Chapter 8
When I woke from a nap, the ceiling crystals gleamed with the last red of sunset.
I closed my eyes again, pressing my cheek into the pillow. After showing Triana and Maude around the house, I’d been overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion. I’d slipped into a spiderweb-thin chemise, left my damp clothes in a pile on the floor, and crawled into bed.
It was tempting to search for dreams again, but a tapping came at the door and I realized what had pulled me out of sleep. “Come in,” I called, struggling to a seated position.
The door opened, and Lara strode in. “Humans,” she said without preamble.
I yawned. “What?”
“You brought humans.”
“Yes, Maude and Triana. Are they all right?” I’d left them in their new bedrooms in a wing on the other side of the kitchen—they’d liked the idea of having a space entirely to themselves—and told them they were free to explore.
“They’re currently making bread, so presumably.” Lara cocked her head. “Are more servants coming, or can I have one of them?”
I blinked. “What? They’re not servants. They’re my friends.”
“The younger one was dusting the staircase earlier.”
I rubbed my eyes, wishing I was more alert. “I’ll need to talk to them. That’s not why they’re here.” They were here to be free, not to take up a different type of servitude. I grimaced, brain catching up to the conversation. “And what do you mean, can you have one?”
Lara gestured at the thick braid that hung over her shoulder. “My hair is atrocious. I’ll take whichever one you aren’t keeping as your handmaiden.”
My mouth dropped open. Mistei was a month away from civil war, and Lara was concerned about her hair? “No. You can do your own hair.”
“Not well.” She toyed with the braid, running her fingers over the strands that had started coming loose. “And you’re a princess now, so you’re not going to do it. An Underfae trained in the cosmetic arts would be best, but I’ll take what’s available.”
I bit down the angry words that wanted to fly out of my mouth.
Lara could be difficult, but there was a reason for that behavior.
Oriana had trained her not to show any vulnerability, so she lashed out and demanded things instead of admitting her hurts.
“Things are going to be different from what you’re used to for a while.
We have to fend for ourselves.” I shook my head, and some of my pique slipped out.
“Who would you be doing your hair for, anyway?”
Her cheeks reddened, and she looked away. “I’m a lady of Blood House, aren’t I? Ladies deserve respect.”
The nature of the wound became clear. “I do respect you,” I said, trying to soften my tone and only partially succeeding.
“So does anyone who matters. But right now the house is just you, me, Anya, Maude, and Triana, and I didn’t bring the others here to be your servants.
I brought them here to save them.” I hesitated, wondering if saying this next part would wound her pride even more, but she was going to have to get used to this particular injury. “The same way I wanted to save you.”
Her full lips compressed into a line. “Princess Kenna and her collection of broken toys.”
My temper flared despite understanding why she was being confrontational. I threw the sheet aside and stalked over to her. “Do not talk about them that way,” I said, planting my hands on my hips. “Don’t talk about yourself that way, either.”
She flinched and looked down. Her slippered feet shuffled over the carpet as she stepped back, then to the side, then returned to her initial place as if rejecting her own retreat.
“How are we supposed to do this?” The demanding edge was gone from her voice—raw hurt lay there instead.
“How do you expect us to succeed at…at anything?”
“You don’t think we will?” I asked, though the same doubts festered inside me.
“It’s three humans and me. What can we possibly be but a burden? What do we have to offer to you, to Blood House…to anyone?”
The anger fled, leaving me hollow. She’d been obnoxiously superior about her position here compared to the others, but there was the core of the issue, admitted plainly. What do we have to offer? Lara had no family, no magic, no standing in Mistei outside these walls, and she knew it.
“We have ourselves,” I said past the lump growing in my throat. “You think I know how to do this? I have no idea what I’m doing. But I will gut anyone who tries to hurt us.”
A house of five could become six and then ten and then more. We could become something Mistei had never seen before. The broken, the oppressed, the dispossessed—they could find a home here, and together we would show the Noble Fae a new type of strength.
