Chapter 56
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The next morning, I finally rose. Walking wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.
I had to show strength. And according to Faun, I had to show it soon, before the court. In Sylvanwild, Faun had told me, public displays of strength were in the chin and how high you held it.
She helped me dress. Fae servants came and went, bringing food and clothing, but Faun ushered them all out. Only two people remained near me. Faun and Dorian.
I’d asked him to leave, but he remained stubbornly outside my door. He fielded anyone who wanted to come in; I could hear his sharp interrogations through the wood.
I was grateful. I was irritated by my gratitude.
Most of all, I was overwhelmed. Even when Faun sent for the food and the clothing and gave me instructions to eat and drink, to step into this piece of clothing and to sit down so she could brush my hair, I still felt like a human from the Kingdom of Storms. A girl sneaking onto the wall. Small, breakable.
And yet I had somehow killed a queen.
“Lift your arm.” Faun tapped my left shoulder. “I know it hurts, but we need to get you in this dress.”
My gaze sharpened on the standing mirror before me, and the leaf-green dress we’d only gotten on up to the waist. Otherwise I wore a simple white slip. Beneath it, my bandaged left shoulder looked outsized and raw where the bandages didn’t cover.
“Rhiannon never wore anything like this.”
Faun, standing behind me with both hands on the dress’s waist, tilted her head at me in the mirror. She and I were of similar height; another likeness. “You think she wore britches to her coronation?”
“I think she wore whatever she damn well pleased.”
The ghost of a smile passed over Faun’s face before she redirected her attention to the dress. “Focus on talking. I’ll focus on making you imposing.”
Talking—another thing I wasn’t good at. At least, not in the ways these people expected.
I had to sound like a queen, to make the Sylvanwild fae trust my worthiness.
It was obvious to all of them I wasn’t of Sylvanwild, with my straw hair and blue eyes.
And there had never been a Sylvanwild queen who wasn’t of their court.
Even Queen Carys, a changeling, had been one of them.
Outside the door, Dorian’s sharp voice resonated through the hallway. Another would-be guest was about to be turned away. Thank the gods for that.
With careful, sure attention, Faun guided my injured arm into the long sleeve of the dress. It was beautiful, beaded with small pearls along the forearm up to the shoulder. “Have you given thought to a consort?”
I winced as she pulled the shoulder of the dress over my body. “Of course.”
“And?”
My lips tightened. “I don’t understand why a matriarchy requires such things. If we’re a queenship—”
Faun extended the other side of the dress for me to slide my arm in. “Ancient history is never as ancient as you think.”
I guided my arm into the sleeve. “What does that mean?”
“Feyreign wasn’t always matriarchal.”
I glanced back at her. “How could that be? Women have more power.”
Faun directed my head forward and began tying my waist from the back. Tug. “Yes, but we didn’t always know it. That took eons of training to discover. And training your magic in secret isn’t easy when you’re always sweeping and cooking and pregnant, is it?”
I stared at her in the mirror, flinched when she tugged a cinch. “So the fae women were just like human women.”
“For a long time, yes.” Faun’s attention was fixed on my corset. Tug. “Until we discovered, through a great deal of fucking effort, that fae women are closer to the earth’s magic than men could ever hope to be.”
Now I understood. I sighed out, and Faun cinched higher. “Ancient history isn’t so ancient.”
She nodded. “Lots of king dick-swinging. So much of it.” Tug.
I burst into a laugh, which made my shoulder throb. It was worth it. “Glad I didn’t get to that part in the history books.”
“You will, and you’ll have to hold your nose. It’s worth it to be reminded of what every queen in Feyreign agrees on, and fights for.”
“And that is?”
Faun went still. Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “We’re not turning back.”
Faun preceded me out of my bedchamber. I came out fully corseted and bound in a gown that forced my spine tall, my hair done up in plaits so elaborate I couldn’t begin to understand how two hands had made them. Threaded amongst the plaits were pale golden flowers, their hue nearly matching my hair.
Dorian turned as the door opened. His gaze swept over me—and held. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood still in the torchlight, dressed in the finest clothes I’d ever seen him wear: a black velvet doublet, leather boots, a cloak stitched with Sylvanwild filigree at the edges.
His black hair framed his face, brushing the line of his jaw. He looked every bit the man who’d held a sword to my chest that first night, and the one who’d stood beside Rhiannon in the throne room, eyes distant with hate.
Standing here with him in this hallway, in this dress, with my hair done up so finely and heeled shoes on my feet, I knew Faun had done the job right. Even so much shorter than Dorian, I felt different. For the first time, I felt like I stood above him.
“Before you go,” he said, “I need a word.”
As if a word would do anything.
We stood before one another a moment, until I finally turned to Faun. “Wait for me ahead.”
She cast one glance at Dorian and nodded, the hem of her simple green dress trailing as she slipped down the hall.
When Dorian and I were alone, he took a step closer. His darkness imposed like a wreath. “I’m sure you know by now the importance of taking a consort,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
“I do.”
“And?”
One eyebrow rose. “And what?”
He lowered his chin. “You need someone beside you,” he said evenly. “Not because you’re weak—but because they’ll come for your crown from every direction, and you’ve barely taken the throne.”
“I have Faun.”
His lip curled. “The servant fae will be your consort?”
“No one will be my consort.” Anger flared in me, sharp and ready. “And at least she doesn’t want to kill me.”
“I don’t—” He lowered his face, fingers rubbing at his eyes. Finally he straightened, gaze meeting mine. His eyes were soft with feeling, like that night. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“How can I believe that? Or anything you say?”
He seemed to consider his words, then his impatience leaked over his face, creating wrinkles between his brows. He breathed out a sharp sigh. “Because you have to, Eury. You need to be smart about this.”
The arrogance of him. I stepped forward. “How many changelings have you killed?”
He stared down at me, his jaw working. I imagined that for every second he stared, he thought of a life he’d taken. One, two, three, four, five—
“And do you still hate them?” I asked into the silence. “Changelings?”
He paused. Then, low, “Yes.”
That hurt. It hurt more than Rhiannon’s arrow in my shoulder. It hurt more than a broken nose, more than razorleaf poison closing off my throat.
His hand went out, fingers brushing my wrist as I made to turn away. “But not you.” I wrenched away, and he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t have to name me anything,” he said. “But use me. I’m here. I’ll stand in front of every blade meant for you.”
And perhaps he would thrust one into my back.
Never trust a man, especially not one outside these walls.
Isa the nurse had said that on the night of her death—her death at the hands of Dorian, Rhiannon, the spiritstag. All of these fucking fae.
Her blood was on Dorian’s hands. My mother’s. Theo’s. Elisabet’s. And he still hadn’t atoned. Still hadn’t gotten on his knees and begged my forgiveness. Hell, he’d called my mother’s death a mercy.
I would give him a mercy.
I held his eyes a moment longer, then turned away, back toward the corridor where Faun had gone.
“Eurydice—” he said softly.
I paused with my back to him, straightened my spine, and said without looking:
“You’re forgetting, Dorian, that I’m now ‘my queen’ to you.”
I walked on.
There was nothing here for me. I’d never trust him again.