Chapter 8 Rhianelle
“Special event tonight,” Petal says briskly. “High bidders win a private evening with their choice. You’re new and mysterious. You’ll fetch a good price.”
She is already steering me toward the main salon.
“Don’t worry,” she adds under her breath. “You can refuse anyone you’re uncomfortable with afterward. But you must stand up there.”
Stand.
As if that is simple.
“Thorn!” Petal calls brightly. “She’s here!”
A fae male cuts through the crowd toward us like he owns the house, which he probably does.
Tall, broad-shouldered, draped in deep violet silk. He sees me and his whole face opens up.
Before I can retreat, he takes my hand and bows over it.
“Thorn Vale,” he says warmly, bowing over my knuckles as if I were the honored guest. “Master of ceremonies, curator of chaos, and your advocate tonight.”
My throat feels dry.
He is the auctioneer.
“So this is our mystery,” he murmurs, stepping back to look at me properly. The fae looks as if he has just been handed a treasure.
“Beautiful,” he says under his breath. “Radiant, even through the mask.”
He releases my hand with a knowing smile. "First time?"
I nod.
"Now then." He clasps his hands together. "What will you offer? A dance? A song? Chess? Poetry?”
“I don’t…” My mouth goes dry. “I can’t sing.”
"An instrument perhaps. Do you play?" he enquires patiently.
"No."
He tilts his head, curious rather than unkind. “What can you do?”
Nothing.
I can’t think of anything. My pulse pounds. I’m going to mess this up. I need to say something. Anything.
"I can tell jokes," I say quickly.
Thorn stares at me.
Then his face splits into the widest smile I have seen all evening.
"Ah a conversationalist," he breathes. “You are a dangerous one, Fawn.”
I’m not.
“Do you know how rare that is? You offer them something to remember,” he says smoothly. “They’ll get thirty minutes of their time to talk privately with you, drink included.”
I blink.
He straightens my wig with two quick fingers. "You'll do beautifully. And if anyone makes you feel unsafe, you signal me. I run a clean house."
Before I can find my voice, Petal nudges me forward. I am pushed onto the raised platform in the center of the main salon.
The lights are blinding. They are focused directly on the stage. Everything beyond dissolves into shadow and blur. It turns everything beyond into shadow and blur. I can't see individual faces in the crowd, just a sea of hunger and curiosity pressing in from all sides.
The murmur of voices swells.
Thorn steps forward, arms wide, his voice carrying through the whole house. "Ladies, lords, and esteemed patrons of the Hunt!"
Thorn steps beside me, arms wide. His voice is booming now through the house, rich and theatrical. “Ladies, lords, and esteemed patrons of the Hunt!”
The crowd quiets.
Two girls already stand at the platform's edge. Thorn moves to the first, sweeping a hand toward her with easy showmanship. "Tara graces us tonight with the gift of her company. One evening. One memory." His voice drops to something warm and conspiratorial. "And those wings, my friends."
Tara laughs and spreads them wide, iridescent as a butterfly's, catching every light in the room.
Applause and laughter. The bidding opens at one thousand and climbs fast. A winner is called and Tara steps down into cheers at eight thousand gold coins.
Thorn moves to the second girl. "Viola, our silver water nymph, offers something altogether unique. A private swimming lesson."
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
"From the silver queen herself," someone calls out. More laughter.
The numbers rise more slowly for Viola, but still reach three thousand before the gavel falls. She follows Tara into the crowd.
Then Thorn turns toward me. “Tonight, we present something rare.”
He opens one hand and presents me to the crowd. “A fresh face. A true queen among imitations."
Laughter ripples through the room. My heart slams against my ribs.
This is madness. I am the real Queen of Aelfheim, standing on an auction block in a fae pleasure house, about to be sold to the highest bidder.
"New to our house. Mysterious as moonlight. She offers thirty minutes of private conversation." Thorn pauses for effect. "A drink included."
The crowd laughs, uncertain whether it's a joke.
"She's a real elf," someone mutters nearby, curious rather than kind.
My fingers curl at my sides to keep them from trembling.
“Shall we start the bidding at fifty gold?" Thorn declares, gauging the reaction from the crowd.
The first paddle rises immediately.
“One Hundred!" someone shouts from the crowd.
Then another. Then three more.
The numbers climb.
"Two hundred!"
"Five hundred!"
The numbers climb impossibly high, voices calling out from the darkness beyond the lights. I stand frozen, every muscle locked and aware of every eye on me. The mask hides my identity but not my body, not the way I tremble like prey beneath a predator's gaze.
