Chapter 5
AVELINE
The room is gorgeous, all dark blues that remind me of the sea at night, or just before dawn, maybe, with gold accents and delicate woodworking that speaks to artisans and an eye for beauty. A stone hearth sits opposite the bed, huge windows framing a balcony overflowing with potted roses.
A fully impractical navy quilt in a sumptuous silk spreads across the foot of the four-poster bed, and I run my fingers over it appreciatively.
“At least he has good taste,” I murmur.
Something knocks, and I go stock-still.
The knock isn’t coming from the door. My heartbeat speeds up, and I gaze around the room warily, looking for the source of the sound.
An ornately carved armoire behind me shakes slightly, then the knocking sounds again.
“Is this place haunted?” I ask. “If you are a ghost, I have no problems with you—”
The armoire doors swing open, and I nearly fall over in surprise.
I stare at the armoire interior.
The armoire interior remains unchanged.
“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Clean clothes and a bath might be in order—”
The sound of water running interrupts my thought, and another door next to the fireplace swings open, an inviting curl of steam floating out.
Running water is never a bad sign, I decide. Plumbing? In the middle of the woods? Why not?
I shot sunbeams from my skin and am supposed to mate with some sort of Elder God.
Plumbing is the least I deserve.
I nod to myself and step towards the beckoning door of the armoire—which is a thought I instantly dislike. Doors can’t beckon.
I dip my hand into the sea of dresses and clothes and blink a little as a velvet ribbon wraps itself around my waist.
Like it knows me.
Which is fanciful thinking at its worst.
A book falls out as I’m thumbing through the luxury materials, all dresses of which appear to be my size, and a riding habit of pants and a matching jacket that are truly gorgeous and well-made and absolutely practical.
“Maybe I should wear the pants tonight, just to see what he does,” I say, grinning wickedly. My stepfather would likely have a conniption fit at the idea of it. I can just hear him now. ‘Aveline! A lady, even one on the shelf, even a spinster, wouldn’t dare wear pants to dinner.’
My grin takes on an evil cant and I start to tug on the thick, lovely pants—but they don’t come loose.
I grit my teeth and pull harder.
A blue and black dress flies out, and I screech as it slaps me in the face, ribbons writhing all along my torso as I fall onto my ass.
I blow a piece of fabric out of my mouth and stare at the confectioner’s dream of a gown.
“I suppose I don’t get to pick what I wear tonight,” I amend. A ribbon butts up against my cheek like a pleased cat.
“That’s disconcerting.”
The ribbon droops, which makes me feel like an ass. Wonderful. Now I’m feeling chastised by a scrap of fabric.
Sighing heavily, I roll onto my stomach, pressing myself up on my elbows. I take a moment, scrubbing my hands over my face, at a near-total loss at how to even begin to comprehend the absurdity of my current situation.
“Bath,” I say, the decisiveness of my voice surprising me. “Nothing a little hygiene won’t fix.” I’ve been traveling for days, my back hurts from the rocking of the carriage, and then I was shoved into this… well, whatever the hells this situation is.
Dusting off my hands, I force myself upright and stalk into the bathroom.
Which, by any measure of taste, even mine, is gorgeous.
A glossy mosaic of blue and black and gold peppers the entire room, floor to walls to ceiling, and it takes me a moment to understand that I’m looking at a detailed rendering of the night sky.
Constellations in brilliant gold shine amongst the blue and black tiles, the tiles growing lighter, softer—until they fade into golds and yellows around a circular window that looks out over the garden. A sun.
There’s something familiar about this room, about the sunken tub just beside the large window, about the golden fixtures and the scent of lavender rising from the steaming water. Like a dream half-remembered on waking, fading into a feeling of surrealness in the light of day.
I turn automatically to close the door, the handle warmer against my palm than it should be, my other hand going to the cabinet where I know the thick cotton towels are kept, where I know I’ll find the lavender goat’s milk soap I like.
My hands pause over the wax and twine-wrapped soap, unease shifting through me. Despite the warmth of the room, goosebumps rise all over my arms.
Which are also likely filthy.
“Nice of you to stock my favorite type of soap,” I say to the house over the noise of the filling tub, retrieving the towel and soap and an armful of fragrant oils.
I need to get clean, and I’m being ridiculous.
Where else would the supplies have been if not in the bathroom cabinet?
I’m clearly tired, in need of a warm meal and a long night’s sleep.
It’s just unfortunate this meal will have to take place in Malakai’s presence.