11. Chapter 11
When morning finds me, I have decided several things.
First, I hate the bed. Not because it's uncomfortable.
It's the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in.
I hate it because I slept. I should have spent the night planning my escape.
Instead, I apparently collapsed into silk sheets after making flowers bloom for the Shadow King like an absolute idiot…
after allowing one infuriating king to occupy far too much of my mind.
I had every intention of remaining awake all night, keeping watch like some hardened prisoner preparing her escape.
I planned to study the lock, count the steps beyond my door, listen for guard rotations, perhaps even pace dramatically beneath the window and think clever thoughts about freedom.
Instead, I apparently fell asleep five minutes after drinking cold tea like a weary old woman. How humiliating for me.
Second, I hate the room. Again, not because it is ugly.
It is not. It is beautiful in the way everything in this palace is beautiful, dark and excessive and designed to remind a person that whoever owns it has more coin than sense and far too much control over people with taste.
The cream rug beneath my feet is softer than anything I have ever owned, and every time I walk across it, some treacherous part of me wants to curl my toes into it and enjoy myself. Which is exactly why I hate it.
The tiny cuts scarring my fingers from yesterday are gone.
Not healed in the way wounds normally heal, but gone entirely, as if the thorns never pierced my skin at all.
I turn my hand over once, then again, searching for evidence that the Sacred Gardens did not happen, that I did not touch a dead rosebush and watch life crawl through it like dawn forcing itself through a crack in the world.
There’s nothing. Not a scar. Not a sting. Just my hand, whole and warm and innocent-looking, which feels particularly rude considering what it has done.
I flex my fingers. A faint silver-gold shimmer moves beneath my skin and I immediately close my fist.
“No,” I tell it. My hand, unsurprisingly, has no respect for authority.
A knock sounds at the door before I can argue further with my own body. I don’t answer because I’ve barely been here two days and I’m already questioning so many things that I don’t have the energy to think about anything else.
The door opens anyway.
Mazelle comes striding in first, because of course she does.
I’m beginning to suspect that knocking is merely ceremonial in this palace, a polite little warning before everyone barges in and reminds me I possess no privacy whatsoever.
She wears another black uniform today, severe and tailored.
Her hair is twisted into that same unforgiving knot at the base of her neck, and her expression suggests she has already been disappointed by at least three people before breakfast.
Two guards follow her in, one of whom I am appreciative to see. I recognize the other from when I first arrived, Briar, with his locks braided into four sections down his back. I don’t mind seeing him today, I’m just glad it wasn’t the blond guard.
Onyx looks at me and offers me the closest thing to a smile that I’ll get from him while I’m here. I don’t care who is watching, I smile wide for everyone to see because his presence feels like a breath of fresh air—and I never thought I would say that about the man who kidnapped me.
Mazelle’s gaze drops to my still-wrinkled nightdress and bare feet.
“Lady Tarethyn, you are not dressed.”
“Lieutenant Mazelle, good morning!” I smile, but my eyes don’t carry the same excitement they did when I saw Onyx. “I noticed. I thought I might sleep in this morning.”
“His Majesty is waiting,” she continues with an exasperated sigh, tapping a fingernail against the table.
“Oh, goodness,” I press a hand against my heart, feigning sympathy. We both know it for what it is. Bullshit. “Then he has my sympathies. Waiting builds character.”
Briar makes the mistake of snorting under his breath, and Mazelle turns her head slightly giving him a death glare that I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end of. He goes silent.
Mazelle gestures toward the chair near the hearth, where a fresh gown has been laid out.
This one is darker than yesterday’s, nearly black, though when the dim morning light catches the fabric, deep green flashes beneath the surface like moss under shadow.
The sleeves are fitted, the bodice simple, the skirt split just enough for movement.
It’s not as revealing, which pleases me, and it’s practical by palace standards.
Which means it probably costs more than half of Elvora.
“For your training session with the king,” Mazelle says, gesturing to the gown.
I look from the gown to her, blinking rapidly. “Training? In a gown?”
“Yes.”
“With… the king.”
