Chapter 38
IT TURNS OUT Threnn was unhappy with having a human on the throne. With him gone, Asti is made the new Baloran, though Min tells me how she feels guilty about Threnn’s attempted attack, blaming herself for not seeing the warning signs.
“She shouldn’t blame herself.” I blow on my too-hot second attempt at skullflower tea.
The first was directly after Threnn’s attack.
The tiny dose did help make my heartbeat slower and steadier, but tasted vile.
This time I’ve mixed it with lavender and chamomile, adding to the soothing properties and improving the flavor.
Plus, the lavender gives the mixture a charming purple color.
It’s stored alongside my belladonna in a little green bottle. No danger of mixing them up.
“We can’t always know what’s in someone’s heart,” I go on after a sip, “what secrets they’re keeping.” Isn’t that something I understand all too well?
“Exactly. I think she felt better when His Majesty pointed out…” Min clears her throat and lowers the pitch of her voice, “‘You went straight to Annon and ensured she was safe and well. You’ve shown you value what’s important.’”
Her impression of Drystan is funny, but the laughter catches in my throat. “He… he said that? Really?”
She shrugs. “Well, Asti’s impression of him is better than mine, but yes.
Those exact words.” She gives me a long, hard look that stays on my mind, even as she goes on to tell me about how Drystan questioned the rest of the Twylth personally, confirming there was no wider conspiracy.
Since they’re fae, they can’t directly lie.
It must be nice to be so assured that what someone tells you is the truth.
I can’t help thinking about my parents. They never directly said I wasn’t the subject of a bargain made before I was born, but still… They could have told me.
Neither can I stop thinking about what happened on the tower.
Even though I didn’t have to fight Threnn, I’m left exhausted by the attack for the next couple of days, forced to take the labyrinth slowly and to rest in my rooms rather than attend the Great Hall.
As I get past the daze, I register that Drystan killed one of his own guard for me.
I don’t know what it means. But I know how it feels…
And I don’t know how I feel about that.
Because I should hate him. I should be disgusted. I should remember the moment with terror, be haunted by it in nightmares.
And yet…
All I can picture is the way Drystan looked at me after. The shade of desperation on his face. The fading fury that left him so raw.
Unfortunately, news of the attempt on my life spreads.
Min mutters something about shadows whispering, and I wonder about them and what they’re really capable of.
However word got out, the result is that I need to be seen.
That means I can’t spend the next night resting or avoiding Drystan, and have to attend the endless revelry of the Great Hall.
Since all eyes will be on me, Min spends extra time getting me ready.
We start as soon as the sun sets, cleaning me from head to toe, scrubbing, drying my hair before the fire and oiling it, clipping and painting my nails, moisturizing, removing body hair, rouging, sprinkling gold flakes on my cheekbones and eyelids, perfuming and, finally, choosing an outfit from the armoire.
I frown as we flick through. “Where’s the green dress? I haven’t worn that one yet.”
Min gives me a bemused smile. “Haven’t you noticed?” She jerks her chin at the armoire. “This is a whole new wardrobe. None of those other dresses fit you any more.”
At my confused blink, she steers me over to the mirror. “Don’t you ever look at yourself, Annon? You’ve put on weight. Look.” Sure enough, she places her hands on my waist and beneath the silk robe, my hips flare out even more than I’d realized.
“Huh.”
“I suppose this also means you haven’t noticed your skin.”
I peer into the mirror, expecting to find a spot. “What about my skin?”
“Someone give me strength. Look at it. Look at you.” She clamps her hands around my head and points it at the mirror. “Really look, don’t just see what you expect.”
I screw my eyes shut. Seeing myself in Drystan’s mirror was an unpleasant surprise. And although I looked better after Min’s attentions that first night, I haven’t been able to get out of my head all the little ways I was no longer the young, healthy woman I’d once been.
So I just didn’t look. Oh, I saw what I needed to pin up my hair and keep it out of my face. I saw how beautiful the gowns were, cleverly made by Min. I even admired the jewels I wore.
But I studiously avoided looking at myself.
Now, with Min holding my face, I take a deep breath, open my eyes and try to see.
I have put on weight. I have breasts again. And hips. That explains why I bumped into a table the other day—they’re wider than I’m used to.
My hip bones still jut out and I don’t like how weak my wrists seem, but I look much healthier than I have in a long time.
