The Alien’s Vicious Starflash Manor (Empire of Frost and Flame #2)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

LARA

T hat fucker is going to have us join the Ice Court?

Damn him.

And even before that, he’s taking us upstairs, when all I want to do is go to the kitchen to check on Kila, make sure she and Adefina are okay.

Glancing toward the servants’ quarters, I consider going anyway. But it’s late, and I’m sure they’re asleep.

“You can see your friends tomorrow.” Ivrael’s voice jolts me into glancing up at him, but he’s already moving up the stairs again.

How did he even know what I was thinking, anyway?

I glare so hard at his back as he ascends the staircase that he ought to feel it. If I had whatever power he imagines I do, my stare ought to be burning straight through him like lasers, leaving holes leaking light from the other side.

God. Part of me wants to fall to my knees and beg Ivrael to take us back home, back to the world I grew up in.

Instead, I’m now compelled to a kind of brutal honesty—the sort I’ve had to direct toward myself repeatedly over the last year. The kind that reminds me what fairy tale princes really are.

Lying bastards.

And that honesty also tells me he would never help me, anyway. He’s the reason we’re here, after all.

I might as well begin plotting our escape.

And honestly, in the end, knowing what’s going on is not going to save Izzy or me if Ivrael’s plan, whatever it may be, goes awry.

It won’t matter if we’re servants or honored guests or unwilling prisoners. If Jonyk figures out Ivrael plans to betray him, we’ll be treated as part of the duke’s household, whether we want to be here or not, and we’ll be put to death right beside Ivrael himself.

Or worse, we could be given to Jonyk’s Ice Court to be used and then discarded.

I’m still contemplating that possibility when Khrint appears at the top of the stairs and takes the lead, saying, “This way, if you please.”

As if I don’t already know my way around the manor.

Khrint leans in to murmur to Ivrael, and I hear him say, “Lady Uanna apparently sent a lady’s maid?”

Ivrael nods. “Send her up.”

Khrint peels off and heads toward the servants’ back staircase. Ivrael takes us to a guest suite across the hall from his personal chamber, one I’ve never been in—it wasn’t used by any of the guests who stayed since he brought me to Starfrost, so it never required my attention.

It consists of a guest room and a small sitting room. The suite also has its own bathroom, complete with a tub and shower.

Eyes narrowed, I test the taps.

Yep. Running hot and cold water. Powered, I presume, by Caix magic.

I have spent the last year bathing and washing my clothes once a week after heating water, one cauldron at a time, over a fireplace.

Stomping back into the sitting room from my exploration of the suite, I turn a glare on Ivrael as he says to Izzy, “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’ll be right across the hall if you need anything.”

I can’t even think of words, I’m so astounded and angry. I stand there in the luxurious space and sputter at him. He gives me a knowing glance, and one corner of his mouth curls up in a slight smile.

Oh. What a prick.

I glare at Ivrael as he leaves, I assume to go to his own suite of rooms across the hall. Where, for all I know, he has a bathroom too.

The whole time I’ve been here, I never spent enough time in there to find out. Hell, I never explored any part of the manor unless I was required to be there.

A quiet knock at the door makes me jump, my nerves jangling from my return to Starfrost. Izzy’s sprawled on the bed, already half-asleep, but she lifts her head at the sound.

“Come in,” I call out, surprised to hear how steady my voice sounds.

The door opens slowly, and a young woman in a maid’s uniform steps inside. Her dress is different from the ones I wore during my year of service here—instead of Ivrael’s house colors of blue and white, hers is all shades of white, from snow to ivory. She bobs a quick curtsy.

“I’m Lucilline,” she says, her voice bright but nervous. “Lady Uanna sent me to assist you.”

“Hello.” I’m polite but keep my tone neutral, just in case she’s been instructed to spy on us.

Her gaze darts between me and Izzy, then back to me. “Both of you, I mean.”

I notice how she tries not to stare at my ragged appearance, though her gaze keeps catching on my tangled hair. A year of washing with harsh soap and no conditioner hasn’t done it any favors.

“I—I could draw baths?” she offers hesitantly. “The journey must have been tiring.”

Izzy perks up at that. “A bath would be amazing.”

Lucilline brightens at Izzy’s enthusiasm, then glances at me again, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase what she wants to say.

“I’ll be sure it’s a warm bath,” she assures me. “That is what humans prefer, yes?”

“Yes, that’s my preference. I’d love a warm bath,” I say.

“And maybe...that is... perhaps I could help with your hair?” She rushes on, words tumbling out. “I’m quite good with hair, really. Lady Uanna trained me herself. Though of course, only if you wish it...”

