Chapter 31
I SPEND A few days recovering in Drystan’s suite.
Then, when I’m well enough to move around, he insists I stay a little longer and he won’t count those days in our bargain.
He even brings me a stack of books about plants and medicine from the fortress library, declaring, “Since you know about your surface plants, I thought you could learn about ours. Besides”—he narrows his eyes—“I suspect books are the only way to keep you out of trouble.”
“I suspect you’re right.” I’ve only made it to the library twice since I got here, and both times, I ended up asleep face-first in a book.
Still, as I read, I can’t help wondering about his willingness to help me. What are his motives?
Despite his teasing about thralls, I have no power he can drain.
He dislikes me and he’s unseelie, so pure and simple kindness is out of the question.
Though he does benefit from having a consort: the power. So he doesn’t want me to die, hence the books on plant medicine and making sure I don’t expire in the labyrinth or because of it.
And he might not be able to bind me to him through magic, but gratitude comes with its own shackles.
Over the first dinner I manage to eat at the table, he admits he’s cancelled our public engagements.
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. “How have you made excuses for me? Surely the people are wondering why they haven’t seen their future queen in days. You can’t have told them a lie but you also can’t have revealed my illness.”
Gaze on my plate, he sucks in his cheeks, and I just know he’s trying desperately not to smirk.
Once he’s mastered himself, he takes his glass, throat bobbing.
“That’s why I’ve been eating meals in my rooms and making myself scarce.
I don’t have to say anything at all. Everyone assumes we’re enjoying ourselves. ”
“That’s a clever way of—”
Understanding bursts in me, as sudden and shocking as a snowball to the face. My eyes about pop out of my head. “Oh.” I make the strangled sound before stuffing food into my mouth.
He raises his glass to me, grinning before he takes a sip.
“You don’t need to go tonight, you know.” He stands in the doorway, arms folded, leaning on the door frame.
“From what Asti said, tonight sounds like something important.”
He raises one shoulder. “Your health is more important.”
For a moment I can’t speak. It’s like there’s something growing in my throat, spreading down into my chest, but it’s warm, not choking.
For a few beats, I continue brushing my hair and twist back the front section, catching it with a pin he’s given me that’s shaped like a raven feather made of blue-black steel. “I’m fine.”
And for a change, I mean it. I’m not saying it to make him feel better or to stop him worrying. These days of enforced rest have left me feeling better than I have in months.
He’s still watching me, a dark presence brooding in the doorway.
I look up from the dressing table and nod. “Really.”
That seems to satisfy him, because he stops hovering and leaves me to finish getting ready.
After he’s gone, I slip from my dressing robe into a gown.
Sea-blue satin ripples with every movement, flowing as I walk.
I sneak a little spin now he’s not here to see and judge.
The back is open, with clasps at my waist and neck—no help required this evening—and a high neckline at the front, though it leaves my shoulders bare, and the fabric clings to my breasts and hips.
I have those once more. Rounded under my hands. Small, but enough flesh to squeeze. The back of my throat aches as I probe these new shapes that the mirror tells me are me and yet feel alien. But there isn’t time to explore this new frontier of myself tonight.
Min made this gown for me specially. I can’t work out how I feel so covered and exposed all at once.
That seems to be a specialty of her fashion.
She’s sewn chips of mother of pearl into the bodice and gathered the silk cleverly so it looks like rippling water, with not a single stitch visible on the outside.
She even dyed the hem so the silk deepens into the inky blue of a stormy sea.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s a reference to the bargain made between my father and The Morrigan. A bride courtesy of a storm at sea.
Despite the potential reference, I love the gown. It lets me move freely and the way she’s sculpted it to my body, I don’t feel like the strip of fabric forming the front is going to gape and expose me, even though it has no back.
And I love the books Drystan brought me too, particularly The Herbal Grimoire, which sits on the dressing table. It describes a plant that might even help. Skullflowers. Very Underworld, I know.
The illustrations seem a lot like lily of the valley, but a closer look at the little bell flowers reveal they are the same shape as their namesake. The grimoire says they have the effect of slowing and strengthening the heartbeat.
