Chapter 18 #3
Arion hears me perfectly. His smile is cold as ice. “You misunderstand. What belongs to you is what I permit you to hold. I own you now. That was the deal you made to save your people, so I suggest you don’t go back on it now.”
Even numb as I am, I know he is right. It doesn’t matter what I uncover, he has the power of armies. He killed my seamstresses, surrounds himself with frivolous and violent displays, and betrays on a whim.
He’s dangerous. And even if I was merely a pawn in Arion’s plan, the Enduares do not deserve to die.
I made my choice.
I made my choice.
Something dark clicks its tongue in the back of my head, but I ignore the sound.
He steps aside, then claps his hands. A split second later, someone else enters the room.
A tall, light-skinned jeweler advances, holding a tray of velvet ribbon and little tools.
He measures the width of my throat, the angle of my jaw, the place where bone shows when I swallow.
He murmurs to himself in a language of numbers and nods to an assistant who writes without looking up.
“Green stones,” the king says, not a suggestion. “To complement my bride’s hair.”
Another sound begins, and suddenly a melody plays. I glance around, looking for the musicians, but do not see them.
“Emerald or peridot, sire?” the jeweler asks, already knowing the answer.
“Peridot.” Arion’s smile darkens. “You spent a long time with the trolls. They have meanings and magics for every stone. I’ve heard that peridot is the stone to symbolize submission.”
I keep my head precisely in place as they begin to construct the piece.
The velvet is soft, and the fit is tight.
The jeweler’s assistant enters the room and delivers a narrow box for fitting—empty except for a felt stand with metal prongs that outline the curve it will eventually occupy on my skin.
When I am presented with a mirror to watch them work, I see a pale, freckled ghost looking back at me. Too skinny. Too tame.
“There we are. Very pretty,” Arion says.
Pretty? I take in the way my cheekbones look sharp over my gaunt cheeks. I am a skeleton.
The jeweler agrees, but Arion’s eyes find mine. They burn. “What do you think?”
This feels like a test. Will I continue to talk back to him as I had upon arrival?
“My king, I am honored,” I echo from his earlier statements. He inclines his head to accept the words he has put in my mouth.
“I am sure you are. In fact, I believe we should start seeing more of each other before the ball,” he intones. “To make sure that your fit is to my liking.”
I swallow, a slightly uncomfortable feat with the new attachment to my neck.
“That would be wonderful, my king,” I respond.
He smiles as the collar is taken off and placed on the tray, presumably to be finished, and I am sent away with a guard.
It gives me relief, as I had been worried his earlier statements to Thorne meant he would take me back to my room. I don’t want to kiss him again.
That night, I am undressed in silence. Given a meager meal, and then left entirely, utterly alone.
I wait for Thorne to come with the treatment, but even he stays away. Does he fear my wrath? I am too numb to feel it.
When the lamps go down, I lie very still in my too-large bed and listen for what I know is gone. I expect the silence to soften at the edges, to show me it is merciful and some part of the Fuegorra’s magic remains.
It does not. It sits where the warmth was and offers me nothing.
Somewhere in the palace, I hear that godsdamned melody again, the same one that was playing during the fitting. Just like him to remind me, while I’m in my one safe place.
The notes climb, pause, then fall as if learning to bow.
Like I will learn to bow. To turn off. I close my eyes and think of a dragon’s breath warming stone, of arms that once held me like I was the whole world, and life that was simple.
Busy, but beautiful. Wanted. I think of my dreams like shards of a broken vase that I can count. Things that are past. Beyond reach.
I turn my face into the pillow and breathe until breath returns to being only breath.
In five nights, they will put a collar on me.
I will make my bones remember how to stand while they do it.
I meant what I said earlier, Cursed One whispers. I am sorry.
Why? I talk back. Playing along in the absence of other choices.
Because…perhaps in these months, as I have watched you, I realize that we are more alike than you care to admit. And you do not deserve the pain.
My eyes begin to burn. I open my mouth, as if to whisper an answer aloud.
And then, my door opens, and a light flares above me.
I thrash in my covers, then sit up to see Thorne.
For a long moment, I just stare at him. I search his smooth, angular face. Memorize the way his hair spikes out around him.
“I will probably die without the Fuegorra,” I say softly. “I die, you die. Remember?”
He looks at me with his eyes full of pity. His mouth opens, then closes, and I swear, I see regret etched across the lines of his face.
Instead of apologizing, he holds up the box with my herbs.
“We can’t miss a single night.”