Chapter 21
This time when I wake up, I’m not being tortured.
That’s an improvement.
My head feels heavy, my throat sore, my mouth aching with thirst, but I’m much better than the last time I was conscious.
I turn my head to get my bearings, and I notice the large bed I’m lying on, plush and soft, the dark blue bed curtains pulled back from the canopy beams overhead.
The room is large, but not cavernous, a masculine coziness tucked into the space.
There’s wainscoting on the walls, and a deep blue wallpaper on the upper half that’s fringed with the faintest gold filigree. Muddied light filters in from a large bay window to the right of the bed, while ahead, a fireplace sits empty, though the sofa in front of it does not.
“Finally.”
The Needle—Lacera—tosses down the book she was reading and gets to her feet.
She’s no longer dressed in a tunic and pants.
She’s wearing a green bodice over her silk frock that goes well with her olive skin tone, the arms bunched in a puff, the dress ending right above her feet.
She has on a short hair veillet with dainty flowers embroidered along the edges in the same color as her frock, and her brown hair is elaborately braided, the bound end hanging down.
Limping slightly, she comes to the bedside and looks me over, her hazel eyes assessing. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been ripped open and then kicked out of hell with a spiked boot,” I say hoarsely.
She blinks. “Okay . . . Better than dead, I suppose.”
I try to sit up but realize I’m still topless, no tunic or even bindings to cover me. I clear my raw throat enough to ask, “Is there something I can wear?”
“The servants will be up soon to help you bathe, and they’ll bring in fresh clothing.”
With the state of my back, bathing sounds terrible.
“I don’t want to take a bath right now.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you could see the state of yourself.” Her nose wrinkles. “You’re rather disgusting.”
I feel my face heat with embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe not, but it does matter what the servants’ orders are. They’ve been instructed to bathe you, so it will be done.”
“The Piper?” I guess, though I already know the answer.
She tips her head.
I blow out a breath. “The bath will hurt.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” she shoots back.
I glance at her in surprise. “You’re going to use your magic on me again?”
“As instructed.”
I can’t tell if she’s unhappy about that or not. I don’t know her well enough to hear between her words.
“I thought you only did that so I could travel.”
“Yes, well, I’m doing it again, it seems.”
That part does sound like she’s a bit unhappy about it.
I try to shift, but pain slices over me, stealing my breath.
An arched eyebrow lifts and then she reaches for the leather belt slung loosely around her waist and pulls out a needle. “This will get you through it.” She pierces the sharp wooden tip into my bare back, and a flash of pain strips my vision bare.
I hoard my breath until my vision fills back in again, and I look up to see her pulling away her thin weapon. Instantly, a fresh wave of numbness washes over me, pain dissipating. My exhale comes loose.
“Fates, it would’ve been nice if you’d done that while I was being tortured.”
She fusses with the holder on her belt. “Which time?”
I pause. “Both, actually. The whipping and . . . whoever the Piper took me to that was torturing me.”
“It was a healer. He was newly hired onto the castle’s staff. We weren’t aware that he’d be so . . . rough with a fiend.”
Her wording perks my ears. “Was? As in . . .”
She doesn’t look at me. “Let’s just say he’s not a healer here anymore.”
My eyes go wide. Does that mean the Piper stripped him of his job . . . or stripped him of his life?
I don’t dare ask.
“You’ll be fine for the time being,” Lacera says as she turns away.
“Is this actually the Piper’s bedroom?” I ask, looking around.
“Yes. Fates know why he brought you here.”
I catch the edge in her tone. “You don’t like fiends very much either, do you?”
She goes still. A heartbeat later, she glances over her shoulder at me. It strikes me just then how young she looks, and yet, I know she’s not. “How old were you when you became a Core?”
“Sixteen,” she answers.
My eyes go wide. She was so young when the power imbedded into her. That would mean that right now, she’s actually in her forties.
“Oh. Wow. You look . . .”
“Like I’m in my early twenties? Yes, I know,” she says flatly before she turns to face me. “And it’s not that I dislike fiends. You just remind me of the worst day of my life.”
“When the earth cracked?” I guess. I’ve read the accounts of other Core fae, about how painful it was to come into contact with the molten power. I can’t imagine how horrible that had to have been, much less for a sixteen-year-old.
But surprisingly, Lacera shakes her head. “No, not when the earth cracked. When one of the Banes tried to kill me.” Her gaze locks on to my horns, and her lips press thin. “I know it’s not your fault, but their blood is your blood.”
