actually notices my lingering wide-eyed shock at his curse. Few dare name the gatekeeper of the etherworld so lightly. It's dangerous. As in, worse than offending a faery, dangerous. The Creator has been known to let that head daemon have his way with those who treat the high things lightly.

Aidan's jaw works as if trying to rid the mouth of a bitter taste. Small wonder, after what he just said. "What?!" he demands.

I glance at my sewing and quickly decide against trying to get more work done as we brainstorm how I'm to travel to Grehafen. I roll it up to put away. "What have you thought of?"

He huffs and shakes his head sharply, resuming his furious pacing. "You won't like it."

"What is it?" For once, I'm the one pressing for an answer. It's almost amusing.

His sigh is frustrated as he comes to me, grabbing my hands. I'm still, unresponsive from my surprise. He massages my hands for a few seconds but seems to realize that isn't helping and drops them. "Drake saw you as a serving girl. Nallé."

I wait for him to continue. He doesn't. "…And?"

"We're to show them every discourtesy." He stops again.

"…So?"

"You could…" Prince Aidan clears his throat. "You could go veiled. —Drake's horrible with face—"

He catches me as I fall off my chair. I bite my lip, ashamed of my tears as I rock in the reflexive ball I've curled into. I swallow hard, instinctually panicked at the thought of going veiled.

"Evonalé—"

"I know," I manage to whisper between my sobs.

"You can't let them recognize you. This way, they'll avoid even looking—"

"I know!" I choke out. Just when I thought my reputation couldn't be sullied any worse. I fight panic's ice. "But… but you won't…?"

"Of course not!" Aidan looks aghast and insulted that I'd even suggest that he'd make the veil a truth. "It'll just be for show."

I try to believe him. I do. A whimper escapes me, anyway.

He wraps his arms around me and strokes my hair. He murmurs in my ear. "Calm down. Please, we need to think through what they'll think of this—"

"They'll think what anyone with half a brain would! Yie, even Marigold knows a veil denotes a master's mistress!" My voice doesn't snap as I wish it would; my throat's too tight. I barely squeeze out the words.

"No!" He makes me look him in the eye. "Not here!" His brown eyes blaze with—with something I can't—won't—read. He holds me fast for a long moment before pulling me close, putting his chin on my head and rocking the still balled-up me. "I wouldn't do that to you, your reputation."

"You've d—done an awful lot to me," I tell him sourly, loathing the persistent fear that makes me stutter. "And my reputation can't get much worse."

He stills. I listen to his heartbeat and wish I could make mine settle like I hear his do. "You don't really want to do that."

"Do we have much choice?" I ask. "Is it normal for a betrothed prince to pick a mistress while on the way to his wedding?"

Even I know it's noticeably suspicious. And that's how things would appear, if I conveniently started wearing a veil while accompanying him to Grehafen for the wedding.

I shiver as Aidan's fingers toy with my hair. "Your Highness…" My attempt at a light tone falls flat.

He abruptly drops me and moves away; I land on the stone floor with my hands and knees. I bite back the squeak and stare at the floor for several seconds before I turn to look at Aidan.

The prince looks ashamed and appalled, but also frustrated and angry. "Forgive me!" he says, likely more harshly than he intends.

I sit up slowly. There's another reason he doesn't like his idea, I realize, another reason he would rather implement it for as little time as possible. "You…" I can barely get the words out. "You… fear…" His flinch tells me I'm right. "Your resolve?"

He peruses me with his brown eyes. There's a long pause before he responds quietly. "I'm a man, Evonalé. And you are no eyesore." I heat at the compliment. "Any man…" He turns his eyes away. "Extended close quarters, contact, pretending to be… that way…" He shakes his head. "It's a temptation, Evonalé."

My skin crawls as fear's ice streaks through me. I swallow. "If it helps, Your Highness…" He reluctantly looks at me. I shrug stiffly and try to keep the tone a light tease. "Fael Honovi would probably kill you if you tried."

It takes him a moment to process that. Then Prince Aidan breaks into a self-contained bout of chuckling that graduates into laughter. I manage to relax and smile some at the sound.

