Chapter 11
Idon’t return to the labyrinth the next day. Or the next.
I don’t even leave my room. I can’t. My only suitable dress is in tatters, stained with grease and dirt and blood.
Whether my blood or Amriel’s or the Shadow’s—I can’t tell anymore.
I only know that no amount of mending will salvage the mess, and I refuse to walk around this castle wearing skin-tight leather or scraps of silk.
So I stuff the dress into a bottom drawer and hole up in my room. I dread seeing my mates anyway, and shout at the Shadow to go away every time his claws scritch against my door.
“I need to know that you’re okay.” Even a solid slab of wood can’t muffle the anguish in his voice. “I need to know that you’re healing.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble. “My leg is fine.”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No. Now go away. Please.”
He doesn’t. His forehead thunks against the door, and I check the lock again, just to be sure.
But nothing can stop him from coming back the next night, or the next.
I think he even sleeps out there, his back curled against the wood, because I sense him when the sky is dark, his presence weighing against me like the pressure shift before a thunderstorm.
At least it vanishes when the sun is up. When the Shadow’s angry roars echo through the Wildwood.
But sometimes, during the day, I hear footsteps in the hall, lingering outside my door. Once or twice, I imagine they might be Amriel’s, because something pulls at me, a heavy tug in my gut. But whoever is out there never says anything, and the footsteps inevitably recede.
Mostly, I pass the daylight hours in the window seat, brushing my hair and gazing out at the hourglass.
It sits frozen below, its time suspended, only the thinnest layer of sand strewn across the bottom.
From what I can tell, I’ve used up only a fraction of my time.
And I have nothing to show for it except a fresh set of scars.
Not that they’ve healed yet. I clean my injuries daily, careful not to dislodge the scabs.
The surrounding skin turns a violent shade of purple, but infection doesn’t set in, and little by little, the pain recedes.
Soon, I’m walking normally again, if only from my window to the bathroom and back.
Or to my bedside table, where I dig into my satchel for a sip of the honeyed elixir Amriel gave me.
True to his word, it slakes my appetite for a day at a time, freeing me of the need to leave my room.
Maybe I can just stay here forever, hiding from these fae.
From the ridiculous bargain I’ve made. From the horrible forest outside.
I just wish I could hide from myself.
With so much silence and solitude for company, I spiral into rumination. I can’t stop reliving the hunger that gripped me in the Wildwood, or when I offered myself to Amriel. Its echoes cling to me even now, reverberating in the hollows of my bones.
I try to banish them with prayer. But no matter how many hours I spend on my knees, true communion eludes me. It’s as if a veil has fallen between me and Ishanna, clouding my vision, muting the warmth of her grace.
Which shouldn’t surprise me. After all, I’ve strayed. Fallen victim to the same temptation I’ve denounced all my life.
And yet, with all this time on my hands, I have to wonder.
Was I ever truly as upstanding as I believed?
Have I ever really resisted temptation? Or have I never encountered it in the first place?
Maybe I’ve spent my life so focused on earning my Grace that I haven’t stopped to consider that I’ve never actually proven myself.
Maybe I’ve simply surrounded myself with objects that cost no effort to lift, then had the arrogance to declare myself strong.
No wonder I fell apart at the first touch of enticement.
Today, I sit in the window again, clad in a dressing gown I scrounged from my closet.
Unlike the skimpy dresses on offer, the gown covers most of my body, but it fastens with a simple sash in front, instead of buttons.
Worse, the fabric clings to my curves—forest-green velvet on the outside, cream satin on the inside.
Each caress of the fabric feels like an extravagance, so mostly, I stay still, despairing over the fact that I’m stuck here, unable to go back, too afraid to move forward.
Each glance at the shadowed forest strikes a harsh chord inside me.
I have no desire to set foot in the Wildwood again. But I’ll have to. It’s my only way out of here. My only way back to Aethrolia, and Ishanna.
A knock sounds at my door.
I let out a sigh. Maybe it’s Calen again. He’s tried to check on me a few times, but I’ve simply shut the door in his face. And I have no problem doing so again, if that’s what it takes to be left alone.
But when I pad across the room and flip the lock, the door creaks open to reveal someone else. Not Calen, but the fae woman he dined with on my first night here.
