Chapter Fourteen
Daphne
“Ican’t feel my legs,” I whisper.
“That’s because I’m lying on them,” Hart says from the opposite end of the tent.
We determined within a few tempos that the only way to sleep in here was either me on top of a knight—which, for reasons that are frankly ridiculous, got shot down—or we top and tail like a pair of mismatched socks, which color me surprised, Hart is wearing one stripy and one spotty sock.
I wiggle his toe. “This little piggy went to market and ate sausage made of capon, because the piggy isn’t a cannibal.”
He groans. “Daphne, sleep.”
I move to the next one. “This little piggy stayed at home with her four knights who gave her lots of said sausage and orgasms. Preferably one leads to the other, because the piggy is sad about the lack of sausage.”
“Because she ate it,” he points out. I grin as I draw him inside my crazy brain. It’s addictive living inside it, but also exhausting.
“This little piggy had roast bunkum delivered already smoking by her dragon, because we couldn’t eat it otherwise.”
“I’m aware of your ridiculous issues with cooking animals you’ve petted. We know to slaughter them before they’re adopted.”
I pinch his next toe and squeeze hard in warning. “This little piggy, named Hartless, had no floof or sweet treats, because he’s a rude mellow.”
Laughter circles around us from outside. “You like me too much to go on a protest,” Hart growls.
“Lucky for me, I have three others to fill my... Ow!” I lift my head and scowl, finding a little light bleeding through the thin fabric of my sock. “Are you seriously biting my toes? Because if you have a foot fetish, perhaps you and Charming can join a support group.”
He releases me just as I wiggle his pinky toe. “And this little piggy went—”
“If you two are going to talk insistently, we may as well swap out now,” Nash interrupts.
I grin. Finally. I’m going mad in here.
I crawl out of the tent and stretch my arms in the air. Hart follows, his hands landing on my hips as he kisses my cheek.
“Ew, toe lips.”
“They’re your toes.”
True.
Malachi grumbles something about us not being cute before climbing inside the vacated tent. Nash’s lip curls as he studies the opening, and I glance inside with him as a thought occurs.
“Malachi,” I whisper conspiratorially, as if his brothers can’t hear us.
He raises his head. “Yes?”
“Are you a top or a bottom?”
Nash chokes while Hart snorts.
Malachi blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” I say, waving my hand vaguely. “Dispositionally. Spiritually. In the grand tapestry of your romantic destiny.”
Nash drags a hand down his face. “Is it too late to drown in the lake to escape this conversation?”
Malachi's grin spreads. “Depends on the company.”
I clap my hands once. “Excellent. I like a flexible knight.” I turn to Nash. “Best to reverse inside to avoid any topping from the bottom disasters.”
Hart winces in remembrance of my shoulder hitting his groin.
I squint at Malachi’s socked feet and then chuckle as he’s wearing the same mismatched socks as his twin. They share everything.
Nash kisses me briefly and then folds his body inside the tent with a soft grunt.
“Warm,” he murmurs.
“Brother,” Malachi drawls. “Why do your feet smell of roses?”
Everyone pauses.
“Must be from Daphne’s bath this morning.”
That still lingered after a whole diurnal of sweaty horse riding and an impromptu lake dipping? I sniff my armpit. While not stinky, there’s also no remembrance of flowers.
Hart tangles his hand in mine and leads me away from the tent to let his brothers rest. As we grow closer to the trees, I let out a shriek at the huge lumps on the ground.
“The horses are dead.”
“Sleeping,” he corrects. That’s right. They can sleep upright, but they need a few turns of total chill to rest up for our trek tomorrow. I step a little closer, and Nash’s horse’s eye drifts half open.
“Also, if my eyes are open and I’m asleep, can I still see? Or is it just the creepy whites-of-the-eyes situation? Because sometimes Gwyneth does that, and I can tell you now, it is deeply unsettling. Like she’s watching you from inside her skull.”
Hart says nothing.
“I once waved my hand in front of her face for a full minute,” I continue. “Nothing. No reaction. Just blank eyes. I nearly fainted from the terror of it.”
Still nothing.
“Maybe we can sleep upright and with our eyes open?” I wonder as Hart pushes on my shoulders, encouraging me to sit on a log.
“No.”
“But the horses do it.”
“We are not horses.”
“That feels like a narrow-minded stance.”
He makes a circle of the camp area, checking for suspicious snails and freaky frogs. Oh no. I jump to my feet and yank down my panties before pushing my hand between my legs.
“What are you doing, Calamity?” he drawls. “If it’s a show, I’m all for it.”
“Checking for frogspawn.”
He comes to a standstill in front of me and crosses his arms. “Why in the Blazes would frogspawn be in your underwear? Is this a weird Daphneism?”
