Chapter 2 Kneel and Smile
KNEEL AND SMILE
My burning palm throbbed as Lord Henrik sliced through his poached eggs. I stood at the wall, holding a steaming kettle. Platters crowded the table: smoked fish, candied violets, fresh berries that cost more than a week’s wages.
I’d slept maybe an hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the snow with the executioner looming over me. I’d jolt awake, certain I heard boots thundering up the stairs. But morning came without anyone dragging us from our beds.
“Tea,” Henrik said without looking up.
I moved forward, keeping my burned hand turned away as I poured. The pink stream wavered slightly.
His smile grew, so perfectly human I might’ve believed it—if not for the too-sharp canines that glinted when his lips parted.
Everything about Henrik was almost perfect: handsome with his dark brown hair framing smooth features, his cultured voice, trustworthy until you noticed how he catalogued every reaction like a collector examining specimens.
Henrik’s silver eyes flicked to my face. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, my lord.”
His knife paused mid-cut. At the other end of the table, Taryn spread jam on her toast.
“The city bells rang three times last night,” Henrik muttered. “There was a disturbance in the merchant quarter.”
My heart hammered.
Taryn sprinkled sugar in her tea. “Another tavern brawl?”
Henrik’s knife scraped against porcelain. “I’m not sure.”
The kettle almost slipped in my sweating hands. I shifted my weight to hide the tremor in my legs as they discussed what might’ve happened. I pictured the jewelry box hidden in the attic. The Arathis would recognize its distinctive engravings. My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
Rheya stood by the window, her knuckles whitening on a serving tray. She was probably thinking the same thing. The stolen goods were in our room.
Henrik watched me, cutting his eggs with that same maddening rhythm. He knew. He had to. This was just a game, letting us squirm before—
“You look pale,” he said.
I stiffened. “My lord?”
“You’re trembling. Are you feeling ill?”
“No. I’m well.”
“Anxiety ruins the body. Especially for young women. Weakens the constitution.” He held up his knife, gesturing with it. “Whatever’s troubling you, you can tell me.”
Out of all the fae in Skalgard, I trusted him the least.
He beckoned me with two fingers. “Come here. Let me see you properly.”
My legs moved. Three steps.
His eyes traveled all over my face. “Your heart is racing. What has you so frightened this morning?”
“The Rite.”
He frowned. “Our holiday troubles you?”
“I know it’s sacred, my lord. But the blood…every year, it’s hard to watch.”
“My dear girl.” Henrik chuckled. “You’ve witnessed, what, twenty Rites now? More?”
“Twenty-one.” Since I was four, I watched volunteers bleed out in the Square.
“Twenty-one, and still you don’t understand the beauty.” He shook his head. “Every drop of blood becomes part of the city’s runes. The volunteers don’t just die, they protect us.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He reached out and took my hand, his thumb brushing my palm—right over the burn. I sucked in a breath through my teeth, and every nerve ending screamed. My free hand clenched into a fist behind my back, nails biting crescents into my palm.
Don’t flinch.
“These wounds look fresh,” he said softly. “What happened?”
“Kitchen accident. Hot oil.”
“Hmm. You should be more careful. I have salves in my study that could help.”
My skin crawled.
“Oh, for the gods’ sake.” Taryn’s voice cut through the room like a whip. “Stop fondling the servants. It’s nauseating this early in the morning.”
Henrik didn’t release my hand. “I’m checking on the girl’s health.”
“We don’t have time for your games,” she snapped. “This house needs to be spotless before tonight.”
Henrik released me. “Ah. Yes.”
“The girls need to be cleaning, not standing here while you play with them.” She stood, tossing her napkin on the table. “Honestly, Henrik.”
She stormed off. Henrik waved me away, and I retreated to the wall on shaking legs. Rheya moved to clear Taryn’s plate. Our eyes met for half a second, pure terror reflected back at me.
Henrik’s chair scraped back, and he stood. “Aelie, my offer stands. That hand must be quite painful.”
I tucked it behind my back as the door closed behind him. Then Rheya and I quietly cleared the table, not daring to speak. The fae had hearing like wolves. They could be listening from anywhere.
She grabbed the coffee pot and mouthed: We’re fucked.
I could only nod.
We cleaned like penitent sinners. By evening, my palm had swollen despite hours of careful work. We’d polished every piece of silver twice because Taryn would accept nothing less for tonight’s mysterious guest.
The scent of roasted meat saturated the air. Rheya hacked at a cutting board with sharp thunks. Her brown hair had slipped from its braid, strands clinging to her gleaming forehead. She gripped the knife.
Her eyes flashed—green-gold, wild enough to make grown men flinch. “We should just take a horse. Ride out tonight. We’ve snuck into the royal stables before. We can do it again.”
My mouth twitched. “And then what? Gallop through the gates while Runecloaks make their rounds? You’d last three streets before they sank an arrow through your back.”
“We’d go fast.”
“They’d catch us.” I picked up another fork. “And then we’d both have our throats cut at the Rite.”
Rheya glared at me. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Running blind is exactly how you end up dead. We wait until there’s a real chance. Not before.”
“Who do you think this guest is?”
“Whoever they are, they’ve put Lady Taryn in a state. She’s been pacing all day.”
Rheya stilled. “What if it’s about the robbery?”
“Pray they’re here for dinner, not us.”
I wrung my hand, grimacing at the mark on my wrist. The ache from the rune lingered like splinters beneath my skin. When a rune broke, the magic had to go somewhere.
Human bodies weren’t made for magic. The fae were like riverbeds. Magic moved through them, but I was brittle. When I snapped a rune, it was like forcing fire through dry bark. It burned whatever it touched. Once, the shock had knocked me unconscious for an hour.
Magic had never worked right around us. Rheya amplified runes, and I unraveled them. No one ever taught us how or why. It just was, like the world had stitched us wrong.
Rheya sawed through a loaf of bread and tossed me the end piece. She scooped wine-glazed quail into bowls, and we bolted down a quick meal on the counter.
Someone knocked at the front door.
I set down my spoon and smoothed my apron, then rushed past the dining room with its mahogany table.
The knock came again, sharper.
“Coming!” I called, quickening my pace.
I paused at the mirror in the hall—Taryn would have me whipped if I answered the door with my hair askew. I arranged my face into the blank pleasantness of a well-trained servant and reached for the handle.
Deep breath. Whoever this guest was, I’d curtsy, take their cloak, and play the perfect servant. I pulled open the heavy oak door, but the words died in my throat.
Prince Vaeris stood on the threshold, snow dusting his midnight cloak, flanked by two Runecloaks.
The breath left my body.
The torchlight from the street caught his sharp cheekbones, that sensual mouth I used to kiss, the untamed black hair that fell into startling blue eyes. Eyes that used to look at me like I mattered.
I clung to the doorframe. “Good evening, Your Highness.”
“Evening.”
His frostbitten gaze skimmed over me as if I were furniture. Not a person. Certainly not the girl he’d once embraced in shadowed alcoves.
My fingers tightened on the doorframe until my burned hand screamed. The pain kept me standing when my knees wanted to buckle.
Then he stepped past me, striding into the foyer. The Runecloaks swept in.
I held open the door, breathing in the cold he’d left behind.
He hadn’t come for me.