Chapter 4
“Are you going to serve him breakfast just now?” Farah snapped, startling me.
“He said he wanted breakfast an hour after sunrise.”
“All right. We’re meeting in the kitchen at noon. I need to discuss with you lot your new schedules. The usual chores will not do themselves, and with Mounir still a week away from his return, I have to plan in his stead. Be on time, Delia.”
“Come in,” Lord Aegir called, his voice deep from behind the door.
I found him standing next to the working table, looking at himself in the tall mirror.
As I placed his breakfast tray on the dining table, he turned towards me and said, “My shirt is torn,” showing me a vertical tear that started at his underarm and ended somewhere below his ribs.
“I can hand it to Lina Mounir, the seamstress, but she is not here at the moment. She’ll probably start working on it next week.”
His voice thickened. “I need it fixed today, now.”
“I’m sorry, but she isn’t here. She’s attending a family matter.”
“I have a meeting with King Belzari at noon. I need it fixed by then.”
“You didn’t bring any other shirts with you?” I found myself asking.
“I did, but all of them are…I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he all but snapped.
“No, of course not,” I said quietly.
“It’s just, the rest of my good clothes are on the way, all right. Is there any other shirt you could fetch me?”
“I doubt a single shirt exists in this castle that would fit you.” I regretted the words that I’d just blurted. They wilfully leaked from my lips like gushing water from a spilled glass. “Maybe one of your men could lend you one?”
“Theirs are in a poorer state. Are you certain there isn’t anyone in this godsdamned castle that could fix this?”
I stared blankly at him, contemplating, Semuel’s voice a whisper in my ear: Whenever an opportunity that may gain us something falls on our laps, we do not refuse it, Wildheart.
“Well, there might actually be someone who could help, but you have to promise to keep it a secret.”
“Why?” he asked, his tone conveying either confusion or annoyance.
“Because knowing how to sew puts you at risk of ending up in the basement with Lina Mounir, the ever-so-lovely seamstress.”
His eyes almost rolled. “Fine, I promise. Now go fetch her.”
“You have to swear it.”
The Ice Prince pierced me with a narrowed gaze, and I swore the whole of him emitted irritation. He took two steps towards me and I willed my feet not to fall back.
“All right, lady, if you want to do it the conventional way, then I should make you aware that I do not promise and I most certainly do not swear. I bargain.” I watched him attentively.
“So I’ll offer you this, make sure this shirt is sewn before midday and in return, I’ll give you my word that I will not utter a single word about it. ”
I replied carefully, “That’s no different than a promise. Aren’t bargains supposed to be reciprocal?”
“Do not underestimate the value of my offer.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound like an offer to me. It sounds like you’re extorting a person who is merely trying to help you.”
“Shouldn’t my servant be at my service?”
“This is an off-the-books situation—my service would be to hand it to the seamstress.”
Exasperation was now radiating from his face and he exhaled sharply. “All right, what is it that you want, then?”
“Mmm…I want aaa…I want a glass of water—ice-cold—with floating ice.”
I had never seen ice bobbing on water before, but Sand Priestess Constance had told us that although ice is solid, it still floats above water, just like a boat does. It had something to do with their densities. I really wanted to see that with my own eyes. Tasting freshness sounded nice, too.
His expression was close to a wince, but then he shrugged and said, “Deal. Now go fetch her.”
“Wait, but what about the person sewing your shirt? What will they get in return?”
“I presume you’re going to say that secrecy itself would not suffice.”
“Again, the secrecy is instinctively part of it.”
“All right, then, what should I offer in return? Another glass of ice-cold water perhaps?”
“Mmm, perhaps two pieces of silver coin would be more appropriate.”
“One piece of silver,” he countered, “along with the secrecy, of course.”
“Of course,” I crooned. “It is a deal, then. Wait here.”
Minutes later I returned, closing the door behind me. I took small steps towards the bed and knelt on the carpet.
“Where is she?” the Ice Prince demanded.
I pulled out a small box from my dress pocket and opened it, taking out a spool wrapped with white thread, and a sewing needle. “I can’t promise that it will look as seamless as that of Lina Mounir, but I promise I’ll try my best.
“You?”
“Yes, me. Now take off your shirt,” I ordered in a very low voice.
As he obeyed, I focused on passing the thread through the needle and restrained myself from looking his way.
I remembered perfectly well how his built body looked.
And how my eyes felt like peeling off at the effort I made not to look lower—despite himself aiming an ice spear in my direction.
And now, I again made an absolute effort to keep my eyes pinned only on the shirt as he extended a muscled arm towards me.
I turned the shirt inside out and assessed the tear. To my pleasure, it was near and along the seam, making it easier for the new stitches to be inconspicuous. I started at the underarm and worked my way down, threading small, identical stitches.
He devoured his breakfast while I worked.
I observed my work, grazing the stitching with my finger. My lips curved at the sides. I was so confident, I slid the sewing kit back in my dress pocket.
“Here, try it,” I said, stretching out my arm.
Still on my knees, I watched his back, his carved muscles shifting beneath his golden-brown skin as he moved in front of the tall mirror. I had not seen many shirtless men before, but I was sure that it was not normal to look like that.
Dark ink marked the column of his back. It went from his nape down the whole length of his spine, fading at its end, as if he was stroked once with a thick paintbrush beginning at the back of his neck. I wondered what it meant, wondered if it had hurt. Probably not.
“Hmm.” His arm lifted and lowered. “That’s actually pretty good. Where did you learn how to do this?”
“A Sand Priestess taught me.”
“Hmm.”
My eyes traced his movements. I watched his throat bob as he took a mouthful of water, then replaced the half-empty glass on his desk. Then he opened the top drawer of the desk and fished out a piece of silver, which he offered to me on his palm, extending his hand.
I finally rose to my feet and took small steps towards him, making my way around the desk. I cautiously placed my palm on his own, reaching for the coin, but he instantly closed his hand, the coin trapped between our palms. I sucked in a breath and tried to pull my hand free.
Tried to.
In a heartbeat, the whole world shifted and I found myself beneath his weight, pinned to the table, ice dagger at my throat.