She trails off, fidgeting with her apron. I recognize that nervous energy—the fear of offending someone who could make your life difficult. I lived with it myself for the past year, even if I let my underlying rage take over more often than not.

“A bath would be wonderful,” I say gently. “And I’d appreciate help with my hair. It’s been...a while since I’ve had proper hair care.”

Relief floods her face. “Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll fetch everything right away.”

I catch Izzy staring at my hair appraisingly. She clearly agrees with the maid that I could use some help.

“Stop it,” I hiss at my sister.

Lucilline snickers, then claps her hand over her mouth, her expression stricken, and stares at me wide-eyed.

Damn. She’s afraid I’m going to reprimand her. I cast about for something to ease her fears. I don’t come up with anything perfect, though, and settle on sending a grin in her direction.

Blowing out a relieved breath, she turns to go, then spins back. “There are some lovely oils and soaps. Would you prefer floral scents or perhaps a snow citrus?”

Her eagerness to help is oddly touching. After a year of being treated as less than human by most of the Ice Court servants, her simple kindness feels almost luxurious.

“Citrus,” Izzy and I say in unison, then look at each other and laugh as Lucilline beams.

“I’ll bring it up straightaway. And...perhaps some clean clothes for sleeping?” She glances meaningfully at my worn garments but quickly averts her eyes, clearly worried she’s overstepped.

“That would be perfect,” I tell her. “Thank you, Lucilline.”

She curtsies again, this time with a genuine smile, before hurrying out. As the door closes behind her, I hear her quick footsteps heading toward the staircase.

“Well, she seems nice,” Izzy says, falling back onto the pillows. “Different from what I expected.”

“Very different.” I’m not sure what to make of it yet, but something about Lucilline’s earnest desire to help feels real.

A few minutes later, I hear water running and Lucilline humming. The sound is cheerful and oddly comforting.

Maybe we’ve found an ally here.

Or at least someone who can help me untangle my hair.

The thought of allies makes me wonder again how Kila’s doing, and I desperately want to go down to the kitchens to check on her.

But I’m also afraid of how she’s going to react. I know I hurt her, leaving her behind, and I’m worried she’ll never forgive me. I’m not sure that I would forgive me if I were Kila. After all, I chose my sister

I’ll go see Kila in the morning, I decide as Lucilline comes out to let me know my bath is ready. The relief that sweeps through me at the thought leaves me feeling guilty.

I was pretty sure choosing Izzy over Kila made me a coward.

But my unwillingness to face Kila after the fact?

Yeah. Now I’m certain of it.

I haven’t bothered to look at myself in a mirror almost the whole time I’ve been in the Icecaix lands, so on the one hand, I’m not entirely certain how I look.

At the same time, I’m not terribly surprised by what I see in the bathroom mirror when I finally do stand in front of it to examine myself.

How I look is awful, easily ten years older than Izzy rather than one.

I’ve grown thinner, for one thing. And for another, my hair—without product or regular trims—has become a wild, unruly mass. Not surprising, given the fact that I’ve given up brushing and taken to scraping it back off my face, tying it with a piece of ribbon from Adefina’s scrap basket.

My nails are ragged. I had tried trimming them with knives, but I finally started clipping them with trimmers from Fintan’s stash of tools for the animals—with predictable results.

And after a year in the wintery cold, my hands are chapped and cracked, my cheeks gaunt, my face drawn.

I don’t spend long cataloging my faults, though. I’m too busy stepping into the bathtub full of scented bubbles—and it’s every bit as heavenly as I expected.

Bottles and jars line the edge of the tub, and I open each one, sniffing the contents and then testing them on my fingertips.

I have to guess what some of them are for, as none are labeled. But they all smell lovely, most with at least a hint of citrus. Soaps, creams, oils—I decide I don’t care what they’re meant for. I use them all, rubbing myself down with one after the other.

When the water grows cold, I let it swirl away. Although I’ve done everything I can to keep myself clean over this last year, a light film of grit forms a sludge at the bottom of the tub as the water drains.

I rinse out the dirt and fill the tub back up, going through the whole process again. This time, I choose a sudsy concoction and use a scrub brush Lucilline left for me until I finally feel as if I’ve scraped away every horrible thing that has happened to me while I’ve been in the Icecaix lands.

Then I turn on the shower and stand under the spray until I’ve rinsed myself completely clean. It doesn’t occur to me until then to wonder if any of the filth I’m watching whirl down the drain is made up of Oriana’s ashes—or those of any of the other Ice Court Caix burned to death just a few nights ago.

