Chapter 34 Wren
Autumn descends across the land, flaking the leaves with brown, although the ivy outside my window remains stubbornly green, the rock cress still peering through the cracks.
I’m lucky the window is mostly in the shade and that no one can likely see it.
Cass remarks on it from time to time, of course. He can still smell them.
“The flowers are really hanging on this year.”
“So they are.” I can’t think of a convincing lie, and in any case, I don’t need one. The fact I can lie keeps me safe. I can pass all trials. ‘Flowers don’t tend to wilt as fast around Wren’ isn’t exactly a bloody dagger. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
I enjoy autumn. I like the damp leaves and the smell of the earth and crisp morning frost. What I don’t like—what can’t be avoided—are the fires.
We used fire back in the Moonhollow to cook, of course, but no one ever forced me to stand near a fire longer than was necessary.
Our homes were heated by magic. I never had to gather around a hearth to keep warm.
I’ve never been able to bask in the glow.
Cassiel likes fires. Of course he does. He needs them to fight off the chill, enjoys the crackle, the warmth, but he senses my distress as soon as the servants start to light them.
If we’re dining with his family, he always has me seated farthest away from the hearth.
In our chambers, he arranges our chairs so that he can sit by the fire, and I can sit in my own room.
I can still hear it, still smell it, but at least I don’t have to watch.
I don’t have to remember waking up in a sea of red, the house burning around me, while the flames rolled off my skin like water.
And my mother burning in the next room.
“Are you sure you’re not cold?” he asks me.
“I’ve never minded the cold before.”
It’s harder at night. Luckily, my bed is positioned next to the chimney, and some of the warmth bleeds through the stone throughout the day, but it’s still bitterly cold. Cassiel has extra blankets brought in. It doesn’t help much.
Each night I resist the temptation to crawl into his bed. I know he’d let me if I did. Nothing has happened between us since the kiss, but although we agreed not to speak about it, it still lives between us. It never leaves the room.
It’s a relief when my days off come. Sometimes, I spend the morning with Runara. I’m still helping her to learn how to fight. Cass often lets me do so when I’m on duty, too, which gives us both some relief. She’s getting better. Slowly.
Very, very slowly.
But it’s the evenings I enjoy the most, when I borrow a horse and ride as far as I can go, then make my way to the Rosey Duckling to meet Zephyr at night.
The roads are quieter in the evenings now.
The Rosey Duckling glows in the darkness, its lantern-lit windows spilling golden light onto the street.
Laughter hums from within, warm and familiar, punctuated by the occasional clatter of tankards against tables.
I step inside, rolling my shoulders as heat replaces the chill in my bones.
The scent of roasted meat and spiced cider wraps around me.
Zephyr is already there, tucked into a corner booth, his dark curls damp from the misting rain. He looks up as I approach, a grin splitting his face. “About time.”
I slide into the seat across from him, knocking my knuckles against the table in greeting. “It’s not a race.”
He scoffs. “That’s what people who lose races say.”
Magda appears before I can retort, setting a tankard of warm cider down in front of me. The warmth bleeds into my fingers as I take a sip. It’s strong, laced with honey and something spiced. Good.
For a moment, we sit in easy silence. I’ve nothing to report. I doubt Zephyr cares to know about my lessons with the princess or how the prince had a new bed made for me and makes sure I don’t have to sit beside the fire.
He’d probably be much more interested to hear about the tunnel I’ve not told anyone about, but I still don’t plan to.
Not until I know what our grandmother actually wants.
I can’t kill Cassiel. I know that much. I also can’t let him be killed. I don’t think I’m prepared to let any kind of harm come to him at all, but I’m not a fool. Whatever my grandmother wants can’t be good for him.
And yet the fey need to be free. We need it. We can’t stand by and watch our kinfolk killed, year after year. I can’t let more merchants like Garron be cut down.
So what am I supposed to do?
Once, I thought I’d be willing to pay any price for our freedom, but now I know that there are some bargains I simply will not make.
Cassiel is one of them.
After a while, Zephyr leans back against the booth. “You look like you’ve been thinking too much again.”
I snort. “You look like you don’t do enough of it.”
He grins, but his gaze sharpens. “Is everything all right?”
It’s an easy enough question. The answer should be, too.
“Yes,” I say.
He doesn’t look convinced.
