Chapter 39 Quinn
QUINN
Early dawn caressed my skin as I sat before the vanity. I had been brushing my hair for hours with shaking hands. Hair. Bristles. Pull. Repeat.
Edric still lay on the floor in a disheveled sprawl of velvet and entitlement. He stirred, pushing upright with a slow wince, palm pressed to his forehead. “Why am I on the ground?”
“You rolled off the bed,” I explained, avoiding his gaze. “You were too heavy to lift and would not wake.”
Footsteps whispered against the carpet. His scent reached me first: bitter wormwood and pears left to rot. He came to a stop behind the chair, watching me as though he had earned the intimacy of this moment. His eyes found mine in the mirror. He smiled. I did not return it.
“I should prepare for our wedding.” He lingered with an air of expectation I refused to indulge. “I shall see you tonight,” he murmured, the words the cinching of a noose.
Firm lips pressed to the crown of my head. My breath snagged as I recoiled. I continued brushing my hair—mechanical, relentless—the sole measure keeping me from crumbling.
He crossed to the door and paused. “Oh,” he added, without looking back. “I have several deliveries planned for you.”
My hand stilled mid-stroke.
The door clicked shut.
The brush slipped from my fingers and clattered to the vanity. My lungs emptied with a trembling sigh. My hands flew to my chest, as if to cage the frantic bird of my heart before it burst free.
Edric thought himself the victor. He believed last night had ensured my obedience, that his cruelty had bridled me—unaware his memories from the night prior were magic-born forgeries.
He had not touched me. He would never touch me in such a manner, even if I had to employ my Twilight every night.
The thought of being beside him in bed for the rest of my life sent a wave of nausea through me.
I had until sundown to find the others and get us all out of here.
A knock startled me from thought.
“It’s time for your fitting, milady,” chirped an overly bright voice.
I swallowed gravel. “You may enter.”
The owner of the voice was not alone. Six others spilled in her wake, arms laden with hatboxes, bolts of shimmering fabric, and sewing materials. The woman leading the charge had silver hair twisted into a punishing coil.
“I am Devronica, head seamstress to His Majesty.” She offered an obligatory smile coupled with a deep curtsy.
My eyes caught on the welt marring her left cheek, the branded U, the mark of the ungifted.
Powder dulled its edges, though not enough to conceal the scar’s cruel shape.
The same mark lay on each woman’s face. Revulsion gripped low in my stomach.
Being the king’s clothier was no small accomplishment.
That such talented women, skilled enough to dress the court in splendor, should carry the stigma of worthlessness seemed an obscenity.
“These are my attendants.” Devronica gestured to the others. “We are here to see to the final fitting of your gown. Everything must be flawless for your big moment, my grace.”
My moment.
As though I were relishing the hour in which I would walk to the gallows of a loveless marriage.
“Let’s begin.” Devronica clapped her hands twice.
The horde of attendants descended upon me. Soft, nimble hands slid my nightgown from my shoulders. Cold air skated over my exposed skin. I did not feel naked so much as displayed—a rare songbird, wings pinned open for another’s delight.
The gown unfurled from its box in a decadent cascade.
“A masterpiece,” breathed Devronica, lifting the fabric. “Hand-beaded. Goldwork embroidery. Eight skirts. Imported lace. Fit for a queen.”
Rather luxurious for a captive.
They fed me through it piece by piece. The bodice came first—the boning a dozen fingers gripping my ribs. Then the skirts: layer upon layer until my legs forgot they were meant for moving. Sleeves were tugged into place. Dozens of tiny buttons were closed by expert hands.
When at last I looked in the mirror, a stranger stared back. The woman in the glass was stunning, yes, but in the manner of a chandelier—cold gleam meant to be admired at the center of a spectacle. A veil landed on my head, its weight pinning me to the spot.
“You’re glowing,” sighed one attendant, clasping her hands.
“You’re so very fortunate, milady. The king must adore you,” another crooned.
I bit my cheek until I tasted blood. Tuning out their voices, I allowed my thoughts to drift.
If I were marrying Mav…
A warmth unfurled within me. I would shoulder no beading, train, or veil; a simple gown easy to dance in.
Mav was such a wonderful dancer. I envisioned Thistle’s yard overrun with flowers and lanterns strung from tree to tree.
Mav would wear a shirt he would pretend to button properly, hair falling into his eyes as it always did.
Vesper would be solemn as he carried the rings, wicked as he delivered a speech no one requested he prepare.
Branrir would officiate with such grave sincerity that even the Saints would lean forward to listen.
I could hear Thistle sniffling into a handkerchief, then threatening to fight anyone who dared call her soft.
There would be laughter. Bread warm from the oven.
I would insist on Mav singing something for me and dancing until our feet could no longer bear it.
My throat burned.
