Snippet #836091

"'Chilled'?" said Zahra, drawing her over-coat about herself. "I am like ice!"

She'd seen the seasons change since she'd first arrived in England. When they'd stepped off the ship on the south coast, there had been snow blanketing the white cliffs, as if the turf had been stripped bare to reveal the chalky heart underneath. As they'd travelled north, spring had slowly begun to blossom and now, as they walked through the dappled light of Sherwood Forest, fresh green leaves were shading them from a watery sun.

It was all very new and strange. Zahra longed for the rich familiar scent of cedar and to sit in its embrace, cool in the hot, still air as she'd looked out over her father's estate and the glint of the sun on the sea many miles away. She wanted the feel of ornamental tiles beneath her feet and the sweetness of pomegranate on her tongue. She wanted the breathless laughter of the cook's sons playing in the garden and perfect black script flowing from her pen onto crisp yellow paper. She wanted her father back. All of this England was superfluous; it mocked her with its presence.

She was roused from her thoughts by the appearance of a old beggar and listened in suspicious boredom as Lillian and Martin exchanged niceties with him. The tale the old man brought from the castle, however, captured her attention and she frowned, dark eyes flashing behind her veil.

"So, your kings are as moral in their collection of taxes as they are in their war-mongering," she said, once the man had left them. She didn't know what 'The Spotted Calf' was and, for the moment, nor did she care. "And Lillian, my father did not 'die'," she spat, anger evident in her tones even if it could not be seen on her hidden features. "He was killed. By your own countrymen. Next time, I speak for myself."

With that, she fell into steely silence, and fixed her gaze on the forest path ahead of them, blinking moisture out of her eyelashes.