A noble husband would have sufficed to relieve Idony Brunt of the pains of a commoner's life, but when the Crown Prince of Siliathern himself shows interest, she can do a lot more than escape poverty. A whole lot more.
(Standalone)
Written Feb 2022...
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Forday, 23 Solarthern 1449
The Woolcombe Hotel, Woolcombe
Vigo Brunt said no man would ever fall for his daughter. They would look upon her face and admire its beauty, woolgather and yearn for a woman they had not yet met and would never meet, and she would unleash upon them a blizzard stronger than the Goddess of Winter's own. She couldn't help it—her heart held no warmth. It was an unwelcome place for a man, or so Vigo said.
When a lord actually fell at her feet one day, Idony only unleashed an apology.
"I'm so sorry, my lord—I wasn't looking," she said, curtsying quickly and reaching for the wicker basket full of linen the collision had forced her to drop. Thankfully, she had been on her way to clean them rather than taking them back to the hotel, or she would have had to wash them again. Lord Trintor was not one to let a stain ruin the reputation of his acclaimed establishment.
"No, it's my mistake," the man said, bending to pick up the basket for her. When she tried to take it, he shook his head and held it out of her reach, a smile growing on his lips. His brown eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Let me help you. Where are you taking these?"
"You'd willingly relieve a laundress of her work, my lord? I appreciate the offer, but you must have far more important business to tend to."
"I'm on vacation."
"Even more reason to spend your time elsewise."
"Please. Let me help."
Idony paused, regarding the man.
He was attractive: strong features, tall, dark-haired, a southern tan—though she'd guessed he was from the south already from his accent—and a smile capable of improving anyone's mood. She'd noticed him in the Woolcombe Hotel once before, a few days ago. He'd been flanked by two men, breathless with laughter, clothed in similarly ostentatious attire, but he was the one with the highest status, clearly—the others were followers. She couldn't imagine why he was so insistent on helping her, but she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Certainly not any horses with mouths as deep as his. "Thank you," she said, returning his smile. "This way, my lord."
He carried the basket on his shoulder and walked beside her, silent at first. When she glanced at him, he cleared his throat and asked, "What's your name?"
"Idony. Idony Brunt, if it matters."
"Does it?"
"No. No, it doesn't. Can I ask you what your name is?"