“Milady?” Devronica’s voice unraveled the daydream.
“Yes?” I blinked rapidly.
“We have what we need to make the final alterations,” she declared.
Buttons skittered open. Pins slipped free. The veil lifted, leaving my head strangely bare. The gown’s weight—both literal and otherwise—slid from my shoulders. I filled my lungs for the first time all morning.
The room quieted again as they filtered into the hall. I made to close the door when another servant appeared at the threshold. He bore a silver tray crowded with pastries and fruit.
“Thank you for your efforts,” I began. “But surely I could take breakfast in the dining hall.”
Sweat beaded on his brow. “Apologies, milady, we were told you were to dine in your quarters.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Perhaps it was for the best. In this way, I would not have to be in the same room as Edric for several more hours.
The servant set the tray on a side table, bowed, and retreated.
I carried the tray to the windowsill, needing light and warmth more than sustenance. Sliding to the sun-warmed floor, I tore a pastry into its layers. The food had no taste or texture. I was numb to its charms.
Out of habit, I reached for the tether. The frigid void remained. I had not realized how often I felt him: warmth at my shoulder, a second pulse beneath my own. I drew my knees up to my chest and let the sunlight pool over my face.
Another knock.
“You may enter,” I called.
A man stumbled through, enveloped by the largest bouquet I had ever seen. The garden of blooms devoured his torso, leaving only a mop of brown hair and two flushed cheeks visible above the riot of color. He staggered to the nearest table and deposited his burden. The wood groaned in response.
“Deliveries from His Majesty,” he panted.
From the depths of his coat, he produced a letter and a small, wrapped box. He placed them on the table with a bow and departed.
The envelope read, in a dramatic scrawl I knew too well:
Quinnie.
I loathed the nickname, always had. The wax cracked beneath my thumb as I unfolded the parchment.
My dearest Quinnie,
You have my deepest apologies for how last night unfolded between us. It is not how I envisioned our first joining, and I assure you, there will be far more tenderness to come. In the box is a token of my devotion to our future. There shall be no further distractions. It’s only you and me now.
Your king, and tonight, your husband,
Edric
Joining? I was not sure whether laughter or vomiting was the more appropriate response.
One line stood out to me, spreading ice through my limbs. “There shall be no further distractions. It’s only you and me now.”
What was his meaning?
I traded the letter for the small, velvet box, narrowing my eyes. Pretty things were rarely harmless. I did not believe this one to be any different. Perhaps Edric meant to litter me with jewels as part of his groveling. I slid the golden ribbon off and lifted the lid.
A smaller note lay atop a folded handkerchief.
Another message from Edric.
I hope one day you’ll understand why this was necessary and find it in your heart to forgive me.
The word necessary rang in my ears, first a whisper, then a shriek. What would I need to forgive him for that could possibly be housed in such a small box?
Setting the note aside, I unfolded the handkerchief.
Breath left me and refused to return.
Beneath it lay a lock of hair.
A rich, chestnut brown. I knew it well. I had twined it around my fingers, smoothed it back from his brow, buried my face in it on nights when sleep felt like an enemy I could not fight. Saints, I could find Mav in a group of a thousand men by his hair alone.
Yet, here it was presented as a favor.
A keepsake.
A prize.
My vision tunneled to that single wave. Clarity struck, swift and cruel. Ice flooded my veins. The air thickened to syrup.
No.
The room swayed. The walls receded.
No.
A scream lodged behind my teeth.
NO!
A wail clawed from my throat, raw and blistered.
Mav was dead.
Edric had killed him.
The world swam in and out of focus. Memories flared behind my eyes—Mav’s laugh, his hands warm on my waist, the way he’d whispered my name like a vow. A thousand soft, ordinary moments that should have been our forever would now never be.
It was my fault. If I had declined Edric’s proposal to begin with, if I had not fallen asleep in Mav’s arms, he would be alive.
I clutched the lock of Mav’s hair to my chest, above the hollow where the tether had once connected his soul to mine.
My body convulsed around the emptiness. I wanted to tear my skin open, to dig until I found him again, to fix this—but there was no fixing the permanence of death.
I collapsed to the floor. It was not low enough.
I wanted the earth to open and bury me with him.
Blindly, I crawled to the chaise. I curled onto it, scraping at the fabric as if I could hold onto the shape of him. His scent lingered, and the final thread snapped within me. I lost myself entirely. Sobs shredded my throat and echoed off the walls. My body shook as I wept.
Sunlight crept across my cheek as the morning moved on without me, calloused and indifferent.
“Please,” I rasped, voice unrecognizable, raw from weeping. “Please, let him be at peace.”
I lay in the ruins of what we had been, holding the last piece of him. There was no strength left for vengeance. Only this prayer, and the broken pieces of a future that would never be.