She studies me, her dark eyes reflecting the shine from the window. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you okay? Can I come in?”
I pause. But I don’t feel the need to hide from her the same way I do Calen or Amriel or the Shadow, and someone should probably see that I’m still alive up here, so I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
She slips in, her hands full, then uses her hip to close the door behind her. “Thanks. I brought you food. And books. And…well, I couldn’t think of what else you might need, but whatever it is, I can get it for you.”
I pause, an ache blooming in my chest. I don’t plan to eat from the platter she’s placing on my dresser, or read from the stack of undoubtedly salacious books, but her consideration moves me, anyway.
“Thanks,” I say. “That’s extraordinarily kind of you.”
Her mouth curves as she dusts off her hands. “Well, I didn’t do the best job of welcoming you to Velindra. None of us did. So I’m trying again. Amriel said not to, that I should leave you alone until you’re ready to come out, but I never really listen to him, to be honest.”
I snort softly. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.
“Anyway,” she says, clasping her fingers before her. “I know you probably think of me as a…heathen…or whatever it is you humans call it.”
I press my mouth shut. I want to deny it, but I can’t, and after a brief scrunch of her eyebrows at my silence, she moves on.
“But the way I see it, we’re both women. Human or fae, Velindran or Aethrolian, we share that much in common. And the bond between women is sacred.”
I digest that. I don’t know that anyone back home would agree—in Aethrolia, the only bond considered sacred is the one between Ishanna and her disciple. And yet this woman’s words stir something in me, a warmth that nestles just below my heart.
“I like that idea, actually,” I say. “But I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Ravenna.”
“Ravenna.” I nod. “Well, I’m Sariah.”
“Oh, I know. Everyone here knows.”
I purse my lips, but…of course. Why wouldn’t they? I’m the only human here.
Silence settles between us. Ravenna’s dark eyes rove as if searching for the next topic of conversation, eventually landing on the hairbrush on the windowsill.
She gestures toward it, then my hair. “I could help you with that, if you want.”
I frown. “Oh, no. I don’t expect you to attend to me. At all. You’ve already brought me food. And books.”
“I know. But I should’ve been gentler with you the other night. You’ll have to forgive me for that. I’ve just never met a human before, and I don’t actually know how to make friends with one.” Her gaze drops to the floor and stays there.
Surprise fills me. How can this overture of friendship possibly intimidate her, when she has no qualms with being ravished on a public dinner table?
The fae mystify me, truly. And yet this woman’s reticence—her downcast eyes, the quaver in her voice—wriggles past my defenses.
This much, at least, is universal.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say. “And you don’t owe me anything.” I retrieve the hairbrush from the windowsill, then cross the room and press it into her hand. “But if you really want to help with my hair, I’d be grateful.”
She glances up, hopeful. “I’d love to. Maybe I could show you some fae braids?”
I hesitate. I’d rather not be shown more fae anything, but braids seem innocuous enough, and I’ll need something besides loose locks for my return to the labyrinth. “Sure. Something that’ll keep it out of my face, maybe?”
She nods. “Of course.”
I make for the vanity and sit, as much to offer her my hair as to take a moment to gather myself. “I appreciate the help.”
She comes up behind me. Gentle hands sift through my waves, followed by the soft hiss of the brush, and I find myself leaning into her touch.
Goddess, I haven’t had physical contact with anyone in days, not since I laid my hand against the Shadow’s shoulder.
But that was overwhelming, and fraught with significance.
Meanwhile, this is a simple, friendly connection—woman to woman, like she said.
My lashes flutter shut as I savor the feeling.
“I liked what you did,” Ravenna murmurs. “The other night. When you carved your name into Amriel’s Shadow.”
My lashes part again. Amriel’s Shadow? I know that goblins have no names, and that Amriel himself refers to the Shadow as his, but hearing it from someone else hits differently. Really, what a strange thing to call him. As if the Shadow is no more than his brother’s possession.
Then again, Amriel is king, here. Maybe it’s no different than calling someone the king’s guard, or his advisor.
“It was just my initials,” I say, “not my name. And it was a mistake. A moment of…insanity. Or something. I don’t know. I’d just…had a bad day.”
She chortles. “I can imagine. But you impressed everyone, and now they’re all rooting for you. There’s even talk that you might beat the labyrinth. Set Amriel free.”