Chapter Three
The following morning, I crack my swollen eyes open and find Gray—his hair a disheveled mess, an arm draped over his face—sound asleep next to me.
His mouth hangs slightly ajar, and it's comical how perfectly content and cozy he looks, even in sleep. I chuckle quietly to myself and shimmy back down under the covers. As my eyes fall shut once more, however, a hollowed out hole awakens, gnawing at the center of my heart.
There will be no more nights where Gray stays with me, making sure the night terrors keep away. No more mornings where I wake up and look over, immediately comforted by the sight of him. No more late night conversations, morning strolls, afternoon adventures—nothing.
It’ll soon all disappear.
I don’t let myself fully acknowledge the gravity of that. Instead, I drift back to sleep, entering a landscape where broken hearts disappear and dreams come true.
By the time my eyes flutter open again, Gray has disappeared, and there is a note where his body had once rested.
Helping my mother. Feel free to join us when you wake. We could use your unrivaled abilities.
Actually, a morning spent helping Gray’s mother with her work sounds exactly like the type of thing I need.
I crawl out of bed, tend to my morning hygiene, get dressed, and head to Gray’s family chambers.
I knock twice at their door before creaking it open.
Immediately, the fragrance of aromatic herbs and earthy warmth, paired with the faint tang of something bitter, wafts into the corridor, overtaking the air.
Gray has something green smudged on his forehead, his hair tied back neatly, and a stone pestle in his hand. Azalea, Gray’s mother, works on something next to him, her graying hair pulled back into a braid that falls over her shoulder while she works.
Spotting me first, Azalea stops what she’s doing and shifts her attention onto me, a kind smile pulling at her lips. “Oh, Lyra. I’m so happy you’re here. You’re a much better assistant than Gray.”
Gray glances over at me, a wrinkle in his brow, before back at his mom. Succumbing to the undeniable truth, he simply sighs before returning to grinding whatever is in his mortar. “At least I try.”
Azalea kisses his cheek. “And that’s all a mother could ever ask of her son.” She dusts her hands off on the hem of her dress before reaching into a cabinet and pulling out the heavy cloth apron that once belonged to my mother. She holds it out for me.
I meet her in the center of the kitchen, take the apron, and sling it over my head, tying the ends together. “So, what are we making?”
Gray shoots me a pleading look. “An aphrodisiac.”
My brows rise to my hairline. Keeping my voice intentionally level, I chirp, “Oh? And who requested it this time?”
I despise the way my stomach somersaults with uncertainty. The way I’m forced to wonder if someone will try to use the aphrodisiac on me. I resent myself. I resent the king.
“A lady-in-waiting,” Azalea answers while measuring out a spoonful of thick, sticky liquid. “She claims it's for her aging husband, but I heard a rumor she wishes to use it to seduce a rather handsome noble.”
Relief washing through me, I chuckle. “I wouldn’t be surprised. This world isn’t kind to those of us who are untitled, and women will go to extreme measures to ensnare a noble in their webs.”
Without looking at me, Azalea chides, “Who knows. One cannot pretend to understand a stranger’s motivations.” She shoots me a very pointed look .
Message received.
I should know better than to prematurely judge people and their actions—no matter how transparent they may seem.
I begin helping Azalea with her tincture when Gray blows out a breath. “The Damiana’s officially all grounded. Should I fetch the divine water?”
“Please,” Azalea answers. “I have fresh jars back there in the corner.” She jerks her chin to the other side of the room, near the large bookcase adjacent to the hearth. Once Gray is out of earshot, Azalea drops her voice and glances over at me. “I suppose Gray told you his news.”
“He did.”
Azalea studies me before returning to her work. “It will be hard on him—saying goodbye to you. He cares for you deeply.”
“I know,” I murmur. “But like I told him last night, he must go.”
She glances over her shoulder at Gray, and I follow her lead, watching him rummage around for the jars.
Though his brown hair is the same lightened shade Azalea’s had once been, Gray is the spitting image of his father.
He has the same tall build with the same broad shoulders, the same sharp jaw, and even a similarly sloped nose.
His eyes are painted with the same colors as his fathers, too—like moss and gold, a flare of burnt copper weaving through the cracks.