I take another sip of my drink, letting the burn settle in my chest. “Things are… the same. More or less.”
More or less. We train. We play chess. We walk through the city. We don’t talk about the kiss.
Don’t think about the kiss…
Zephyr watches me for a long moment, then sighs through his nose. “You know, for someone who can lie, you’re really, really bad at it.”
I give him a flat look. “I came here to drink, not to be lectured.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. No lectures. Just drink. And—” he leans forward, a slow smirk curling his lips, “—when you’re good and relaxed, you can tell me all about your prince.”
I groan, knocking back a mouthful of cider. “He isn’t my anything.”
“Your mark. Your charge. Definitely your something.” He regards me carefully for a moment. “He is something to you, isn’t he?”
Whatever our grandmother sent me to the castle for, it definitely wasn’t to fall for the prince, and I know Zephyr reports to her.
An outright lie is too obvious. I don’t think I can get away with pretending to dislike him anymore, but there’s no way I’ll admit to the full truth.
“I don’t hate him,” I tell Zephyr. “I fully expected to, but it’s hard to spend so much time with a person who has some decent qualities and not like them in some fashion.
But he’s still human. He’s not one of us.
Whatever Grandma needs me to do—whenever she needs me to do it—I won’t falter. Saving our people is too important.”
Zephyr nods, apparently satisfied with this answer.
“Does she have any instructions for me?” I ask after another swig of cider.
He shakes his head. “She barely tells me anything.”
It’s the fey way, of course. We have to keep our secrets close, because there’s no way of stopping ourselves from revealing the truth under duress. Well, no way for most fey, anyway. I’m the exception.
He’s not one of us, I told Zephyr, but the truth is, of course, I’m not truly one of them either.
The door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of damp stone. I don’t look up at first, but the brief hush that spreads through the tavern like ripples in water makes my stomach tighten.
Zephyr notices before I do. His gaze flicks over my shoulder, then back to me, his smirk vanishing.
I turn my head just enough to confirm what I already suspect. Prince Evander stands at the bar, shaking the mist from his cloak. He orders a drink, and then turns towards the bard singing in the corner. He smiles at him. Hyacinth smiles back.
His eyes find me a second later.
I set my tankard down carefully, not looking and Zeph and holding the prince’s gaze like it will shield my cousin. “You should go,” I say under my breath.
Zephyr hesitates for only a beat before nodding. He stretches, lets out a sigh like he’s simply had his fill for the night, and slides from the booth. He doesn’t look at Evander as he moves toward the door.
I watch him disappear into the night, then exhale slowly and turn my attention back to the bar. Evander gets his drink and saunters over.
“Back for another attempt at wooing the bard?” I ask.
Evander sits down opposite. “One day, mayhap, I shall find the courage to actually talk to him,” he says. “Who was that with you just now?”
“Someone who had courage,” I tell him. “And now… disappointment.”
He laughs, taking a long drink. “I’ve been meaning to ask, purely out of curiosity, but… is it men where your interest lies?”
I stare at the bottom of my tankard. I didn’t think I’d been so transparent. Evander hasn’t spent that much time with both of us. If even he’s seen it… “You’re not asking out of curiosity, are you?”
“No,” he admits. “I’m not.”
“Yes,” I say, knowing I’m confessing to far more than my preferences. “It is men. Most unfortunately.”
Evander orders another round of drinks.
“Do you want me to leave?” I ask him.
“What? Why would I want that?”
“I mean, do you want me to give in my notice?” I don’t know what I would do if he said yes, if he pushed me to leave my post. I’ve never been great at glamours. I’d probably have to get Zephyr to fiddle with his memories in some way, because I can’t leave Cass—
My mark, I correct. My mark, my mission. Not anything else.
He can’t be.
“No,” Evander says, after only the shortest of pauses. “I think that will do far more harm to my brother than good. I just… don’t want either of you to get hurt.”
I rather suspect it’s too late for that, and it’s only a matter of how much hurt I can expect to endure.
And how much hurt Cassiel can endure, too.
I’m not completely sure of his feelings on the matter—I suspect, but I don’t know—but it’s clear he cares about me.
People can kiss people that they don’t care about.
They don’t tend to buy them clothes and soaps and commission new beds for them, or hold them through nightmares and look after them when they’re injured.
Of course he cares. And, worse, he relies on me.
Of all the things my grandmother has ever made her do, this is by far the worst.