Chapter 15 Cassiel
Iwait until the door closes behind my guard.
“Is she definitely out of the room?” I ask.
“Yes,” Mother replies.
“Right—can someone with functioning eyes please tell me what she looks like?”
There’s a brief pause. I try to imagine the looks passing between them and fail.
I kick the table in frustration. It’s solid oak, so it doesn’t do much, but Ru jumps. I feel moderately bad about that, but not enough to apologise. “Tell me what you’re doing—” I snarl.
“You haven’t asked her yet?” Mother says.
“Brown skin, dark eyes, brown hair,” Evander responds.
“You’re as bad as she is! That’s a terrible description.”
“It’s accurate,” he insists.
“I need... shades,” I explain. “Comparisons. I still remember colours, you know. Are we talking tawny? Bronze? Mahogany?”
“I only know what one of those words means,” Runara pipes up. “But she is very, very pretty, if that helps.”
It does not. It actually makes things decidedly worse, like being trapped in a gallery in the darkness, canvases reduced to meaningless slabs.
Mother clears her throat. “Her skin is a sort of... warm, rich colour, if that helps. Darker than tawny. Sable, perhaps.”
“Thank you, Mother, for being actually helpful. And... her hair?”
“Dark as a raven’s wing.”
“I like that. That’s good. And those eyes?”
“Dark,” Runara says, almost wistfully. “So dark they’re almost black, but they’re warm, too, and they just…”
She must make some kind of motion with her hands—there’s a whisper of air, a disturbance that tells me she’s gesturing wildly.
“Sparkle,” she finishes.
“Her eyes sparkle?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
“Like a dragon’s. Wren is as pretty as a dragon.”
“Dragons aren’t pretty, Ru,” I say.
“I think you’re reading the wrong books, brother.”
I decide not to remind her that I’m not reading any books anymore. Instead, I sit with the descriptions they’ve given me, shaping an image in my mind. It’s blurred and insubstantial, like a painting smudged by rain, but it’s there.
I’m not convinced by Ru’s assertion that Wren is ‘pretty like a dragon,’ but there’s something about the idea that stays with me—a fire, a brightness, something fierce and burning.
The door creaks as Wren returns. Instantly, the room shifts, all of us scrambling.
“What were you all talking about?” she asks, her voice casual but curious.
“Evander was explaining what mahogany is,” Runara blurts. It isn’t a bad attempt.
“Yes,” Mother agrees smoothly. “Very educational.”
“Fascinating stuff,” I add. “Riveting. Perhaps my new favourite wood.”
“Mahogany is a wood?” Runara queries.
I attempt to shoot her a glare.
“What?” she hisses.
Wren laughs, clearly deciding not to press. She slides back into her seat and reaches for her goblet. I like the sound of her laugh, especially here. It warms the room like firelight.
The next course arrives, and we all dig in. Wren whispers to me what’s on the plate, informing me of the locations of the side dishes. Her descriptions are short, and simple. They lack the flair I’d prefer, but I appreciate being told nonetheless.
In my head, I paint a picture. A room bathed in candlelight. Silver glinting, deep plum wine, steaming food. Four smiling faces. Maybe even five.
I paint the image warm.
We linger longer than I expect to after the meal is finished.
Runara is sent off to bed. Evander and Mother debate playing a game of cards.
That’s hardly something I can partake in anymore, so I make my excuses and leave, Wren trailing after me.
I find my way back to my room without too much trouble.
The second we’re inside, she ducks into the bathroom without another word.
I busy myself getting ready for bed, shrugging off my waistcoat and undoing my boots.
Strangely, despite the long walk and the dinner with my family, I’m not nearly as tired as usual.
Energy thrums beneath my skin, restless and twitchy.
I pace the room, listening to the faint sounds coming from behind the bathroom door.
She’s been in there a long time...
I drift closer, frowning. She’s quiet now, but that doesn’t ease my worries.
I knock lightly, then open the door a fraction when there’s no reply. “Wren? Are you all right?”
There’s a screech from inside. “Get out!”
“I can’t see anything!” I protest, holding up my hands as if that will somehow prove my innocence.
A smell hits me—a faint metallic tang, sharp and coppery. I stiffen.
“Wait—do I smell blood? Are you bleeding?”
“How did you—you can smell blood?”
“Apparently! Are you injured? Let me—” I step fully into the room.
“Stop!” she yelps. “It’s not... I’m just on my period.”
I freeze, mid-step. “Oh.”
“This is... very embarrassing. You can smell that?”
“You’ve seen me retching my guts up.” I remind her. “This is nothing.” I hesitate, then add, “Can I get you anything? I’m not particularly good at fetch, but we can play a hilarious game of hot-or-cold while I rifle through your underthings if needs be—”
“You stay away from my underthings!” she snaps, before groaning.
There’s a heavy pause. Then, softer: “You don’t happen to have anything for pain relief, do you? Only... the first day can be a little rough.”
I almost want to laugh. Do I have anything for pain relief? Saints, I wish I didn’t. “Wait here.”
I cross the room quickly, rifling through the top drawer of my dresser. My fingers close around a small vial filled with a viscous liquid—a pain reliever. I grab a glass of water for good measure.
By the time I return, Wren’s cleaned herself up. A soft scent of soap lingers in the air, replacing the sharper metallic smell from before.
I offer her the vial wordlessly, and she takes it with a murmured thanks, her fingers brushing mine.
“You called me Wren,” she says after a beat.
“Did I?” I feign surprise. “Slip of the tongue. It won’t happen again.”
There’s a hesitation before she speaks again, quieter this time.
“Actually... I do prefer it to Thornvale. You know. If it isn’t too inappropriate.”
I hope she can’t see the smile on my face. I don’t want her to know I actually quite enjoy the sound of her name.
“I prefer Cassiel to ‘Your Highness’,” I tell her, not that I think she’s ever used it without mockery. “You know, if it isn’t too inappropriate. Not that I imagine you’d have much of a problem with that.”
She lets out a soft, tired laugh. “Good night, Cassiel.”
“Good night, Wren.”