But the tension returns when he comes back over to me, takes me by either shoulder, and has me stand up. "Thank you, Evonalé." His warm tone shouldn't surprise me, but it does. And then—

He spears my cheek with gentle kiss. "I—"

I hastily shake my head; I can't stop what he thinks, but he mustn't confess that.

He understands. "…I should go."

My mouth is dry as I close my eyes. I can't pretend anymore that he isn't fond of me, that Faed Nirmoh was right in what he said of the prince. My death will not be easy for him.

I hear him leave.

6.01

Year 250 of the Bynding

The Kingdom of Salles

Spring,
the elven new year

Once you have been affected by magic, any children born to you can inherit that effect. This is true for effects both good and bad.

Curse magic is terrible, needing only vaguely defined victims to harm. If curse magic worked like the rest of magic, that harm, too, would be inheritable.

Fortunately, but for the ninth day after their birth, children are immune to curses.

—Endellion

---

I often find new clothing, now, draped over my stool when I return to my room for the night. Usually it's something practical, like a chemise or an apron; occasionally it's a blouse or skirt. Once I found a set of trousers. Aidan said I'd find them easier to run in than a skirt. Somehow, I doubt many others would appreciate the joke.

Sometimes, the gift is a simply elegant gown worthy of a rich noblewoman; another jest I'm sure others wouldn't like. He never speaks of these, but I know they're from him. I can smell his mild cologne in the fabric. They're always modestly cut, of human style, but I don't wear them or let myself think too much about what he means by them.

I'll be dead soon enough. As spring turns to summer, Prince Aidan will bring his wife home from Grehafen.

Carling will kill me, preferably before she tosses me to our brother's mercy, but she has too much self-control to make me think she'd settle for that. Maybe she'll coax Aidan into abusing me, instead, since we've grown up together. She'd find that amusing. A few months, that's all I have left.

I can do nothing. Faed Nirmoh was right—fleeing would invoke greater harm than I've already brought to Salles.

I'm beyond sick of others dying because of me; I'm weary to the point of numbness. I'm not sure that's a good thing. From the frowns I've received from Faed Nirmoh the few times I've seen him in the past few months, I think he'd agree with that assessment.

Not having a say in anything comes with being a lowly maidservant. I am controlled by those with power, with influence—not with spells, perhaps, but through the power of my masters' arms.

Aidan has made this truth most obvious. He does not hurt me, true, but he can force me to obey him. He dragged me somewhere I didn't want to go and had me change garments in his presence. He could have watched, had he wanted.

Even the many gardens about the castle can no longer soothe me, make me comfortable. I work the sewing, as I have for years, preparing for the wedding.

Sometimes William sits nearby with his whittling, but more often Aidan watches me as he does now. I don't know why. He doesn't speak to me in here. He only watches my work.

He seems disappointed as he watches me embroider he and his betrothed's names into a bedsheet. Why? Did he expect me to be a lovesick fool and hide my own there, too?

Even if he does somehow bear the hope that Carling will die young, leaving him to marry a woman of his own choosing, he will not always wait. When he grows decrepit and dies, the she-mage will be merely greying. If Carling lets him live that long.

And by the time Aidan has reached the natural end of his life, I'll have been long dead, myself.

In finishing the bedsheet, I slip and prick my finger. Immediately the prince takes my hand and presses the hurt finger, stopping any bleeding. He suppresses a quiver at my now-normal chill.

He cups my hands in his as he faces me. "Housemaid," he gently begins, then shakes his head. "No… Evonalé." Regret fills his mien. "My father… will speak with you."

Nothing more comes from his lips, though I wait for it. Am I to be dismissed from Salles before the wedding? I pick up my sewing, put it away, and take my leave.

King Aldrik cares little for finery or freshening for his presence, even when it is ostensibly to show respect. I proceed to him directly from my mending.

My entrance, quiet and unobtrusive as it is with me letting myself in to stand by the door, nonetheless interrupts the debate over the glass taxes between King Aldrik and Marigold's father. I curtsy, head bowed at the nobleman's glare. "My apologies, Your Majesty. I'll wait outside."

