Chapter 22
The next morning, I wake to a strange clicking sound. I stretch, move to sit up—and find five eyes on strings bobbing above my face.
A gasping sort of scream tears out of my throat as I throw myself off the bed, grabbing the nearest thing for a weapon: a long, tapered candle. I hold it out in front of me, pointed at the . . . creature in my room.
It’s close to my height, and green. It stands on two feet like a human, with two arms like a human, but the hands are blobby palms with four slender fingers that bulge into blobby points. A dress with a sash clothes its green body. Its head is more like the lower half of a head, with a wide, toothy mouth and blue lips, nostrils but no nose, and—and—and what seem like tentacles with eyeballs at the end of them coming out of where the creature’s brains should be.
It burbles something at me and takes a step closer.
“N-n-not another s-s-step,” I snarl, holding out the candle at the . . . thing.
The door barrels open, and Ash stumbles through in breeches and a blousy white shirt that is open at the chest. His hair stands up at strange angles like he fell asleep at his desk.
A massive sword is in his grip, a faint glow tinging the blade.
“What is it?” he demands, frantically surveying the room, me, and the creature. “What is wrong?”
I blink. He has no reaction to the creature, who burbles something at him, sticks out a waggling blue tongue, and gestures at me. All five of those eyes swivel toward me as it plants its hands on its narrow hips.
Ash’s eyes follow hers, finding me and the candlestick I’m wielding. I stare at him stupidly, realizing he must know this creature. I lower the candle. “I w-w-was s-startled,” I mumble quietly. It’s the only explanation I can give that doesn’t imply my horrified shock at the creature’s appearance.
Ash straightens and sets down his sword, propping it up against the wall. “I think introductions are in order.” He comes to my side—and very distinctly averts his gaze from what I’m wearing.
I glance down, my sleep-fogged mind clearing, to find I’m in my nightdress. It’s not scandalous by any means, but . . . it is a nightgown. I cross my arms over my chest self-consciously.
“Stella”—he places his hand on my back—“this is Hylath. She will attend to your needs if that pleases you.” There’s a lilt on the edge of that statement—a question about whether Hylath is suitable to my sensibilities.
I look at her. At her strange eyes that blink out of sync with one another. Where is her brain? Maybe it’s behind her nostrils? It just doesn’t seem like there’s enough space for it. Maybe she doesn’t need one. “I-it is a p-pleasure to meet you,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster after my little display.
Hylath sticks her tongue out and wiggles it at me.
I lift my brows, glance up at Ash. “Is she angry?”
One of her eyes pops wide and lifts straight up.
Ash gives a little laugh. “She is pleased to meet you, too.” He glances sidelong at me. “She also says you need to freshen up.”
My eyes widen and I pull away from him. “Does that mean I smell?”
“She doesn’t mean it like that,” he says, and immediately Hylath lets out a shriek—startling me—and covers her nostrils with her hands. And runs straight out of the room.
Ash’s mouth is twisted, both humorously, and a little sourly.
“What . . .?” My question trails off. I suppose I’m not exactly sure what to ask.
“You cannot smell it then?”
My eyes widen further. Is this some fae sense of smell that is extra strong? Alarm makes me take another step back. “Do I smell that bad?” Oh dear, this is quite unseemly of me!
“Not your smell—the smell in the air.”
Frowning, though undeniably relieved, I take a big whiff. The air carries a light, natural perfume from the blooming flowers along the walls and the herbs on my windowsill. Even the coverlet from the bed gives off a lovely floral scent. Nothing offensive. I love how this room smells.
“I thought so,” says Ash. “I simply wanted to confirm.”
“Confirm what?”
“That you cannot smell lies.”
I think back on the words we just exchanged. “You lied about what Hylath meant about my smell. Is that why she ran out?”
“The air stank like iron.”
“Then why did you lie?”
“Because I didn’t want you to be self-conscious.”
I blink. “Then I do stink.”
A sheepish grin. “I don’t mind.”
I glare at him and dodge around his hand reaching for mine, going to the far side of the room.
“I said I don’t mind,” says Ash with a laugh. “But I shall issue Hylath back in. The tailor is coming this morning for your new clothes. This afternoon, I need to leave the palace. You’re welcome to come with me.”
“To go where?”
“To visit a friend. I think you’d rather enjoy the excursion.”
“Will anyone try to kill me?”
He shrugs. “Unlikely. You’ll be safer at my side than staying here in the palace.”
I wish I could smell lies. His face doesn’t seem to be one of concealing a bitter flavor, but I imagine he’s adept at hiding it. I draw a deep breath, consider my options, and eventually nod. “Very well. I will be honored to accompany you.”
“Then I shall leave you to ready yourself for the day. Breakfast awaits you in the common rooms.”
With that, he turns to leave, grabbing his sword. He hesitates. Looks back at me. Then quickly turns back and leaves.
I have a moment of reprieve to sink my toes into the luxurious, moss-like carpet on the floor. Then the door opens, and one eye peeks in. Its lid closes in a slow blink.
“Come in,” I say, and resolve myself to get used to her appearance as quickly as possible. Perhaps I can convince Ash to introduce me to all of his staff, so I don’t have any more frights. I ought to know friend from foe, anyway.
Hylath rummages through the set of drawers against the far wall of my room, pulls out various clothing items, lays them over her arm, and beckons me with a trill to follow her. I grab a robe and wrap it around myself before venturing out of the haven of my room.
We pass through the bedroom just as Ash is pulling on a fresh shirt. I quickly avert my eyes—though not before I glimpse a tanned, toned back—and scramble into the hallway to the bathing chamber.