My skin, too, helps with the effect. It’s smoother and deeper-toned, like days in the labyrinth under this black sun have reawakened the color.
It’s still a little lighter than Annem’s, but no longer pallid and sallow.
It doesn’t sink under my eyes and cheekbones any more, making my eyes look too big.
And the hair I used to be so vain about is shiny and thick once more.
Min’s hands ease away. “See?”
I turn my head side-to-side, making sure this is me, this is real.
The woman in the mirror turns, too.
She isn’t as young as she once was. There’s a knowing in her eyes that the girl never had. But she is pretty and alive instead of a husk.
I cover my mouth, watering eyes threatening to ruin the makeup Min’s applied.
I feel stronger too. Still ill, still achy, still in need of more sleep than most people, but some days I make it through the labyrinth with more walking than resting.
A stray tear escapes as I laugh. The irony isn’t lost on me that it’s the Underworld, of all places, that’s helped push me more toward life than death.
The pages in my notebook where I track symptoms and what’s changed tell me I haven’t had an episode in days.
It must be the magic here. I haven’t found any other explanation.
“And that’s still in your dressing robe. Wait until you have this on.” Min chooses a gown from the armoire and once I’m wearing it, she steers me back to the mirror.
I gape.
I rarely wear black. Brown is a cheaper color back home. And here, I’ve tended to wear colors of the sea and sky. But tonight, Min has dressed me in a rich black gown that plunges to my navel, with a slit that shows off my newly rounded-out thigh.
Of course, being Min, she hasn’t left it plain, simple black. Lace and tiny crystals adorn the hem and neckline, trailing over the rest of the dress, gleaming in purple-black and blue-black. “Like a raven.”
She grins. “Exactly. It’s only right for the future queen.”
My hands smooth over the fine lace. This feels right, like it suits me—like this is me. The other nights, I felt like I wore a costume. A clumsy scarecrow stuffed into a pretty dress.
But now, as I lift my chin and Min brings out a tiara of black metal studded with shimmering moonstones, I feel less like a clumsy scarecrow and more like a future queen.
I’m strangely nervous as I enter the Great Hall. I try to tell myself it’s because the unseelie might view me as weak for needing someone to save me from Threnn.
But my gaze scans the crowd searching for Drystan, hopeful and afraid that I’ll find him.
When I finally do, he’s deep in conversation with Phaedra and a couple of other influential fae, and so many emotions stir in me at once, I can’t track them all.
Warmth is one I’m sure of: it blooms in my chest—gratitude he reached me in time.
Then his gaze skips up to mine and the madness of the hall stills.
The only movement is my pulse clamoring. The only sound, my breath that seems suddenly loud.
My thoughts are louder.
He killed for me.
By the time I exhale, the world turns again and the chaotic revelry heaves once more.
Someone crosses the space between us, freeing me from Drystan’s heady attention.
Blinking, I glance around, searching for Min who’s disappeared again. She hasn’t gone far, though—I find her a short distance away in Asti’s arms. They’re deep in conversation, the redcap wearing a teasing smile as she watches Min’s mouth like each syllable is fascinating.
My matchmaking has been a resounding success.
I allow myself a moment of gloating, but when Asti bends down to kiss Min, I venture on into the crowd. My meddling is done—I’m not adding voyeurism to my repertoire.
Of course, I search for Drystan again. Apparently I’m weak and predictable.
This time he’s broken away from Phaedra’s group and stalks through the crowd, eyes on me. Without missing a beat, he takes a glass from a passing server.
I try to turn toward him but this side of the hall is still a little wild, while the unseelie at his end are calmer, making space for him to slip between them with ease. I grit my teeth in frustration, though I manage quick, polite smiles and greetings for the fae who bow their heads to me.
By the time I’m done with them, Drystan has stopped to talk to Lord Mastelle.
We go on like this. A kind of cat-and-mouse game where I’m trying to reach him and failing, and I can’t tell for sure if he’s evading me.
One thing I do know: I have his attention. It bores into me during his every conversation, each time he takes a drink from a server, whenever I lose sight of him and rediscover him in another part of the room.
Huffing, I turn my back on the king. If he wants to speak to me, he knows where I am.
I’m here to be seen alive and well, so I grab a drink and circle to the opposite end of the room. I pause to watch an acrobat balancing and tumbling on the shoulders of a troll who must be eleven feet tall, and a show of shadows, casting shapes upon the wall.
