Chapter 11 #2
The word crashes through the library like a violent wave. Shelves tremble. Dust rains down. Several books topple from their resting places and hit the floor with heavy thuds.
“I am tired of your excuses,” he snarls. “Tired of your lies. You are more trouble than your father’s debt is worth, Neve Devlin. More trouble than I care to endure a moment longer.”
Atilia’s hand remains on his chest, but he brushes her off as if she’s made of air.
Then he storms toward me.
I gasp, scrambling backward until my fingers clutch the gilded edge of the chair.
A few long, pale strands have slipped free from the slicked-back bun knotted high on his head, falling across his gold eye.
His face is all hard lines and barely leashed fury, canines bared, the runes carved into his knuckles glowing an ominous cobalt as one arm braces against the chair behind my head, caging me in.
Then his other hand reaches for me, but it is not me he takes hold of.
It is the book on my lap.
He snatches it by the spine and shakes it at me, the pages flapping helplessly.
“You had no right,” he roars. “Do you hear me? No right!”
Then he commits the cruelest act I have ever seen him perform. Something so petty, so vicious, so deeply wounding that whatever fragile, misguided softness I’d begun to feel toward him shatters instantly.
He tears the book straight down the middle.
Rips it clean in half with a crack like breaking bone, and flings the pieces across the room.
Tears well behind my eyes as frost spills from his skin, drifting in cold ribbons through the air. I brace myself. I wait for the next thing he’ll break to be me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breath trembling. Please let it be quick. Please, if he is going to shatter me, let it be painless.
But no blow comes. Only his ragged breathing, the cold rolling off him in violent waves that soak straight through to my bones.
“Go to your room,” he growls. “Pack your things. You are going to the Aurevault tomorrow. And you will never return.”
My eyes snap open. Aurevault. No. No. Not the mines. Not Vein Three, where the thing with my father’s voice waits in the dark, where its claws could wrap around me and drag me screaming into the black.
“My lord,” I stammer, choking on the words. “Please.”
“Get out!” he roars.
He’s too close. There isn’t enough space to stand without touching him, so I curl, slide under his arm and scramble over the side of the chair, hitting the floor hard on my knees. A tear breaks loose, but I swipe it away before he can see.
I lurch to my feet and run.
I tear through the stacks, but there are too many, endless aisles of towering shelves, twisting and splitting.
My tears fall faster, blurring the rows into smears.
I turn a corner blindly and crash into something stacked beside a bookcase.
Wood scrapes my thigh as I stumble forward, and behind me, the tall stack of paintings topples.
One frame hits face-up.Through my watery vision, I meet the eyes of the woman painted there. A female with raven-dark hair and steel-gray eyes, beautiful and ethereal in a way that can only be Fae.
But there is no time to imagine who she is.
Not when I hear Luceran’s footsteps pounding after me, not when the cold begins creeping through the library, frost racing along the floor and devouring shelves a row at a time. Books freeze solid in an instant, transformed into glittering blocks of ice as his magic lashes out, uncontrolled.
I run faster, my heart clawing its way up my throat. Every turn is wrong. Every row a dead end. Panic scrapes up my spine until, finally, I see the door.
I sprint through the doorway, down the corridor, past the rose garden windows, up the stairs, to my room. To where I should have stayed.
But I do not crawl into bed. I do not bury myself under blankets. I crawl into the wardrobe instead and shut the door, wedging my feet against it so he cannot pull it open, even though I know it would not stop him. Nothing would.
I curl into a ball amid furs, and dresses and I cry. Every tear I have left, every one I have held back since the night he saved me on the lake. I cry until my throat aches, until my eyes burn, and I wait for morning.
For the day I will be sent to the Aurevault. For the life I will live in those mines because I could not resist a damned library. Because I could not resist a moment of wonder.
The hours crawl by and I do not move. Not when my stomach twists angrily, begging for food.
