Chapter 467: A Measure of Trust

Chapter 466: A Measure of Trust

For some time after the princess had finished speaking, Jim remained silent, his gaze resting upon her as though he endeavoured to reconcile the woman before him with the image he had long carried in his mind.

At length, he lowered his eyes and passed a hand over his weathered countenance.

"Jus’ because we ’ave each other, Your ’Ighness, don’t mean our sufferin’s any less, does it?"

Lyria’s expression altered faintly, and Jim, perceiving it, continued before she might reply.

"I’m not sayin’ I don’t understand wot yer tryin’ ter tell me. I do, more’n ye might suppose. But there’s somethin’ else ter be considered, ain’t there? Everyone’s got a story, as ye say, but it depends on ’ow them stories shape the folk what live through ’em. One person’s hardship might make ’em kinder, whilst another’s makes ’em bitter. Some’ll take their troubles out upon the world, an’ others’ll spend their whole lives tryin’ ter see that no one else suffers the same."

He shifted upon the couch, his broad hands coming together between his knees.

"An’ the same goes fer nobles, don’t it? Jus’ because ye ain’t like them wot abuse their power don’t mean there ain’t a great many who do. There are, Your ’Ighness. I’ve met ’em. Spoken ter ’em. Watched ’em smile in me very face whilst they took everythin’ I ’ad, an’ left me grateful they’d not taken more besides. So ye’ll forgive me, if I don’t find it an easy thing ter believe matters shall be different, merely because ye tell me ye’re different yerself."

"I d-do not e-expect y-you to," Lyria answered quietly.

Jim regarded her a long moment, plainly surprised that she had made no attempt to dispute him.

"There’s another matter," he said, after a pause. "An’ perhaps ye’ll think me a fool fer sayin’ it, but I find it a difficult thing, ter reconcile all ye’ve told me wiv the fact that ye’re a princess."

Lyria said nothing, for she must confess she had not expected Jim to credit the whole of what she had told him.

Jim turned his gaze towards the floor, his brow furrowing as he weighed over what she had said. He could still recall the manner in which she had spoken of her childhood — her voice faltering upon certain words, her gaze fixed beyond the window, as though the memories she described had been laid out plainly before her, somewhere among the fields without.

He had beheld sorrow before. He had watched men broken beneath the weight of their own circumstance, women conceal their distress until they could bear it no longer, and children learn, far too early, that the world did not always concern itself with their suffering. He had lived enough to know the difference between a person relating a tale for the benefit of an audience, and one struggling to give proper words to something they should sooner have kept buried entire.

And the princess had not appeared, in the smallest degree, to be performing.

Indeed, he suspected she had revealed rather more than she had ever intended.

Even now, she sat with her back held straight, her hands folded neatly together, making a determined effort to recover the composure that had deserted her during her confession. Yet the faint redness about her eyes betrayed her still, as did the occasional tightening of her mouth whenever she drew breath.

She was yet holding back her tears.

Why, he wondered, did the sight of it trouble him so greatly?

Perhaps because he had expected a princess of her standing to take offence at his questions — to seek refuge behind her own title, or summon her guard, that he might be reminded of the distance set between them. He had anticipated indignation, perhaps even a threat, or at the very least that species of polished assurance which noble persons were so fond of offering, when they wished to be rid of some inconvenient conversation.

Instead, she had spoken of hunger. Of cold. Of loneliness, and of the loss of those who had once loved her.

Could he, then, have been mistaken?

Could he, and his own people besides, have directed their anger towards one who, whatever her present standing, understood a very great deal more of their own circumstance than he had ever supposed?

Jim disliked the thought, though not because he wished himself proven right for its own sake. He had spent too many years watching the powerful excuse themselves, to surrender his judgement so lightly now. Were he to change it, there ought to be good and proper cause.

And yet, he could not set aside what he had witnessed within that very room.

The princess had not merely told him she was acquainted with suffering. There was something in her manner besides, which suggested she had been compelled to live beside it long before any soul had thought to call her Highness at all.

"Y-Your d-difficulty is q-quite u-understandable," Lyria said at last, drawing him from his thoughts.

Jim fixed his gaze upon her directly — ordinarily it was held that no commoner ought to look so plainly upon a noble, but the people of Gallowshill cared little for such rules, and the princess herself seemed not in the least to mind it.

For even her own maids, he had marked, looked upon her directly as they laboured in the fields. There was a familiarity in how they conducted themselves together.

"I know it is n-not e-easy to r-reconcile the two," Lyria told him. "And t-that is p-precisely why I a-asked y-you what y-you knew of m-me."

"Much of w-what I have t-told you is n-not known p-publicly. I do n-not suppose you w-would have h-heard of it t-through ordinary c-conversation. But there are c-certain things you m-might have known, had you b-been a-acquainted with w-what occurs d-during the s-selection process — b-being, as it is, b-broadcast by the s-scrying veil."

Jim gave a small shake of his head.

"I’m afraid we ain’t paid much mind ter matters beyond Gallowshill, these many years past. We’ve had trouble enough of our own, wivout concernin’ ourselves wiv wot goes on elsewhere."

"I u-understand," Lyria said, inclining her head.

There was no reproach in her voice, and that, too, gave him pause. She did not appear to think herself entitled to the townspeople’s attention merely upon the strength of having arrived under the Crown’s own authority. If anything, she seemed to grasp well enough that the people of Gallowshill had long since ceased to expect anything whatsoever of the world beyond their own borders.