Chapter 25
By the time night falls, Castle Frostwyn no longer feels like mine and Luceran’s.
It belongs to them.
The kitchens are a frenzy of motion and sound, heat and sharp voices ricocheting off stone.
Fae staff sweep through the space like they own it, because tonight, they do.
They bark orders without looking at the humans they command, their mouths curled in faint, perpetual displeasure, as if the presence of mortal hands near their silver platters offends them.
I watch a female wrinkle her nose as a human brushes past, her expression one she might reserve for vermin scuttling across the floor.
Yet I notice something else.
The humans do not protest. They do not glare back. They work quickly, eagerly, their shoulders loose, their faces lit with a quiet, stubborn relief. This is hard labor, yes, but for one night, they are out of the mines.
When the first trays of food are carried into the dining hall and the Fae in the kitchens turn to preparing the next course, the humans descend a darkened staircase behind the pantry, slipping away from chandeliers and crystal and gold.
Down where the real rats live.
The basement beneath the kitchens is low and windowless, its stone walls damp with moisture that drips steadily from somewhere unseen, pooling along the uneven floor.
The air smells of old earth, mildew, and something faintly sour that clings to the back of my throat.
Yet a fire burns in a shallow hearth, its flames weak but stubborn, refusing to go out.
Someone has dragged out a battered fiddle, its strings worn thin, its tune closer to a strangled goose than music. Still boots stomp in time. Bodies sway, spin, collide, all while laughter bounces off the stone.
I stand among them, stunned, as joy blooms in a place that should not be able to hold it.
A woman presses a cup into my hand, something warm and spiced and mixed with far too much homemade gin.
I only have to smell it to know that much.
Then she twirls past me, skirts lifted, her smile far too bright to belong down here as a song erupts, one I half-recognize from my childhood.
This is what humans do in the Sundered Kingdoms.
We carve silver from darkness.We pull light from rot and suffering and dare it to bloom, anyway.
Still, I see the way some of them look at me. Word is spreading about the time I spend with Luceran. About how he does not sleep in his chambers. How he comes to mine instead. This banquet has drawn more bodies, more eyes to Castle Frostwyn, and the whispers run rampant among human and Fae alike.
We can only hope they do not take root.
The Fae in the kitchens shout down at us, impatient, demanding servers to collect the platters and carry out the next course. A groan ripples through the room. None of us are eager to leave the warmth and noise, to trade it for smug glances and thinly veiled remarks above.
It is Pax who rallies us.
He looks charming tonight, his long black hair slicked back, his sharp features softened by candlelight.
Atilia has clearly dressed him. He wears a tight-fitting suit with an absurd number of ruffles at his neck and wrists, the sort of fashion the Fae seem to adore.
They may be artisans and visionaries, but I am not convinced they know anything at all about clothing.
Pax heads for the stairs with a handful of workers in tow, then pauses when he notices me falling into step behind him, his brow furrowing.
“I thought you were hiding down here?”
I frown. “I’m not hiding. I just prefer it down here.”
He snorts softly. “It’s far from pleasant up there,” he warns. “If you’re going to help serve, you’d better have a thick skin.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I grin at him. “My skin’s so thick a blade would shatter against it.”
Pax chuckles, his teeth dragging briefly over his lower lip, and I won’t lie, it does something to my ego, knowing that if I wanted him, I probably could have him. In another place, at another time, maybe I would.
But not here. Not now.
There is only one creature in this world I yearn for, even if I cannot have him openly.
“Well, come on then,” Pax says, leaning in. “If you manage to sneak a few of those little chocolate truffles into your pockets, make sure you save some for me.”
I smile and follow him up the stairs, my nerves racing along with me.
It isn’t the work I fear. It is what serving means. That I might see him. Luceran was gone from my bed when I woke this morning, and I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t gone looking either. I know what tonight signifies.
That I am not part of it.
But as the hours stretch on, curiosity gnaws at me. I want to see the banquet. The glittering excess of it, the Fae draped in gaudy fabrics worth more gold than any of us below could dream of. Fabrics they spill wine and smear paté on without a second thought.
And I want to see him.
I want to admire Luceran in a suit, even though I already know he will look perfect.