Not when my back stiffens from being curled awkwardly in the wardrobe.
Not even when my backside goes numb against the cold wood.
I am not stepping foot out of this damned wardrobe, not after what he said, not after what he did, even if the world collapses around me.
Eventually, the handle clicks. The door of my room swings open.
Through the thin gap between the wardrobe doors, I see a figure drift into the room.
My heart stutters, and I instinctively brace my feet against the wood again, trying to keep the door shut.
But the footsteps aren’t his. They’re too light, too quick, and the air doesn’t sharpen with cold. Whoever it is, it isn’t Luceran.
“Girl,” Atilia calls as she steps inside. “Neve. Where are you?”
I hesitate, torn between answering and staying hidden.
What if she’s here to drag me to the Aurevault on his orders?
But she had tried to calm him, not fuel him.
If anyone in this cursed place is on my side, even a little, it seems to be her.
I lower my feet and push the wardrobe door open with a stiff hand.
Atilia stands there, taking me in with a tilted head and an expression hovering between concern and disbelief.
“Why…” she begins.
“Don’t ask,” I mutter quickly. I wipe my sleeve across my nose, clearing away the last remnants of tears. “Is it time? Do I go to the mines now?”
Atilia’s expression tightens. Her shoulders draw up, not with cruelty, but with bracing patience, before she lets out a laugh.
I glare at her. “This isn’t funny. Have you seen the mines?”
“Oh, I’ve seen them,” she replies simply, as if discussing a routine chore instead of a nightmare. “And it wouldn’t be funny if he truly meant to send you there. But he doesn’t.”
I blink. “But Lord Luceran said…”
“Luceran says many things,” she interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Especially when he’s angry, and I have never seen him so angry, so often, as he has been since you arrived at Castle Frostwyn.” Her tone softens. “You do not need to fear, child. Now come out of the wardrobe.”
I try, but my body refuses to cooperate. When I twist, something in my back cracks loudly, and a horrible creak escapes me. Atilia sighs and steps forward, hooking her arms beneath mine and dragging me out. I groan throughout the process until she finally hauls me upright.
She studies me critically. “You’re a mess,” she declares. Then she leans in and sniffs. “And you don’t smell great either.”
I scowl. “Thank you for your kind words, but I honestly don’t give a shit what I look or smell like right now.”
Atilia’s amused grin blooms. “Yes. Luceran mentioned you’re fond of cursing. Perhaps we need to wash your mouth out along with your hair?”
I huff. “I’ve heard him curse plenty. I don’t see why it’s such an issue when I do it.”
“Because servants don’t curse at their master,” she replies without missing a beat. “In fact, they don’t talk at all. But you,” she flicks a hand at me like I’m a stray ember, “you seem determined to rewrite every rule of this bargain.”
“You talk to him,” I mutter under my breath, turning my face just enough that I can pretend she wasn’t meant to hear it.
But of course she does. Her hearing is far too sharp for that.
“I am not a servant,” she says curtly, chin lifting.
“Then what are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She straightens fully, shoulders pulling back as the smirk slips away. “Something else,” she says at last. “And not your concern.” She gestures toward the washbasin. “Now, if you are done talking, for once, let’s clean you up.”
Atilia boils water over the hearth, the crackling logs casting amber light across the room, and when the steam rises she pours it into the basin.
The warmth shocks me when she presses the cloth to my arm.
I hadn’t realized just how much grime clung to my skin.
She wipes it all away with patient, methodical strokes.
My braid takes longer. She unwinds it strand by strand, and it fights her the whole way.
At one point she tugs so hard I yelp, and she mutters something in Fae I don’t think I’m meant to understand.
But she doesn’t stop. She works sweet-smelling oil into my hair, massaging it from the roots to the ends until the tangles loosen and my red hair shines like molten glass before the fire.
Then she combs it through, careful now, almost gentle, leaving it loose over my shoulders.