I should never have stolen Blair's plans and come here.
"Eight hundred!" A fae commander's voice, one I recognize from the negotiations in Lysander’s crossing. "Eight hundred gold for the silver queen!"
The crowd laughs at the joke. I'm just another mockery to them, something to be purchased and used.
I cannot see their faces. Only their silhouettes.
“One thousand.” I hear Kharlis outbids him.
I force my spine straight. If I must stand here, I will stand like a queen.
"Ten thousand." The voice cuts clean through the noise.
A masked fae in the third row. Red hair catching the light above the mask. His posture easy, one hand raised with the paddle like it costs him nothing.
The room erupts.
“Ten thousand gold!” Thorn calls, clearly thrilled. “Ten thousand, do I have eleven? Ten thousand going once—"
I feel it before I see it.
A cold that has nothing to do with the temperature. Every candle in the room dims at once. Someone whimpers in the sudden cold. The crowd goes quiet in the way that prey goes quiet when a wolf is prowling. He steps out of the shadow at the back of the room and the shadows come with him.
Svenn.
The crowd move for him. There is no weapon visible at his side and he is dressed plainly. He looks like any other patron who arrived late to an interesting evening. There is nothing threatening in his posture, yet everyone knows he is the most terrifying thing in this room.
His eyes find the stage.
They find me.
My heart stops.
Wait. I should be fine. The mask. I’m wearing the enchanted fae item.
He cannot possibly—
But why is he still looking at me.
For one long moment I think he sees through it. Through the costume and the enchantment and the silver wig to the truth underneath. His expression gives nothing away. That careful, total blankness he wears like armor.
Does he know?
No. Impossible.
Then the other thought arrives and it is worse.
He is here.
Svenn is here. In this place…
He promised to stay. He chose me over his freedom and said he wanted forever and now he is standing in a pleasure house with his hand in his coat and his eyes on the stage.
The thought carves into my heart deep inside.
"Her." His voice carries through the silent room without effort. "I want her."
Thorn's confidence cracks at the edges. "M-my lord, the bidding is still open. You would need to register—"
The shadows in the corners of the room grow heavier. The nearest patrons make themselves very small. Svenn reaches into his coat and produces a pouch. He tosses it to Thorn without looking at him. Thorn catches it with both hands and nearly drops it. His eyes go wide at the weight.
Then a second pouch. Then a third. Raw gold, unrefined, and something that glitters harder than gold at the edges.
"For your trouble," Svenn says.
Thorn looks at what is in his hands. He looks at Svenn, then looks back at his hands.
"Of course," he says faintly. "Of course, for such a distinguished patron. Perhaps we can make an exception."
No one bids against him. No one speaks. The red-haired fae commander with the ten thousand gold lowers his paddle and finds somewhere else to look.
Thorn clears his throat.
"Sold." his voice wavers slightly. "To the, ah, gentleman at the back."
Svenn extends his hand up to me.
I have no choice. I take it.
His fingers close around mine and he helps me down from the platform, steady and careful, his grip not loosening even when my legs nearly give out beneath me.
My husband has just purchased me from a brothel.
We move through the crowd and the crowd moves for us. People press themselves against walls. No one meets his eyes. The red-haired fae is the only one who watches us go, his gaze tracking us across the room until we turn the corner.
Thorn appears at Svenn's elbow, smaller than he looked on stage.
"I must mention," he says and his voice is shaking. "This is the Painted Moth. The girl has the right to refuse her time. Even for distinguished patrons."
Svenn looks at him.
"Of course," he says, turning to me. "The choice is always hers."
If I refuse now it would draw attention. I’ve just secured an invitation to the Fae King’s ball.
“It’s fine. I’ll go with him," I tell Thorn quietly.
Thorn sags with relief. "The Rose Room is ready, my lord. Follow me."
I let him lead us.
My hand is shaking. I am surprised Svenn doesn't mention it.
I follow.
I try not to think about how many times Svenn’s walked this corridor before. All those nights he disappeared without explanation. Was this where he went?
We move through corridors heavy with velvet and perfume. Laughter spills from half-closed doors and music drifts overhead. Each step feels heavier than the last.
The Rose Room earns its name.
Silk in deep blush drapes the walls. Roses are carved into dark wood and the flowery scent is thick enough to taste. A burgundy chaise dominates the center with a large table in front of it.
It is beautiful.
I have never hated a room more.