But they’re also toxic.
It’s darkly amusing how every treatment I find is also harmful.
Then again, that is the guiding principle from the first herbalism book I ever read. The dose makes the poison. The same words I’ve inked into the title page of this new notebook.
Drystan told me he knew where some skullflowers grow and has ordered a detachment of the Twylth to ride out and collect some for me.
I didn’t want to put them in danger on my account, but he shook his head.
“Nonsense. You are to be my queen. If you have a sudden desire for skullflowers, then skullflowers you shall have.
The Twylth can handle any monsters they might find on the road.
“In fact,” he added with a grin, “I’m sure they’re hoping for trouble: if they don’t regularly spill blood, they get restless.”
My smile twists as I tuck the book into a drawer and whisper to myself, “Gratitude. Shackles. Remember that.”
“I have a question,” I say as we reach the large doors leading to the grand dining hall, our Twylth guards hanging back. My mind’s been foggy the past few days, so I haven’t thought to ask until now. “Why am I having another presentation? Wasn’t that what my first night was for?”
“That was your presentation. This is our presentation.” At my blank look, he nods, prompting.
“As a couple. I’m sure you’ll be devastated to discover you’re expected to play the part of my doting fiancée who’s desperately in love with me.
” His eyes glint with amusement, but it’s warm—more laughing in the snow than the haughty, detached amusement of the king who raised the dead to attack my home.
I sigh like the prospect is a huge burden.
And he smiles. The real smile with the dimples.
I swallow and busy myself with adjusting my necklace. “You should do that more often.”
“What?”
“Smile like you mean it.” I refuse to look up at him, though my pulse presses at my throat a little harder.
“Perhaps I do mean it.”
My heart dips. Not because I need belladonna, but because at moments like this, he sounds so convincing.
Even though I know it’s all pretend, it’s such a terrible temptation to believe.
Thankfully, the doors sweep open, saving me from myself.
The grand dining hall is full. Just about every member of court and the household is here as far as I can tell. A couple of hundred faces turn to watch us enter and a hush falls over the room.
Silver thread stretches between the arms of the chandeliers and over mirror frames, glistening in the firelight.
It drapes over chair backs and table legs, like a thousand spiders have been at work, armed with precious metal.
Glittering black crystals hang over the massive fireplaces, throwing motes of light on to the marble floor.
Shadows lurk at the corners of the room, but they seem almost tamed by the brightness of the lights and the glistening silver adornments.
As usual, the two massive fires are stoked, but it’s grown warmer outside, and the Vost has thought to open the doors leading out to the great terrace.
Still, I catch Drystan scowling at the open doors, then glancing at my bare arms. I squeeze his elbow, and give him a smile that’s meant to be both reassurance and a reminder that he’s meant to look desperately in love with me.
The briefest eye roll is followed by a faint, reserved smile—no dimples this time—as he nods to the Annuncier, who speaks in the unseelie’s old tongue, which I’ve learned is a language generally reserved for ritual purposes.
I have no idea what she says, but the language is lilting, lyrical, and I find myself lulled by her intonation and the ask and answer between her and the gathered fae. It’s like being pushed back and forth by the sea, and I find myself swaying with it, thankful for Drystan’s arm keeping me steady.
The speech finishes and everyone turns to us. My spine springs straight, body tense with the unmistakable terror that something is expected of me and I don’t know what it is.
But Drystan places his hand over mine as he inclines his head. “Dethau.” His voice rings through the silence, its low pitch edged with the power I heard him use in the training yard.
I try not to shiver at the memory. I fail.
He gives me an encouraging nod, and whispers, “You just need to say ‘Dethau.’ That’s all.”
I gather my breath and courage and speak as loudly as I can. “Dethau.”
He squeezes my hand in what might be approval, then the gathering breaks into cheering and trilling cries.
Amidst the chaos, we set off on a sedate walk around the three long tables.
The only empty spaces I see are at a table for two set upon a low dais at the far end of the room.
Inwardly, I groan. Normally, we’re seated at opposite ends of the central table, but it seems tonight the “happy couple” are to be displayed.