I can’t argue with that.
She moves, and my eyes flick down to her leg. “Is that why you have that limp? From your fight with the Banes?”
The look she gives me isn’t at all appreciative. “Observant, are you?”
I lift a shoulder. “Just curious.”
“Yes, it was. And you want to know the crux of it? I can’t even use my own magic to help.”
My brows lift in surprise. “Really?”
“The Piper can’t lure himself, and I can’t numb my own pain,” she says, knocking her knuckles against her right thigh. “It’s just the way of things.”
I’m not sure if I exactly feel pity for her, since she did help kidnap me, but I do feel something.
She turns and heads for the door. “Servants will be up soon. Have some water. You were mostly incoherent for four days except to drink and use the chamber pot with the help of a servant.”
I blink.
Four days?
I can’t even ask about the chamber pot part—it makes me burn with embarrassment.
That poor servant.
As soon as I’m alone, I slowly push myself up to a sitting position. I can feel my skin stretching along my back, but none of the pain. Though just because I can’t currently feel it doesn’t mean it’s not there, so I move carefully so as not to make my wounds worse.
When I’m upright, I hold a pillow against my bare chest and take stock of the rest of my body.
Without the blinding agony in my back, I’m able to pay attention to the other aches and bruises.
My thighs are sore, spine and hips achy, ankle scabbed up, wrist raw from where the Piper’s rope had been.
My lips are chapped, throat scratchy. But at least my hair seems to have been wiped clean.
I see a pitcher of water on the bedside table, so I instantly grab it.
I don’t bother with the cup, just gulp it down directly, uncaring that the wide-mouthed top makes water dribble out over my chin.
When I pull it away and wipe the droplets, I pause, remembering the way the Piper placed his thumb at the corner of my lips.
The thought makes my hold on the pitcher falter, and I place it back on the table before I drop it. The Piper took me from the healer and let me convalesce in his bed—despite the vomit, blood, and . . . chamber pot.
Why would he do that?
He stole me. Has been cruel to me. And yet, when he saw how badly the healer was hurting me, he took me away and brought me here.
The bedroom door opens, interrupting my thoughts, and a trio of servants walk in. The women are all in gray frocks, hair bound in white veillets that twist into knots at their napes.
“Hello,” I greet as I clutch the pillow more forcefully against my naked chest. “I’m Esti.”
The oldest one comes forward, eyelashes gone, eyebrows faded. She has skin that looks like someone uncrumpled a note and spread it out, with shallow creases that indent nearly every inch of her face from chin to hairline.
The woman doesn’t look at me, just nods in my direction and speaks with a low, no-nonsense rasp. “We’re to help you wash and tend your wounds.”
“Did you . . .?” I clear my scratchy throat, trying to figure out a polite way to ask if she was the one to help me use a chamber pot and then clean out my . . . passings. “I’m sorry if you had to tend to me while I was unwell.”
Confusion crosses her face.
“Did you tend to me?” I clarify.
One of the younger fae behind her speaks up. “That was me, miss,” she says, her eyes darting up shyly.
When our gazes meet, her constellation appears. There are five stars that make the shape of an arrow, with a near-perfect aim that points to her lips. Trusting. Dutiful. Soft of heart.
My own heart warms. “Well, thank you,” I tell her. “And . . . I’m very sorry about that.”
She’s nice enough to smile, though she steals a look at the older woman before answering. “No need to apologize, miss. I did what his lordship ordered whilst he sat at the bedside.”
Wait.
What?
“The Piper . . . sat at the bedside? This bedside?” I ask, pointing at it, just to make sure.
She bobs her head again and there’s a pink tinge to her cheeks. “Yes, miss. He didn’t leave. I brought up water and food.”
I stare at the chair on the other side of the bed. Pulled over as if . . . someone had been sitting there.
Watching me.
A shiver travels down my spine.
The older servant intervenes before I can ask anything else. “Come to the tub so we can do as we were instructed and wash you. We have a schedule to keep.”
Impatience feathers her tone, and the last thing I want is to inconvenience them or make them late. So I get up from the bed and start to hobble my way across the Piper’s large bedroom, my bare feet skimming over a gray fur rug.
There are three doors in the room. The first of which is swept open, offering a dim view of the dressing room inside. The other is the door the servants entered farther down, and the third is where they lead me, to the right of the fireplace.