Suddenly my delight in the bathing facilities evaporates.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, once again staring at my reflection—now wet and bedraggled—until a light knock at the bathroom door catches my attention. The door cracks open a few inches.

“Miss?” Luilline’s tentative voice says. “Can I assist you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess—can you help me find a brush?”

“Of course.”

I reach toward the counter to pick up my worn jeans, ready to pull them on.

“Not those,” Lucilline says. “Would you like me to… dispose of them?”

“I’m guessing you really mean something more along the lines of take them out and burn them ?”

My tone is dry, and Lucilline snickers. “Something like that.”

“Maybe you could just arrange to have them laundered for me? I’d be sad to lose them.”

Especially if there’s any chance I might end up stuck here for another year. Or longer.

No. I’ll keep my blue jeans—because as much as I have grown to hate them as the only clothing I own that hasn’t been burned by dragonfire, I also have no interest in losing them.

Lucilline brings me a silky robe to replace my own clothing. Tying it around my waist, I busy myself examining the bottles on the shelf in front of the mirror.

I haven’t found anything that looks like hair products, but there’s a jar on this counter that, when I open it, smells like a product I sometimes used to use with argan oil in it—and it seems light enough to the touch. Maybe it will help tame the frizz. Though to be honest, I’m not really certain why I care. No one here matters; Izzy has seen me at my absolute worst.

And there isn’t anyone here I want to impress.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers, Not even Ivrael? I shove the voice down as hard and as far as I can, refusing to give it any credence.

Ivrael kidnapped me, bound me to him with some horrific Caix magic, and refused to let me go. I glance down at the blue ribbons at my wrists. They don’t have a speck on them. They aren’t wet, and none of the oils or soaps I’ve used tonight seem to have done anything to them at all.

They’re magic, and they tie me to my captor.

No—I don’t care what Ivrael thinks.

“If you come to the dressing table, I can do your hair,” the maid offers.

I’ve spent enough time around Icecaix maids to know how they talk about their noble charges. By all rights, I should say no. And to be fair, I do consider it.

But this woman—a girl, really, who looks like she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, though who knows with the Caix—looks crushed at my thoughtful look. “Please, miss. This is my chance to gain His Lordship’s favor. I might even be able to move up, become a permanent lady’s maid if he approves of my work with you.”

I snort. I hate to burst her bubble by telling her exactly how little Ivrael is likely to care how I look.

“You’re not a permanent lady’s maid?” I ask instead.

“No. Lady Uanna trained me, but it’s not a permanent position yet. But once it is,” she adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’ll get me out of ever dusting the upstairs parlor again.”

Now that I understand, I agree to her plan.

When I move out into the bedroom, I find Izzy stretched out on the bed, fast asleep, her face buried in a pile of pillows.

At some point, she had grabbed one side of the comforter and rolled up in it like a burrito. Despite the fire in the fireplace, it hasn’t yet dispelled the chill in the room.

“Have a seat,” the maid says, patting the back of the delicate, padded chair in front of the circular mirror above a small vanity table. I sit and watch silently as she begins dragging first a wide-toothed comb and then a brush through my hair, stopping occasionally to work through tangles.

Without Izzy around to trim my hair on a regular schedule, it’s grown almost half a foot, and by the time the maid has taken my suggestion to use the argan oil-ish product in it, so it falls in soft waves over my shoulders and down to the middle of my back.

I feel like my entire body has relaxed for the first time since Roland woke me up to drag me off to the Trasqo Market. And I no longer look older than Izzy—though I fear that will change again soon enough. My mouth twists in my reflection.

“You don’t like it?” Lucilline asks, anxiety threading through her voice.

“I love it,” I hasten to assure her. “I was thinking about something else entirely. I’ll be sure to let His Lordship know what a wonderful job you’ve done.”

She casts a frowning glance at Izzy. “Should I wake her?”

I shake my head. “I’ll make sure she takes a shower when she gets up in the morning. But…could you give us a little warning before we’re expected to go anywhere tomorrow?”

“Oh, Madame Evangeny is coming to you.”

“Who?”

“Lady Uanna’s seamstress.”

Looks like we’re about to get the full-on Cinderella treatment.

Fan-frickin’-tastic.

If Ivrael thinks this will make up for a full year of terror and drudgery and sleeping by a fireplace, he’s wrong.

As far as I’m concerned, he can take his fairy tale makeover, stuff it inside a glass slipper, and shove it straight up his frozen noble…

…ice hole.

And yet, as irritated as I am, one thought keeps running through my head—not a new thought, but an important one, nonetheless.

Despite all my murderous plans over the past year?

I never would have been able to bring myself to actually kill Duke Ivrael.