36. Enna
Chapter thirty-six
Enna
I’ve adopted a new mantra: If I kill Odissa now, I’m as good as dead.
I chant it in my head as I wait for her to approve the temperature of her bathwater.
A dead princess in this court would raise suspicion, and I’d be suspect. It’s much easier to hide a body in the Drink—not so much in the upper rooms of a marble palace stranded in the air, where blood doesn’t dissipate but pools, thick and obvious.
I could drag her into the kitchen closet, feed her to the fishery. But the chef sees everything, and he’s friends with the prince. Soren might not like me so much if I murder his future wife—again—even if she is a lying, conniving bitch. I’d be executed on the spot. Is that better or worse than facing the goddess of death?
If I kill Odissa now, I’m as good as dead.
Clio flutters about near Odissa’s wardrobe, the housekeeper’s presence in the room the only reason for our civility this morning. If she wasn’t here, I wouldn’t be kneeling on the hard floor, pouring rose oil into water.
But if I can’t kill Odissa, what I should do is run, make a break for the Frost Kingdom and live off the price I’d get for the collection of treasures I’ve hidden in the fishery. Leave Odissa here to die at the hands of the Eater of Souls, should she fail. And she will fail if I stay here, because I just fucked the one thing that’ll save her from Tephra’s teeth.
The magic of my oath seizes my throat, and I cough against its grip. I’m helping her! I scream at it. She cannot succeed if I stay. The pressure doesn’t lessen, only spreads, until my entire body numbs with ice.
Odissa runs her hands through the bathwater.
“Too cold,” she says. Two minutes ago, the water had been too hot, and I’d drained half the tub, adjusted the heat on the faucet, and refilled the giant basin.
If we didn’t have an audience, I would shove this rose oil up her entitled, stolen ass. But because we have an audience, we must perform.
I press my nails into my palm to keep from ripping out her little silver throat. With numb fingers, I turn the knob for the hot water only. Soon, steam fills the air, swirling between us. The water level laps dangerously high at the rim of the tub. If she gets in now, she will surely overflow it. I reverse the knob, testing the water myself. If this isn’t fucking perfect, I don’t know what else to do.
She frowns at my work, noting the water level, then touches the surface of the water gingerly. I stare at her, waiting for a response.
“That will do,” she snaps.
I wait, watching her fingers skim along the surface in figure eights.
She clears her throat. “It’s too full.”
I count to three, watching her squirm in her borrowed skin, before I unplug the drain and let some water out.
“Good, good. That’s good,” she says, flopping her hand at me like a fish with a death wish.
It’d be easier to leave, arguably, than sticking out this assignment for Tephra knows what reason at this point. Am I really that terrified of the consequences of breaking my blood oath? After a life spent dealing in the death of others, the thought of my own death shouldn’t strike fear into my heart.
I need more time to get my treasure in order, yes—if I am to survive on my own, I want to be set—but that isn’t the whole truth.
As the thought crosses my mind, I already know why I’ve stayed this long. It has to do with a certain Coral Prince and his capacity to make me feel alive. Free. When I’m with him, I can forget for a moment who I am, where I come from. The terrible things I’ve done to get here.
Odissa disrobes and sinks into the tub. Then, she signals for me to begin scrubbing. I soap the sponge and push it across her wet skin in rough, efficient circles, eager to complete the task. I dunk her soapy arm to rinse it and move on to the next.
“Don’t forget to get between my fins this time,” she says, flicking her tail in my face, perfectly clean and barnacle-free. I flash her my best grimace as I thread the sponge between her fins.
“Does Your Highness have a preference of hue for this evening?” Clio calls out from next to the wardrobe. She lifts a few skirts, displaying them for Odissa.
Odissa studies the options, tapping the base of her chin. “The pink one, of course. It is the prince’s favorite color.” Though that hardly narrows the selection; with the exception of her wedding gown, all of Odissa’s new dresses are pink.
Clio smiles. “Certainly. Perhaps the darker shade of pink? I know we do not have much for the deeper tones of your court. But it is your marriage ball, after all, and I’m sure your brother, His Majesty, would like to see you in the Abyssal colors one last time. Would he not?”
Clio pinches the hem of a dark magenta dress, lifting it from the array of silks.
I see the moment Clio’s words sink in—the corner of Odissa’s jaw flexes, her teeth clamping shut.
The Abyssal King is on his way, and when he gets here, he will meet his sister, mysteriously lacking the ten guards he sent with her, and a handmaid he never authorized .
“Yes, of course,” Odissa says. “Has my brother arrived?”
Her gaze slides to meet mine, and I read in her eyes the same panic that now grips my chest.
“We expect him in time for this evening’s ball.” Clio pulls the dress from the wardrobe and spreads the skirts across her arms. “This is the darkest color we have. Not quite pink, not quite black, but somewhere in between, no?”
Odissa’s knuckles whiten around the edge of the tub. “That’s perfect,” she says. “Enna, would you be a dear and help me out of this bath? I’ve had quite enough.”
With numb fingers, I wrap a towel around her.
She clears her throat, touching the puckered scar on her rib. “Thank you.”
“Tonight’s ball will be splendid, Your Highness. We’re endlessly grateful to have found you, Princess, and we’re holding nothing back. Extravagance is an understatement.” Clio grins, draping the dress across the coverlet.
I edge toward the window, pretending to straighten the drapes, then scan the waterline for signs of movement. It’s low tide. The sun glints off the sand with dizzying heat. My forehead sweats just from looking at it.
A group of guards stand in wait on the shoreline, facing toward the sea. I recognize the coil of Captain Nara’s tight red bun, the stiff posture of her back. She lifts her trident, slamming it into the sand. The guards snap to attention, focused on the sea.