“Yes, with His Majesty.”
“So I’m supposed to train with the king dressed like this… in the dead garden?”
Her mouth tightens. “The Sacred Gardens, Lady Tarethyn.”
“I was there yesterday. Dead feels more accurate. And tell Thorin that I’m not in the mood for training today. Or any other day, for that matter.”
Briar looks down and I swear his mouth twitches, making me involuntarily smirk.
Mazelle notices that too. Poor man. I don’t know how she terrorizes the guards, but I’m sure it's nothing short of agonizing. Listening to her rant would be more than enough for me to plop down on a sword.
“You will dress,” she says, her voice clipped, “and you will accompany us to the gardens. It was an order from the king, and you will follow it. Being ‘special’ does not make you exempt from royal orders, Lyra Tarethyn.” She says my name with such disdain, I imagine she would like to punish me, too. Too bad that won’t be happening.
I stare at her for a moment, pursing my lips to keep from laughing. “That was an impressive speech.”
“Would you like more than a speech?” she challenges, narrowing her eyes as she flashes me a razor-sharp smile.
“Lyra,” Onyx growls impatiently, watching the exchange with boredom as he runs a hand down his face.
“Fine. I’ll get dressed. Please leave me. Though Onyx, you’re welcome to stay.”
Mazelle rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of her head.
“I’ll escort you to the Sacred Gardens, Lyra.” Onyx says, stepping forward. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” With that he leaves the room with Briar trailing behind him, leaving me to deal with better-than-thou Mazelle.
I narrow my eyes at her and she stares back, unbothered.
“Get out of my chambers, please. You’ve delivered your message, and your services are no longer needed. You can relay that to Thorin, if you’d like.” I smile sweetly, watching hatred flash in her eyes at the way I mentioned Thorin’s name so casually. I bet I crawl under her skin. I hope I do.
I am starting to think Mazelle might have been carved from the same stone as the palace and simply taught to walk and, unfortunately, talk.
“You're King Thorin's responsibility today, which is rather fortunate for you. I have considerably less patience than His Majesty. Do enjoy your gardening lesson.”
Her eyes flick briefly to my hand before returning to my face. Something unreadable passes through them before her expression smooths once more.
“You have fifteen minutes.” A venomous smile curves her lips, making my blood boil. If she gives me a countdown one more time…
I return her smile just as sweetly. “I'll try to make your countdown. You enjoy whatever it is you do besides glare at people professionally.”
She fixes me with one last venomous glare before turning on her heel and striding from the room. The door closes behind her with a click and I smile, knowing Onyx and Briar are outside and could hear every word. I’m sure Onyx is ready to strangle me by now.
* * *
I dress because refusing would accomplish nothing except giving Mazelle the satisfaction of dragging me through the palace in a nightdress, and I refuse to let that woman see more of my humiliation than necessary.
The gown fits perfectly. Of course it does. I glance into the tall mirror. The dark green catches the silver in my hair, making the strands seem brighter, almost luminous. My curls refuse to behave despite my best attempts, falling in wild waves around my shoulders.
When I open the door, Onyx’s eyes sweep over me. He nods his head in approval, gesturing for me to follow him. He says nothing, only gives me a knowing look.
I lift a brow. “What? She provoked me first.”
“Do not start, Lyra. Mazelle is not a woman you want as your enemy.”
I gasp, placing a hand against my heart. “I would never! I thought we were getting along just fine.”
He smirks at me, but I catch it—the glint in his eye that was there in Lycar. It’s nice having someone around who doesn’t make me want to attack them like a feral animal.
I fall into step behind Onyx and Briar as they lead me down the corridor.
The palace seems quieter this morning. Servants move along the edges of the halls with their heads lowered, though their eyes flick to me when they think I am not looking.
Some look curious. It brings my mind back to Tilda and Grace.
I haven’t seen them since my first night at the palace, and wonder what happened to them.
I wonder if the servants gossip about the ‘new woman’ in the palace, brought specifically for King Thorin. No speculation needed, because there is nothing going on. And nothing will ever go on.