On the edge of my vision, I catch glimpses of smaller fae dogging my steps, following from a distance. Others turn as I pass, gazes snagging on me as their conversations peter out. Min’s dress is doing the trick, I tell myself. But there’s a hunger in their eyes that makes me grip my glass tighter.
Thankfully, red hair isn’t far away: Asti watches from within the crowd, Min on her arm. The redcap gives me a reassuring nod and raises her glass as though inviting me to continue enjoying myself.
So I do.
And I almost fool myself that I’ve forgotten about Drystan when I hear his voice. “Rhiannon.” My name curls out from behind a curtain as though it’s part sound, part shadow, an undeniable invitation.
My stomach flips and I down the last of my drink before venturing behind the curtain.
It’s dim in here, dim enough to see the glow of his eyes clearly. He waits, watching. His mouth curls in a smirk like he knew I wouldn’t be able to resist his call.
My pulse throbs in my throat as I ease into the space opposite him, three feet away. A dark window sits at my right, cool air radiating from it, while on my left, the curtain muffles the noise of the revelry, turning the music into an indistinct pounding.
“Your Majesty,” I say because what the fuck else am I meant to say? I feel like my pulse is trying to throttle me, like the air is too thick in here, like I want to throw myself at him.
Because it feels like he cares for me. And somehow I might care for him too. He’s cruel, but he’s also kind. He looked after me and has kept my secret.
He killed for me. And in some twisted way, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.
That boy I gave my virginity to on the beach—my first love—brought flowers when I got more ill.
He bought me chocolates. Kind words. But he didn’t choose me.
I offered him a way out—who knew how ill I might get—and he took it.
With both fucking hands. I can’t blame him, no.
But I can still feel the barb buried in my chest.
My second lover was a secret. He’d show up, singing love songs on a borrowed lute.
I’d open my bedroom window for him, let him in night after night.
We talked, kissed, fumbled our way to making love.
But the instant my Pa rose early for work, he ran.
It took me fucking him three times and even more wishful thinking to realize he only wanted me when no one was watching.
I found out a week after our first time that he was already betrothed to another girl.
But Drystan? He ripped a man’s throat out for me and made him present his own tongue at my feet.
So, when he takes his time pushing away from the wall and saunters closer, my breath catches. He doesn’t stop when he reaches my space, and instinct backs me away until I hit the wall with a soft gasp.
His arms bracket me like he thinks I might try to escape.
Truth be told, instinct tells me I should. My heart pounds like it’s ready to send me running. This fae is deadly, after all.
But I press into the wall, willing myself to be brave.
“Such a good girl to come when I call,” he croons, gaze trailing down to my parted lips as he eases closer, body pressing into mine. He bends in and I think—hope he’s going to kiss me, but he dips past my face, mouth grazing my throat as he speaks his next words: “Such a sweet, pretty thing.”
Of course. The king who doesn’t kiss.
Still, his hot breath sets my nerves on alert, priming them for every sensation, and I find myself clinging to his shirt once more. This time, I have no intention of getting into a stupid argument, though.
My head drops back against the wall as his lips skim over my jugular, my collarbone. “Sweet Rhiannon,” he murmurs. “My darling little human.”
A shiver races over me, but not of pleasure. The way he’s talking to me. Something’s off. He rarely calls me Rhiannon when we’re alone.
He cups my cheek. That feels right, though. And the press of his body against mine is as hard, his chest as broad as when we watched Moonburn.
By the time I realize he’s teasing my dress off my shoulder, following it with the feathering touch of his lips, I’ve forgotten anything was amiss.
I’ve wanted his touch for longer than I care to admit. And the fact he wants to touch me is intoxicating. The knowledge is powerful.
I discover a benefit of the slit in my gown—it allows me to wrap my leg around him as I let him crush me against the wall, teasing the ache between my legs. My breaths burn.
“So eager.” He chuckles against my collarbone. “I want you to tell me all about this moment, how you writhe against me, how you want me, when I fuck you later.”
“What?” He said it like it was a foregone conclusion. Like we’ve done it before.
I stiffen, and Drystan straightens. “What’s wrong, little love? Are you afraid?” He smiles, wide.
Wide enough that there should be dimples.
There are none.