[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘Oh, my poor, poor flowers! Their petals will all be sundered from them by this awful wind. Then what will I say to the guests when they wish to stroll there after we’ve supped?’

Giledhel wrung her hands in worry. She’d so wanted this party to go well. Some of Malris’ close friends would be there as would Maedhros. And his brother, also, she thought. The one that sang. She’d invited some others of the fortress’ company, too . . . ones with wives. There were not many ladies in this cold keep and she savored the times she could be in their company.

A frown creased her forehead. ‘Nay, not all of them,’ she hissed to herself. ‘There is that . . . one. I’ve seen her looking at Malris, her with her shimmering eyes, her sly eyes.’ Giledhel’s own eyes narrowed, thinking of other gatherings she had attended. She clapped her hands, calling to her children.

‘Gracious me!’ she exclaimed nearly tripping over the three as she turned. She laughed, a sweet sound that tinkled merrily among the stones. ‘My dear boys! You are all that a mother could ask for.’ She glanced about the room becoming more and more impatient as she did not see the one she sought. ‘Now where can she have gone too? My lady’s-maid, have you seen her?’ With a shrug of her shoulders, she smiled at her three boys.

‘Be dears, will you?’ she asked, pointing to where her great wardrobe once stood. ‘Fetch me out my green dress . . . the one with the tapering sleeves and the beaded trim. Malris likes me in green; he’s said so often. Sets off my dark hair. I’ll have the gold fillet, too, for my hair. The one set with the emerald.’ Her lips curved into a halfsmirking smile. ‘See if her and her tatty blue and silver dress will catch any attention tonight.’

‘Oh! And ask the gardeners to see what they can do for my flowers . . . will you?’