Chapter 10
“Ah, you flatter me, but I am hardly anyone worthy of such reverence,” he replied smoothly.
Compared to that first day when he had thrown a fit, insisting that as a prince he deserved a proper send-off, his manner now seemed far more practiced.
Maeve sat across from them, tearing small pieces of rye bread and dipping them into her stew. During the meal, she suddenly noticed that the Prince, holding his spoon, had not eaten a single bite for quite some time.
The moment she realized it, their eyes met—as if perfectly timed. Yet Declan turned away without a hint of expression and resumed his elegant smile toward the old woman, continuing their conversation as if nothing had happened.
Then, taking advantage of the woman’s averted gaze, he calmly picked up his bowl of stew and poured it into Maeve’s.
Maeve stopped mid-bite, bread still halfway to her mouth, and stared at him.
But the Prince didn’t even glance her way. Instead, he pulled his now half-empty bowl back toward himself and began scraping at the bottom with his spoon, pretending to eat quite cheerfully.
Maeve stared at him, bewildered by what on earth he was doing, but unlike before, he gave her not a single look.
Eventually, she gave up questioning him with her eyes and quietly finished the rest of the stew.
The wine that the master and his wife had finally decided on after much deliberation received favorable reactions from everyone. Even Maeve, who had taken a sip at the wife’s recommendation, acknowledged its quality.
Ah, of course, the prince was the exception.
He merely brought the glass to his face, inhaled its scent with admiration, but did not drink it. The prince acted with considerable skill—so natural that one might think he had lived his entire life performing. Even when the tipsy hostess gazed at him with half-lidded eyes and openly complimented his looks, he merely laughed it off lightly.
The atmosphere grew increasingly heated and merry. Except for Maeve and the prince, everyone’s faces turned as red as if they had eaten something spicy, and their eyes became unfocused and hazy. Craig, now thoroughly drunk, wore an unguarded and foolish grin, looking far more pliant than usual.
It was when Maeve checked on Colm, who had already cleared four plates of stew.
“I think I should take my leave first. I’m getting rather sleepy. Thank you so much for today—for so readily accepting my companions and me.”
The prince rose from his seat, offering both an apology and his gratitude to the hostess. A few, including Maeve, noticed him standing, but no one followed him out as he left the cabin.
Normally, Craig would have immediately stood up to accompany him. But now, with a vacant expression and chin resting on his hand, Craig merely watched the prince go, then jabbed a finger at Maeve, scolding her for not following him right away.
It was annoying, but she had no excuse—after all, she was still just a maid.
Maeve obediently pushed her chair back and stood up.
“Leave him be, Maeve.”
Rory’s drunken voice called out from behind her. Maeve ignored his chuckling laughter as she opened the door and stepped outside.
A large moon hung in the center of the night sky. Beneath the stars that looked ready to pour down at any moment, the withered grass brushed softly against her ankles.
In the distance, the carriage and wagon stood still. The horses were leisurely grazing and resting, and when the donkey spotted Maeve, it brayed as if in greeting.
Maeve walked straight toward the prince’s carriage. She knocked twice on the door—tok, tok. But there was no response from inside.
Though she had only come out because she was told to, she lacked the zeal or loyalty to suddenly fling open the door and check inside as if something terrible had happened.
After a moment’s hesitation, Maeve’s expression turned indifferent again as she raised her hand and knocked once more on the door.
Instead of a reply, a strangled sound—like that of a man being choked—came from inside.
Then, with a sudden clatter, the door burst open.
“…Craig?”
From within the pitch-black darkness, where not even moonlight reached, the prince’s voice was heard. Maeve frowned slightly and peered into the carriage.
“Ah.”
Under the moonlight, the man’s face appeared, even more beautiful than before.
“…It’s you, then. So…”
“Maeve.”
“Yes, Maeve.”
The prince spoke hoarsely, as though his throat had been constricted. For an instant, he looked at Maeve with a blank expression she had never seen before, but soon, as if nothing had happened, he smiled easily.
“What is it?”
Yet despite the composed tone and the practiced expression, his complexion was pale. More than that, Maeve noticed a damp, heavy smell of water wafting out from the carriage. The prince’s face, and even parts of his hair, were soaked in places.
Maeve’s gaze naturally lowered to the carriage floor, where a water-filled sack lay limp and motionless. Noticing her eyes, the prince quickly pulled the door closer to hide it.
“I asked what brought you here.”
“You didn’t eat, so I was worried.”
Maeve said it casually, as if she were genuinely concerned.
In her words, the prince’s oddly stiff demeanor softened slightly.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t eat because my stomach felt unwell. It happens sometimes—indigestion.”
“Ah, I see.”
“…Thank you for worrying. You don’t seem the type to…”
The prince muttered absentmindedly, then caught himself and glanced at the maid. But the maid, born of common blood, showed no reaction—she only stared straight at him.
“That’s enough. You can go now.”
“Yes.”
The maid answered promptly, almost as if she had been waiting for dismissal, and quickly withdrew.
Prince Declan closed the carriage door and immediately wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sigh.
As silence settled around him, he felt his headache ease slightly, unlike before.
With his left hand, he fumbled behind his ear, touching the scales there, before suddenly throwing open the door again.
“Wait!”
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