Chapter Eighteen
I lose myself in books for hours, in novels and poetry and books about languages—even fairytale stories, to feel closer to Sélie. I revel in the way the paper feels beneath my fingers, in the way the words catch the light and float into me.
It is sometime after lunch when I’m summoned. I grab my slippers, uncertain as to why we’re going down so early. I say as much on the way to the ballroom.
“She’s here,” Mr. Brown whispers as we walk together. “She wants to see you before she goes.”
I almost drop the ballet shoes. Ignoring his apparent fear, I latch onto my own. I yank him to a stop on the second-floor landing, and my voice trembles, asking even as I know the answer, “Who?”
“Elisavet.” He says her name quietly. Says nothing more. I clench and unclench my jaw nervously. He leads me into the ballroom, where she is standing next to him. Demon. Orrin.
Orrin’s eyes fall to mine. “Here she is.”
For a moment I forget to breathe. What does she want with me?
To take me, like she took my sister? I employ all my willpower not to open my mouth, ask about Aven.
To do so could put us both in peril, I understand that perfectly.
No. As Orrin said, she doesn’t know who I am anyway.
He stares past her, giving me an almost indistinguishable head shake.
Warning me. The queen moves toward me, her slinking silver-threaded gown pooling across the floor, silk smooth like glass, a strange reflective quality about it.
“As pretty as I recall. But I cannot stay to watch you dance this time. I’ve just been called. Until next time…”
I wonder at her meaning, but the touch of her hand on my head jerks my attention to the present. She strokes my hair, her bracelets clanking against my ear. I breathe through it, forcing myself not to jerk away. She turns to him. “I’ll see myself out.”
“My queen.” He nods, bending slightly at the waist.
This time, she and her silent, brawny companion leave through the doors of the ballroom. They thud behind them. The sound of it continues in my ears so long I can’t move. Next time.
What did she mean?
I must say it aloud because he replies, “She has taken a liking to you.”
“Um.” Such a pointless syllable, but I can’t find the words.
“You don’t have to dance for me now,” he says softly, lifting his gaze away from me, offering me an out. “I didn’t call you down for that anyway. You can go back to your room, if you wish.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It will help. And that was the deal, wasn’t it?” I ask but keep my tone light. Put the slippers on. “Be good for you?”
He cocks a brow, mouth tugging at the corner as if he’s holding back a smile.
Then he relaxes into his chair, waving a hand for Mr. Brown to play so I can warm up.
I move to the center of the glossy floor to dance before my new ally.
I don’t even mind. It is true, what I said.
But I also admit, in a way, I want to prove myself to him, still. Even now.
The red shoes are wasted on you, he said once. I hate that he said that. Even remembering fills me with anger. I will it away, focusing on my movements instead.
I raise up on my toes, and I dance, something spirited and joyful, something that feels like freedom. I dance with Aven in my mind. When I’m done, he stands as usual, walks over to me. I ready myself for his disapproval, even though we are on the same side for now.
“Did you enjoy watching me last night?” His words hold a hint of humor.
My face heats up, recalling him sparring without his shirt, the way his muscles stretched and danced beneath his skin, even as I feign indifference. Lightly I say, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“So, you are a voyeur.”
“Ha! I’m the one performing for you day after day, without a hint of encouragement. Yet you must not mind so much, or you’d have me stop.”
“Ah, well, perhaps I’ve been needlessly cruel about that.”
“Oh.” I stare at his face. It’s hours, the way he sinks his black eyes into me. Days, weeks. I wait for him to say something. Anything. To do something.
I’m reluctant to accept the feeling…desire, stretched between us. Yet how, after everything, can that be true? Have I forgiven him so quickly after all he’s done? I’m not so easily bought. Books and easier conversation shouldn’t sway me so soon.
If only my body knew that!
He moves closer, then murmurs, “I meant what I said when I saw you dance on that stage.”
It takes me a minute to let that sink in. Then the words come to me, a faint echo of his deep voice in the shadows of the theatre: You dance beautifully.
But then a frown etches into his face, like he’s angry at himself for saying it. He is angry. It’s one thing to apologize, to even help me. What he just said is another. He doesn’t want to be nice to me. He doesn’t want to want me.
He turns and strides out of the ballroom, nearly slamming the doors. But then I run after him, wondering if, perhaps, I’m no longer afraid of the beast. In fact, I don’t wonder. I search my soul and find no fear inside.