"No," says the king before I can do as I suggested. "Carraway, leave us." The nobleman's sense of having been insulted doesn't keep him from getting up from his chair and obeying, though he does nudge some books off a bookcase as he passes me. I pick them up and put them back.

Once we're alone in this room, His Majesty seated at a desk that happens to carry in weight as much paper as it does books, silence reigns for a long minute. The fire sputters, half dying due to some servant's poor laying of the wood. Air cannot flow among the logs, so the fire smothers before it can even light properly.

His Majesty notices where I look. "Bit chilly in here, isn't it? Please, come. Sit down and see what you might do to help with the fire."

Magically, I don't need him to specify, and I obey. The purple of magically-fueled fire shifts to orange as it forces the logs to light.

One of the kitchen maids—Geddis, actually—stands by the door with a tray. His Majesty signals her in to pour us tea, and Geddis likewise hands us each a little plate with some bite-size sandwiches on them.

"Thank you, Geddis."

Her smile quickly falls with a nervous glance at His Majesty. The tray shakes a little in her hands, and she draws a deep breath. "Anything else, Your Majesty?"

"That will be all. Please inform Proctor that we're not to be disturbed."

Geddis bobs but doesn't curtsy with her full arms. "Yes, Your Majesty."

She leaves, and King Aldrik sips his tea. He pauses, and motions to me. "Please, eat."

"It's unbefitting my station, Your Majesty," I say quietly. I'm not hungry.

He gives me a long look, then looks around, a bit sad. "Eighteen years ago this summer, your mother sat there." He eats a minisandwich as I process that. "I was supposed to marry her, you know."

That, I hadn't thought of. But if King Aldrik had originally been betrothed to Grandfather's daughter… My mother was his only daughter.

"But her father lied to mine, told him no daughter existed. So I married Maitane." His voice softened. "She was a fine woman, in her own right."

Courtesy demands I express my own sympathies. "She was."

"Evonalé, you realize that I know precisely who and what you are. You are no titleless foundling; if you had been I would have left you in a reputable orphanage, but I would not have taken you under my personal care. You are a princess."

I shake my head. "No…"

"Your mother was heiress to Queen Yuoleen. You were her only child that anyone knows of."

"Who never should have existed, Your Majesty."

"It makes no difference."

I'd like to see him try to convince his council of that. "My father was my uncle!"

"It makes no difference—not to the spells bound to your family!"

After that firm declaration, King Aldrik calmly eats another minisandwich. "You are the child of Queen Yuoleen's heiress; her crown is yours by birthright, and reinforced by prophecy."

A prophecy that's more likely to result in my death than this royal bastard's miraculous ascent to a throne, but I don't correct him. He doesn't want to hear it.

"You will retrieve your crown."

I smile politely. Whether I play along now or sullenly refuse to let him believe his silly fantasy, I'll be just as dead in a year. I can afford to indulge him this much. I take a sip of tea.

"You must go with my son to Grehafen."

I choke. By the Creator, not Drake! Creator-that-is, don't put me near Drake!

"I trust you will aid my son in offering them every discourtesy."

It's several still-panicked moments before I process "Discourtesy?"

His Majesty's stern visage refuses to offer any hope of negotiation or alleviation of these demands. "I daresay you know your father and his scions well enough to judge what would cause serious affront."

For the first time since Prince Aidan's Scoreyear ball, unwanted tears threaten to fall. Mother called them that: your father and his scions. The tear freezes painfully in my eye from my temperature.

He gets up and goes to one budding plant beside one of the many bookcases in this, his library. He plucks one blossom, sniffs and fingers it. His back remains towards me.

"You'll share that knowledge with Aidan. I'm sure some clever way to hide you will come up between the two of you, while preferably making Carling loathe him. The marriage can only be broken by mutual consent."

Then he turns back my way. "This betrothal must be dissolved."

There's only one answer I can give to that. "…I understand, Your Majesty."

And, perhaps unfortunately, I do. Carling isn't a safe wife to own.