Slowly, an entourage of figures clad in darksteel lifts from the waves. They crawl onto the sand, fingers digging into white crumbs. They drag themselves forward as their gray tails snap and split, then rise on two legs.
I scan their faces, panic rising, for the soldier I never killed in the deep. Did he escape the dredgebeast? Did he tell the king what transpired?
The Coral guards hinge at the waist, bowing to the newcomers. They produce several parasols, shading the Abyssal troop from view like an armored beetle.
This isn’t right. The Abyssal King wasn’t supposed to come. King Rion is known for his aloofness, his proclivity for the darkness and his hatred for the surface. It’s said he emerged from the deep only once in his hundred years and promptly retreated, shrieking, due to the sun.
If the princess’s king brother is here in the flesh, expecting to find the real Aris—or worse, her killer—what chance do we have of pulling off this gig? As fat a chance as a bloodfish caught in the den of a dredgebeast, that’s what. My avenue for escaping this assignment alive narrows by the moment.
Across the room, Clio chatters to herself, now busy straightening the pins and brushes on Odissa’s vanity table. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, narrowing.
Carefully, I tie the ribbon around the curtain, tucking it into position next to the window.
“Princess,” I whisper, voice strained. “This ribbon deserves your attention.”
Odissa frowns, tucking the towel around her breasts, and quietly joins me. She follows my gaze to the Abyssal entourage crossing the beach, and her face pales.
“Clio, dearest,” she says sweetly, “I wonder if you might fetch me a glass of ice water from the kitchen.”
Clio obliges and leaves the room. When the door clicks shut, Odissa lets out a whooshing breath.
“Fuck,” she groans.
“Fuck is right.”
“Rion was supposed to stay in the deep. He never leaves. Not for anything. I’m surprised he’s even here.”
“Maybe our soldier friend from the Drink made it back home safe and sound.”
Her eyes flash at the unstated threat in my words. “And that’s my fucking fault? You’re the killer. I’m the brains. You had one job to do, Enna.”
I bite my tongue. Now’s not the time to remind her of her blunder in the Drink, the real reason that wounded soldier survived.
Odissa crosses her arms. “You saw him ? You saw the king just now?” She peers outside. Below, the promenade of parasols has barely moved. One of the darksteel figures produces a thin stone for the captain to read.
“The prince likes me well enough, and he’s desperate for a wife. Soren will vouch for me.”
If that was true, would Soren have ravished me like he did this morning? If the prince liked Odissa at all, wouldn’t he be ravishing her instead? And, more importantly, if I want Odissa to succeed, if I want my freedom, why am I standing between them?
“His opinion is the one that matters, in the end, as it’s through him I get my throne. What’s a little family drama to stand in my way? I’ll simply have Soren order the king away. Uninvite him to the festivities. We parted on bad terms, and I refuse to see my brother’s face. That’ll do nicely.”
It’s a shaky plan, but it might work. As long as I’m not the one to deliver her message.
“Wait a minute,” Odissa whispers, leaning out the window. She narrows her eyes at the troop. “Look, the guards are leaving!”
The darksteel figures turn back to the ocean, leaving a frowning captain in the sand.
Odissa throws her head back, beaming. “Oh, thank the fucking goddess. It’s not him.”
Her words reach me through a haze of panic. On the beach, the captain reads the message on the stone. She shakes her head, then stashes it in her belt before marching back toward the keep.
“Guess the dredgebeast ate that soldier after all.” Odissa sighs. “I was about to worry.” Odissa crosses the room, lifting the dress from the bed. She holds it against her chest and tests the length of it.
If this was a stroke of luck, then why do I feel so sick?
I lean against the wall, studying the former death-dealer as she spins into a sloppy waltz and counts the beats in a whisper. She misses a step, then skitters to catch up—a mistake any royal would surely notice.
The Abyssal King may have passed on his invitation, but Odissa is not in the clear. Not even a well-placed spell from me could smooth those dancing feet, and especially not when I’ll be playing watchful handmaid in the corner of the room.
And there’s this matter of Soren’s secret weapon. What does he intend to do with it?
Sickness churns in my stomach. Me. I’m untrustworthy as they come, and if Soren finds out my role in this mess…
Odissa trips again, covering it up with a twist as she returns to lay the dress on the bed. “You’ll accompany me on the dance floor,” she says. “I’ll need you at hand.”
“So I can fix your footwork?”
“Precisely.”
She will fail. It’s as inevitable as the tides. The goddess will come to collect her dues on the full moon—five days from now. Odissa will become the goddess’s lunch, I will have broken my oath, and Soren will know the truth of it all.
Even on the off chance she succeeds, Odissa will never set me free. Never. She’s selfish and malicious and has never had my best interest in mind. Or…
My mind caresses the thought of the necklace. Would it work for me, I wonder, if I wore it? What might happen when Odissa spoke?
For a moment, I imagine her writhing in pain at the hands of an ancient spell. It would be torturous for her, from what I’ve learned of Eero’s character. Odissa would eventually perish, but not after a due punishment for threatening the wearer of Eero’s mighty gift.
My scalp prickles. Is this what I want?
I shake my head, clearing the thought as quickly as it comes. No. It’s too risky. I don’t want her dead; I just want to be free of her. If I want to experience freedom before I die, even if only for a few days, I should leave. Tonight.
My heart aches, an escape plan already forming. I’ll take my leave at high tide, when the guests are drunk and the waves are close. If I’m going to die, I’d rather be in the sea when the moment comes.
“And what is a handmaid supposed to wear to a royal ball?”
Odissa eyes the wardrobe, turning to me with a wry smile. “I’m sure Clio would love to help you find something suitable.”