By the time she sits me in the chair by the fire and hands me a warm cup of tea, I feel… lighter. Cleaner. Myself again.
I don’t understand why she does any of this. I doubt Luceran ordered it, not after the way he looked at me in the library. Not after what he said.
But when she settles into the chair beside mine, letting out a content sigh, she says, “That’s better.”
I don’t return the nicety. Not with the image of her hand pressed against Luceran’s chest still burned into my eyes, not with the memory of him snarling over me, tearing a book in half, freezing the library with a single exhale.
So I ask boldly, “Who are you to him? Truly.”
Atilia’s smile is thin, almost pitying. “You wonder why you get yourself into so much trouble.” She shakes her head and tips her chin up as though studying me anew.
“You are a smart girl, Neve. That much is clear. If only you were smart enough to know when to play the game, and when to retire from it. Your life would be a much simpler thing.”
I lift the teacup, steam curling into my face. “Perhaps I don’t want a simple life.”
“No one remarkable ever does,” she murmurs.
Remarkable. No one has ever used that word for me.
I lower the cup, swallow, then take a breath to steady my courage. “I saw the portraits in the library. Stacked near the shelves. Is that… Lady Frostwyn? Did they hang in the hall once?”
Atilia’s eyes spark with a flicker of interest. “Yes. After she died, Lord Luceran had every image of her removed from the castle.” She lifts her hand as if weighing memories. “It pained him too much to look upon her. It still does.”
“She was very beautiful,” I say, barely audible.
Atilia nods. “Even now, she is considered one of the greatest beauties to ever grace the Sundered Kingdoms. But more than that, she was kind and generous, beloved by Fae and humans alike.” She leans forward, then adds plainly, “Not words often used to describe the Fae.”
I nod in quiet agreement, but my teeth worry at my lower lip. The question gnaws at me.
“But…” I start, doubting myself, hating the tremble in my voice.
Atilia finishes the question for me as she leans back.
“But what? Why would he mourn the wife he murdered?” She holds my gaze, unblinking. “Is that what you were about to ask?”
My breath snags. My fingers tighten around the warm cup.
Because yes. That was the question, and hearing it spoken aloud sends a cold shiver through me that even the fire cannot chase away.
“And the servants,” she adds quietly. “Don’t forget them. He murdered them all with his bare hands.”
A violent shiver rakes down my spine. The lump in my throat swells until I can barely swallow. I grip the teacup with both hands before I spill it all over myself.
“That is the story, isn’t it?” Atilia sighs. “And you believe it?”
My breath catches mid-inhale. “I… I don’t know. Is it true?”
Atilia rises from her chair. She does not look at me as she moves away, past the circle of firelight, into the dim cool shadows of the room. Her silhouette softens the closer she gets to the door.
“When something awful happens,” she says, “the world needs a monster to blame, because the alternative…” She pauses, her hand resting lightly on the door handle. “The alternative means ordinary people might be capable of extraordinary cruelty.”
I stare at her. “So… you’re saying he didn’t kill them?”
She glances over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable. Not denial. Not confirmation.
“I am saying,” she murmurs, “do not believe everything you hear, Neve. And believe only half of what you see.” Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “And for once, child, do as you are told. Stay away from Lord Luceran. At least for a day or two.”
I grit my teeth. “It will be my pleasure.”
She slips through the door, closing it with a quiet click that feels far too final. I’m left alone with the fading warmth of the hearth and the snowstorm howling against the boarded window. Her words churn inside me, unsettling as the dark water beneath the lake’s ice.
Could it be true?Could all the cruelty, all the coldness, all the terrifying stories whispered about him be nothing but… lies?
I swallow hard and take another sip of tea, letting the heat steady me. The fire pops, casting sparks that flare and die in an instant.
Does his ruthlessness come from grief, not a frozen blackness where his heart should be?Have I misjudged him?Have all of Brunemar?
Have I been wrong about the monster all along?