“Wait!” I call, chasing him down as he rounds the corner to take the stairs.
Orrin turns, frowning again. “Yes?”
I finally ask, dying to know, “You brought me books?”
“No.”
“But you had them brought.” When he nods curtly, I ask, “Why did you?”
Motioning me toward the staircase, walking at my side, he says, “I need to leave. If you wish to speak, we can talk on the way to your room.”
Surprised, I pause on the step. He’s never walked me out before, always making Mr. Brown do it. But I don’t question it, or the fact we left Mr. Brown behind. We continue upward.
“If I recall, you asked several times. I heard it from maids, as well as directly from you,” he finally answers as we move through the second-floor hallway. “So, now you have nothing to complain about.”
I say, temper flaring, “I wasn’t complaining. I was simply curious. I love the books. I did nothing but read all morning.”
We walk up the steps to the third floor, side by side. Orrin pauses, meeting my eyes, his own glinting. “Well then.”
“Well then,” I repeat, suddenly nervous. I try not to wring my hands. He’s just staring at me. I almost trip up a step as I move forward. “Can we talk about everything? About her.”
He leads me down the hall toward my room. “I must go—”
“Please,” I beg, as we pause outside my door, remembering the feline look of Elisavet—the way she seemed to see inside of me. “Anything. Just one thing. I still don’t understand why or how my sister got tangled up with her. You told me so much and yet nothing at all.”
Reluctantly, he explains, “Elisavet is a queen, a magical one. She rules the Court of Death, one of them anyway.”
“One of them?” I repeat, incredulous.
“There are queens over the whole world, from the sea to the sky and everywhere in between. They rule where they please and try to stay out of each other’s way, more or less.” He seems agitated, speaking of her. Is it because he isn’t supposed to tell me? Or because he truly hates her so much?
She terrifies me already. And my dear, beloved Aven is with her.
“Can we speak again later—dinner again?” I request. “Please.”
“Tomorrow evening we can. There is much to discuss, though tonight I will be out. Tomorrow we’ll talk about it. Until then—”
He opens my door and waves me in. I enter alone then turn back to look at him, questioning him silently. He’s never walked me to my room before. And he still hasn’t made any motion to leave.
Clearing his throat, he says, “You may come and go from your room as you please. From now on, I mean. The mansion is yours to explore—and the grounds, though I’d caution you from wandering off the property. I don’t want you meeting her outside of my protection.”
I stare after him, rendered speechless. But even as he disappears, down the hall, down the stairs, I feel him, his essence, inhale his scent, wrapping around me.
Barely an hour later, Mr. Brown knocks on my door—unlocked, I might add—though I had already heard him creeping down the hall. I rise from my chair and open the door.
He stands on the other side of the doorframe, his white hair windswept, and beyond his own smell, the hint of salt hangs on him.
I also catch the whiff of Sélie’s charcoal, and the teasing soft citrus of her perfume. I ask, almost instinctively, “You went to the cottage?”
“I did. I was told I should check on your sister and bring some things back for you, personal effects. She packed it for you.” And with that, he holds a bag out to me.
I snatch it up. “Oh! Did she seem okay? Did she ask questions?”
“Not that I answered,” he says, cracking his own smile. “Which didn’t please her, but yes, she seemed fine, if a bit ornery. I just said I’ve seen you, been helping you in a way.”
I somehow manage not to roll my eyes. “Right.”
A laugh barks out of him. The bruise on his temple has shrunk and faded to a nasty yellow-green.
I look away guiltily and rummage inside the bag, recognizing several things: my old, worn, pink ballet shoes and a bundle of lambswool; some of my favorite cosmetics, earrings of Aven’s, then there are drawings from Sélie—a whole pad worth.
I flip through, catching the fairytale drawing she did for me the night of Aven’s funeral.
I tuck the pad away, for later, when I can savor the artwork.
I hug the bag to my chest; it smells like home.
Tears spring to my eyes and I don’t bother wishing them away.
Even though I’m free now, I can’t go home, not with the possible threat of drawing Elisavet to the cottage.
I won’t endanger Sélie like that. So, this will have to do for this moment.
“She found my slippers.”
He clears his throat, avoiding my eyes. “I found them, actually, just lying in a heap in the woods. Figured they were yours.”
With a grateful heart, I say, “Thank you, Mr. Brown, for bringing all of this. Can I see him now, to thank him as well, if he’s still here?”