When Meggie and Fenoglio came across the dark hall, Violante was just bending down to her father-in-law, speaking to him quietly. The prince’s expression did not change but finally he nodded, and the boy slipped down from his chair in relief. Fenoglio signaled to Meggie to stay where she was. His head respectfully bent, he stepped aside, and unobtrusively signaled to Meggie to do the same. Violante nodded to Fenoglio as she passed him, her head held high, but she didn’t even look at Meggie. She ignored the stone statues of her dead husband, too.
Her Ugliness seemed to be in a hurry to escape this dark hall in almost as much of a hurry as her son. The maid who followed her passed so close to Meggie that the servant girl’s dress almost touched her. She didn’t seem much older than Meggie herself. Her hair had a reddish tinge, as if firelight were falling on it, and she wore it loose, as only the women among the strolling players usually did in this world. Meggie had never seen lovelier hair.
“You’re late, Fenoglio!” said the Prince of Sighs as soon as the doors had closed behind the women and his grandson. His voice still came out of his mouth with an effort, like a very fat man’s. “Did you run short of words?”
“I won’t run short of words until my last breath, My Prince,” replied Fenoglio, with a bow.
Meggie wasn’t sure whether to copy him. In the end she decided on a clumsy curtsy.
At close quarters the Prince of Sighs looked even more fragile. His skin resembled withered leaves, the whites of his eyes like yellowed paper. “Who’s the girl?” he asked, bending his weary gaze on her. “Your maid? Too young to be your lover, isn’t she?” Meggie felt the blood rise to her face.
“Your Grace, what an idea!” said Fenoglio, dismissing it and putting an arm around her shoulders. “This is my granddaughter who’s come to visit me. My son hopes I shall find her a husband, and what better place for her to look for one than at the wonderful festivities you’re holding today?”
Meggie blushed more than ever, but she forced herself to smile.
“You have a son, do you?” The voice of the Prince of Sighs sounded envious, as if he begrudged any of his subjects the luck of having a living son. “It’s not wise to let your children go too far away,” he murmured, without taking his eyes off Meggie. “Only too likely that they may never come back!”
Meggie didn’t know where to look. “I’ll be going home soon,” she said. “My father knows that.” I hope, she added in her mind.
“Yes. Yes, of course. She’ll be going back. When the time comes.” Fenoglio’s voice sounded impatient. “But now we come to the reason for my visit.” He took the roll of parchment so carefully sealed by Rosenquartz from his belt and climbed the steps to the princely chair with his head respectfully bent. The Prince of Sighs seemed to be in pain. He tightened his lips as he leaned forward to take the parchment, and cool though it was in the hall, sweat stood out on his forehead. Meggie remembered what Minerva had said: This prince of ours will sigh and lament himself to death. Fenoglio seemed to think so, too.
“Aren’t you feeling well, My Prince?” he asked with concern. “No, I am not!” snapped the prince, annoyed. “Unfortunately, the Adderhead noticed it today, too.” He leaned back, sighing, and struck the side of his chair with his hand. “Tullio!” A servant clad in black, like the prince, shot out from behind the chair. He would have looked like a rather short human being but for the fine fur on his face and hands. Tullio reminded Meggie of the brownies in Elinor’s garden who had turned to ashes, although he clearly had more of the human being about him.
“Go and get me a minstrel – one who can read!” ordered the prince. “He can sing me Fenoglio’s song.” And Tullio scurried off, as willing as a puppy.