“Have you ever had frogspawn in your floof?” I snap while squinting at him and triple-checking myself. Can’t be too careful.
“Not this annus.”
“Then don’t judge me. If you’d experienced it in your sausage’s smiley face, it would scar you too, and you’d know to check.”
“Fair point. Do you want me to check? It looks like you’re searching for buried treasure.”
I drop my hand, yank up my panties, and smile. “No need. I’m spawn free.”
He snatches my hand and draws my fingers into his mouth. My breath catches, and I swallow hard as his tongue swirls around the pad of my finger.
He releases them with a wet pop. “You’re right. No spawn.” He takes a perch on the log next to me and leans his back against the tree.
I debate on licking the fingers he just licked, but that would be weird. “Hart?”
“Yes, Calamity.”
“Are you asleep?”
“No.”
I need to check because of the horse situation. “Good. Because I have another question.”
He exhales slowly, and his eyes flutter closed. “Of course you do.”
“Do you think Theo snores in dragon form?”
From inside the tent, two voices answer at once. “Yes. Loudly. And often with fiery consequences.”
I grin. “Knew it.”
“Farts too,” Malachi shouts.
“Then jumps twelve feet in shock and spins around to find the culprit,” Hart adds. “It’s amusing unless you’re at the wrong end.”
I scrunch up my nose.
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot wiggle-bursts out of the lake and spins like some sort of water sprite. It’s a new side of him, and I like it. He zooms toward us and lies on my feet like a soggy guard dog, his bristles still damp from his aquatic adventures.
Hart wraps an arm around my waist and drags me so my back is against his chest. “Rest your eyes,” he grumbles.
“What if we fall asleep?”
“That would be a small miracle, but I’m sure your broom would wake us.”
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot rises in a regal manner, indicating that he is indeed up for the task.
“Just to be clear, our eyes may be open, but we might be asleep,” I inform him.
He shivers in response. I take that as an “obviously.”
The night air is cool and quiet. The fire has burned down to glowing embers, casting a soft red light across the clearing. The lake stretches out before us, silver and still, like a giant coin dropped into the forest.
For a while, neither of us speaks. It’s… strange. Relaxing. Usually, my thoughts bounce around like drunken pixies. But now there’s a weight in my chest. A hollow space that wasn’t there before.
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I feel off.”
Hart leans his chin on my shoulder. “You’re exhausted.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not weak. Not tired. Incomplete.” The word tastes strange, as if it doesn’t belong to me.
“Explain.”
I press a hand to my chest. “There’s a piece of me somewhere else. Like when you bite into a pastry and realize all the filling is missing.” I continue, softer now. “I came back wrong, didn’t I?”
Hart doesn’t answer as he weighs my words. I don’t mistake it for indifference or creepy sleeping. “Your soul isn’t whole,” he whispers.
The words land heavy, like rocks hitting my chest.
“What does that mean?”
“It means something of you didn’t return.”
My stomach drops. “Does that mean I’m not me? I need all of me to survive. Parts aren’t good where I’m concerned. Should I file something in the celestial lost and found? Nobody is going to want a bit of me. They’d probably pay me to take it away. I bet it’s causing chaos.”
His thumb rubs a slow circle on my wrist. “More like a piece of your spirit is tethered elsewhere.”
My throat tightens. “Theo.”
Hart nods once. “He isn’t just missing,” he says. “He has part of you. And you have part of him. Always have, long before you did the impossible and thwarted narratives, kings, queens, and Idols.”
A strange warmth flickers in my chest. “I thought I just missed him.”
“You do,” Hart says. “But it’s more than that.”
I swallow.
The lake makes a small sound. Not a splash. Not a ripple. Just… a shift. Like something turning over in its sleep. I hate that sound.
I pick at the thread on my sleeve harder until it snaps.
“What if it’s not a tether?” I say quietly.
“What if it’s a tear?” Hart’s hand stills on my wrist. “In fabric,” I continue, because apparently I am incapable of stopping once a metaphor begins.
“If you tear something, the edges fray. They don’t sit nicely. They don’t behave.”
“You’re not fraying,” he says.
“That’s generous.” I look down at my hands. They look like mine. Slightly scraped. A faint scar from when I tried to duel a sentient teapot. Perfectly functional chaos hands. “But I feel… less. Like if someone pushed too hard, I might go straight through myself.”
Hart shifts so he can see my face properly.
“You’re solid,” he says, relocating my hand against his chest. His heart thuds steady and sure beneath my palm.
“That is romantic.”
“I’m not trying to be romantic.”
“Well, try harder.”
He almost smiles. Almost. And that’s worse. Because Hart only almost smiles when something matters.