I want to see whether his hair falls loose and silken over his shoulders, or is bound neatly in a bun at the back of his head.
I want to find him across the room and pretend, just for a moment, that he and I exist in the same world.
When we reach the kitchen, silver platters already line the benches in precise rows. A female snaps her fingers at me at once, and points to a tray piled with bright orange fish fillets drizzled with a smooth, yellow sauce and dusted with green flecks of something fragrant.
I’ve never seen food like it.
I have certainly never eaten it.
I lift the tray, its weight settling into my palms, and she immediately gestures toward the swinging doors at the far end of the kitchen.
“Do not speak to anyone,” she orders coolly. “Do not look anyone in the eye. When your tray is empty, bring it back. Then return downstairs. Do you understand?”
It physically pains me to nod.
I force my mouth into something that might pass for a smile, teeth grinding as my fingers tighten around the edges of the tray until my knuckles ache. For a wild, fleeting moment, I imagine smashing the silver straight into her smug face, then again when she hits the floor for good measure.
The thought is viciously satisfying.
But it would accomplish nothing. It would only ensure I never get closer to what I want.
To who I want.
So I swallow it down, every sharp edge of it, and turn toward the doors, knowing Luceran is on the other side.
I take a breath and step forward.
Pax reaches past me and pushes the swinging doors open, holding them just long enough for me to slip through. I glance back at him and manage a small, grateful smile.
“Good luck,” he murmurs.
The hall is dimly lit, candles casting a low, golden glow that dances across the stone.
The Fae fill the space like living art, tall and slender, impossibly elegant even in their extravagance.
Their fabrics shimmer as though woven from starlight itself, threads catching flame and moon in equal measure.
Jewel tones gleam and ripple, clinging and flowing in ways that defy sense.
They even smell different.
Not perfume, something innate. Clean and intoxicating. It seeps from their skin as naturally as breathing, and I have to force myself not to inhale too deeply.
It’s then that I realize I am looking at them. I bow my head at once.
I move among them in silence, holding out the silver tray, offering the orange fish wordlessly and never lifting my eyes.
Some take a portion without acknowledgment.
Others wave me away with careless flicks of their hands.
Some ignore me entirely, as if I am no more than a shadow crossing the floor.
I pay no attention to them either.
I am only searching for one.
But Luceran is not here.
Disappointment curls tight and unwelcome, and I turn back toward the kitchen doors, shoulders sagging despite my effort to keep them straight.
“Come here, girl.”
The command snaps through the air.
My heart stutters. I turn and step toward the voice, lifting the tray as instructed. A slender hand, every finger heavy with golden rings, plucks a piece of fish and slips it into his mouth.
“Excellent,” the male says thoughtfully.
He studies me, and my skin prickles beneath his gaze. “Your hair,” he adds. “Such a striking color. What is your name?”
I hesitate. I don’t think I should answer.
His brow furrows. “When Lord Rourke asks your name, girl, you tell him.”
My breath catches. Reluctantly, my eyes lift to meet the gaze of the most powerful Fae in Thyros.
Lord Rourke of House Taramethos. One of the great houses of the Sundered Kingdoms.
His eyes are a burnished brown, warm as polished mahogany, his hair braided into two thick plaits that trail down his back. Power clings to him like a second skin.
“Don’t make me ask twice,” he says.
“Neve,” I answer, my throat bobbing.
“Well, Neve,” he says mildly. “Tell me, have you seen my wife? She seems to have eluded me.”
I shake my head quickly. “No, my lord. I have seen no one.”
He sighs, faintly disappointed. “Of course you haven’t.” Then, almost absently, “Thank you, Neve.”
Thank you.
Two simple words, but from a Fae lord, they feel like his weight in gold. The moment passes as quickly as it comes. He turns away, already engrossed in conversation with two stunning females clad in gowns so tight I refuse to believe they can breathe.
I retreat toward the kitchen. Where is he?
I push the swinging door open with my back and set the empty tray down, already turning toward the stairs that lead back to the basement when a shrill voice snaps behind me.
Rough fingers yank one of my braids.
I gasp, spinning around, eyes flashing, already reaching for the tray I’ve just set aside. The female glares at me, her eyes flaring as if she welcomes the challenge.
Before either of us can move, Pax appears.