Alena dropped the pot and pressed her hand to her chest. The bowl shattered on the floor, and the kitchen grew silent.
“Princess?”
She squinted hard to shut out the pain, but it was too intense.
“Just breathe, Alena. Try not to panic.”
That was the problem—she could not do either.
Strong arms picked her up and rushed her out of the smoky room and into her chamber. Gradually, her lungs filled with air, and the tightness eased. She opened her eyes and exhaled.
“Thank ye, Orvin,” she said to the manservant, “but I had it under control.” She pushed herself up with her elbows, only to be pushed back down again.
“Nay, Princess, rest here a while. Yer duties can wait.”
She frowned. The servants might understand, but the King did not. The Feast would commence shortly, and she needed to finish the table arrangements. “Tell ye what, fetch Tristan for me, he could assist.”
Orvin quirked an eyebrow. “Yer four-year-old laddie will not be able to help if ye have another attack.”
“Oh, he’s stronger than ye think. Now,” she rose to her feet and flashed him her sweetest smile, “off ye go.”
She gave him little time to protest, and shooed him out the door. She smiled to herself. The palace servants meant well even if they were overprotective at times.
She moved toward the window and inhaled the fresh air. Something wasn’t right. She sensed it. She’d have to be careful around the fires this eventide. Mayhap Tristan could fetch the items from the kitchen. Still, the Great Hall would not be much better with the meat roasting on spits.
“Mama, are ye well?”
She spun around at the sound of her son’s voice. “Oh, there ye are, laddie.” Alena took his tiny hand and placed in her own. “I wondered if ye’d help me this night. My chest is a wee bit troublesome.”
The little boy’s eyes grew wider. “Will it be a secret, like last time?”