I hadn’t seen much of it yesterday, so today I find myself once more agape at the beauty of a simple washroom. Plants of many varieties hang from the ceiling, climb the walls, and fill nearly every nook and cranny in the room. They surround a great white-marble tub with gold claw feet. A long vanity faces a beautiful mirror, providing far more space than I would ever need to get ready.
Hylath points to the steaming tub and gestures for me to get in. I step around a stunning array of potted plants to get to the tub, only to realize once I’m there that the door lists open on its hinges, and my maid doesn’t seem to have any consideration for my modesty.
“Um . . . can we close the door?” I squeak.
Hylath’s eyes blink in unison at me. Then she marches to the door, kicks it shut, and turns around to stare at me expectantly.
Trying not to feel nervous with Ash on the other side of the door, I hurry to disrobe and slip into the tub, hugging my knees to my chest as Hylath works to lather my hair. Each time footsteps sound near the outside of the chamber, I tense up and wait for them to pass.
I experience a heart attack when it’s time to get out of the bath, and heavy footfalls happen right outside just as I’m standing up in the tub. I squeak and leap into the towel Hylath has for me. All five of her eyes blink at me again, as if she’s wondering what in the world is wrong with this stupid human on her hands.
“S-sorry,” I chatter, wrapping myself up tightly. Hylath burbles something in response, then gestures to a short stool before the enormous, beautiful mirror. She brushes my wet hair, then lets out a series of shrieks that almost make me duck and cover my ears.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” calls Ash from the other room.
She shrieks back and punctuates it with a few spits.
“Have some patience, you crotchety old woman! Let a man put some trousers on before he scares the daylights out of his poor bride.”
Five eyes roll in succession while I wrap my arms over the thin material of my robe and wait, tensed, as footsteps come toward the door. They stop, and a knock sounds.
Hylath spits three times.
“It’s not my fault you’re in a bad mood today,” says Ash with a glare at my maid when he opens the door. “If you’re not nice, I’ll have to separate you from my wife, so your temperament doesn’t rub off on her.”
My eyes widen. Hylath sticks out her tongue and waggles it.
Ash laughs.
I sit where I am, not a little perplexed. Then Ash’s gaze falls to me. And sweet heavens, he’s so handsome, especially with that little quirked grin.
“Hylath says you need my help,” he says, giving me a quick once-over.
“She did?”
Hylath lets out an exasperated huff as she burbles and her five eyes point—if that’s possible—to my wet hair.
“Dry her hair?” Ash repeats, then looks at me. He shrugs. “I suppose there are worse things than getting to touch my wife’s hair. Move aside, you old woman.”
She waggles her tongue, spits twice, and hobbles away. Ash takes her place at my back. I grip the collar of my robe tightly, staring at him in the reflection of the mirror as he drags over another stool to sit on.
He sits, lets out a great sigh, and surveys my hair. Then he looks up, catches my gaze in the mirror. “Tell me one of those thoughts. Or else I’ll kiss you.”
I flush as he threads his fingers into my hair and combs them through, leaving dry strands behind. “How are you doing that?”
He grins at me and then leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Magic.”
“Is it glamour?”
“This isn’t glamour. I’m pulling the moisture out of your hair via heat and evaporating it into the air. It works better with smaller chunks than all of it at once.”
I watch him work, trying to keep my shoulders and back straight as he moves closer to the hair at the nape of my neck. A shiver goes down my spine, and he looks up. “It’s . . . s-s-sensitive,” I say, trying to pretend my face isn’t turning red by avoiding my reflection.
He only gives a small smirk as he continues. “You still haven’t given me a thought.”
“I asked how you were drying my hair!”
“That is a question, my love. There is a difference. I tolerated it before, but no more. I want a thought from your brain. An opinion. An insight. An observation.”
I lower my brows. “This is a big mirror.”
He chuckles. “Another one. Or I’ll kiss you.”
“How many thoughts are you going to want? I might need to prepare them in advance.”
He laughs outright at that. “That is for me to know, and you to find out. Besides, I have no doubt that there is an abundance of thoughts floating around in this pretty head of yours.”
“If you overestimate me, you’ll only be disappointed.”
“It is impossible for me to be disappointed in you. Now, a thought or I will be forced to carry out my threats. I am nothing if not a man of my word.”
It is impossible for me to be disappointed in you. Something about that catches me off-guard, forcing my lips to part in surprise. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and blink hard.
The awareness of Ash’s scrutiny prickles across my neck. When I look at him, he is already focused back on my hair, running the long strands between his fingers and drying them until they fall warm and soft against my back.
“I’ll help you out,” he says suddenly. “I’ll give you prompts. Here’s your first one: My husband is so . . . Now you get to fill in the blank. Some popular answers include handsome, dashing, clever, and swoony.”
It surprises me so much that a giggle escapes my throat before I can stop it. Ash grins, giving my hair a gentle tug.
“Well, what shall it be?” he asks.
“My husband is so . . .” I trail off. Unexpectedly kind. “. . . tall.”
He pauses, considering, then shrugs. “I suppose that will work. You like tall, right?”
I flush. “Um . . .”
A roguish grin spreads across his face. He leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my shoulder, making me catch my breath. “Good.”
I blink rapidly, quickly hiding my gaze in my lap. His hands make one last stroke through my hair before he sweeps it all over my shoulder and stands. I look up just as he catches my shoulders and presses yet another kiss to the top of my head. “Done.”
Instead of leaving, he hesitates. His voice drops to a whisper. A whisper that isn’t ringed with irony or humor. A whisper that is almost painfully earnest.
“You are beautiful, Stella.”
Without another word, he straightens and leaves the chamber. I remain seated on the stool, staring in shock at my reflection in the mirror.