Gray also possesses his father’s mind—incisive and filled with a shrewd intellect—and they both share a similar love for the history of our lands.
But it is Azalea's kind heart that beats in Gray’s chest. Her warm smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.
He effortlessly displays her unyielding patience, and he carries her love for music within him.
I remember the day he told her he wanted to learn the double-flute—she was over the moon, telling anyone who would listen.
When I return my focus, I find Azalea’s perceptive gaze on me. She arches a brow, silently beckoning me to speak.
I stare at the Gardner supplies, tracing a discarded woody stem.
“I’m going to miss him, Azalea.” My brows crinkle with thought.
“I’m trying to be strong for him, pretending like everything will be okay—like I will be okay.
But if I’m being honest…” I look up and meet Azalea’s soft eyes, dropping my voice.
“I’m not sure I will be. He’s been there for all my hardest days, all my darkest nightmares—made me smile even on days I didn’t think it possible.
” I pause, a weight pushing against my chest. “How does someone willingly say goodbye to a person like that?”
Azalea studies me for a long moment, something soft passing through her expression, and pulls me into her arms, kissing the top of my head.
She squeezes tightly.
When she releases me, I’m surprised to find her eyes glassy and swelling with unfallen tears. “You are so much like your mother.”
My heart squeezes, and for a moment, I wonder if anyone’s heart has ever exploded from feeling too many things at once before—especially while trying to avoid feeling anything at all.
She holds my eyes. “The words most worth saying are often the hardest to speak. But I have no doubt you’ll find the courage to say them. At least some day.”
I tug my brows together, catching an underlying implication in her tone, when Gray returns, a jar of divine water in hand.
He holds it up with a smile. “Got it.”
Azalea watches me a second longer, her expression both tender and stern—a strange combination she’s mastered. “Excellent,” she chirps. “Set it on the counter there, and I’ll finish up the tincture after a much needed rest.”
Gray does as instructed.
I remove my apron, folding it with great care, and return it to its place in the cabinet. “I have to go, too. The king is hosting tonight, and I need to get ready.” I scoff a sardonic laugh. “You should see the outfit he’s picked out for me. It’s ridiculous.”
Gray tilts his head, frowning. “How much longer do you think you’ll be a night attendant?”
I shrug. “Who knows. Night attendants are different from courtesans because we are in direct service to the king, so it’s not like we can get bought out or anything.
” For the first time in quite some time— because I find pondering this question only leads to preventable anguish and rage—I consider what Gray’s asked.
“I suppose I’ll never be released from the king’s service.
He’ll probably force me to fulfill my duties until my body withers, and my face is no longer desirable. ”
Gray’s lips twitch with the makings of a sad smile. “That could never happen. Your face is too remarkable to be considered anything else.”
My answering smile is soft.
His face scrunches with continued thought. “There has to be something that can be done.”
How do I gently shatter his optimism and inform him there isn’t?
I can’t just outright tell him, because that would involve explaining to him that my role, my at times demoralizing duties as a night attendant, are meant to serve as punishment.
Meant to keep me from forgetting what transpired that night.
As if I could ever forget.
“It is what it is,” I murmur instead, unable to meet Gray’s eyes.
“It’s not right. You basically have no freedom serving the king, and that’s not the way it should be.”
“Yet, it is the way it is.”
“But it shouldn’t have to be. Shouldn’t—”
“—Gray.” I cut him off, unable to hear anymore. “Drop it. Please.”
His face falls, his wary eyes heavy with sadness. “I worry about you, Lyra. Especially now that I won’t be around anymore.”
My voice is more bitter than I mean it to be. But sometimes, when a wound is opened, whether intentionally or not, one must be prepared to face what leaks out. “And what does your presence change about my situation?”
Gray openly winces. “Lyra, come on. That’s not fair.”
I make for the door. “I need to get ready.”
My night in the Great Hall is a simple one.
Tonight, the king entertains a few traveling merchants, emissaries from Erandor Kingdom, and even some instructors from Bathara. I listen carefully as they discuss some of the young nobles rumored to be taking the upcoming entrance exams. My ears prick when I hear them mention Gray.
“I hear Sterling Nightenjoy’s son is planning to take the exam,” an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face full of stubble says to the group seated at his table.