Power could be gifted, but it meant more when it was seized.
Lara tugged on her ragged braid. “I’m useless,” she said bitterly. “The humans at least have an excuse, but what am I? A failure.”
“You’re not useless,” I said, heart aching for her even as the words sparked fresh irritation. “And the others aren’t useless, either. Have you forgotten I was human yesterday?”
She yanked on her braid again, then shook her head. “You’re different from the others.”
I scoffed. “Nonsense. I’m just the only human you’ve ever gotten close to.
” She didn’t even know sign language. How would she know what the others were like?
“The three of them will treat you with respect, but you need to respect them in return. We’re not going to win by being like the other houses. We’re going to win by being different.”
“Oh, Kenna. What is there to win?”
Disturbed by the question, I crossed to the wardrobe.
When I opened it, the first garment that met my fingers was a black silk dressing gown banded with scarlet.
I shrugged it on and tied it, watching the movements of my fingers.
My skin might have a shimmer to it now, but it was also dotted with familiar small scars, earned through a mixture of childhood clumsiness, hard labor, and foolhardy fights.
The sight of those scars was comforting. Becoming Fae hadn’t stolen those marks from me, even if my future wounds would heal seamlessly. It hadn’t stolen who I was.
I finished tying the bow and faced Lara. “What do you want to win?”
She looked taken aback. “What?”
“What do you want? Because it doesn’t have to be what other people want for you.” Blood House might never have the same sort of power the other house heads aspired to, but if we lived—if we were happy, if we were safe, if we found meaning in our lives—that would be a victory.
“I—” She broke off, seeming even more consternated. “No one’s ever asked me what I want.”
“Because you were expected to be the perfect daughter and heir,” I said, taking her hands in mine. “A duplicate of Oriana.”
She flinched. “I failed at that, too.”
“You didn’t fail. You’re just someone else.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “And you get to decide who that is. So what do you want?”
She needed to say it, but I needed to hear it, too.
Because I wasn’t perfect, either, and I never would be, and so much could go wrong if I didn’t come to peace with that.
I might give up my ambitions, telling myself nothing good was worth doing with a flawed hand.
Or I might try to force myself to fit someone else’s mold of the perfect princess, filing myself down until the person left was unrecognizable.
“I want to be respected,” she finally said. “Not just by you. By everyone.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I want—” Her voice grew reedy, and she cleared her throat before starting again. “I want to be admired for something besides my parentage and my face.”
I gripped her hands tighter. “Yes. What else?”
“I want…” She closed her eyes, and a shudder moved through her frame. “I want them all to be sorry,” she whispered. “Everyone who’s ever looked down on me. Everyone who’s ever hurt me. I want to hurt them back.”
Vengeance. She wanted vengeance.
“Yes,” I said, feeling the same urgency in my bones. “Yes.”
Anya was in the kitchen with Triana and Maude.
I paused in the doorway, heart leaping at the sight of her frowning as she smacked a ball of dough.
I’d seen her like this many times before.
She’d never been a good baker, but she’d liked kneading dough the best, rolling it out with the heels of her hands before picking it up to slap against the table.
“Vanquishing my enemy,” she’d joked once when I’d commented on how she was pummeling the dough like it had personally insulted her. “Giving it a good beating before the burning.”
There were three large bread ovens built into the wall at the back of the kitchen.
The center oven was aglow, its brick floor carpeted with coal.
A sweaty-faced Maude stood beside it, squinting at the embers.
The oven must have reached temperature, because she briskly swept the coals and ash into a nearby trough, leaving the floor bare.
She then grabbed a wooden paddle and hurried to the table where Anya was working.
There were two other balls of dough there, which Maude quickly transferred to the oven floor.
With those situated, Maude raised her eyebrows at Anya and pointed to the remaining dough.
Anya smiled.
A precious pain filled my chest, like I’d swallowed a beautiful glass bauble that had shattered inside me.
Anya had the best grin in the world, dimpled and sudden, and I hadn’t seen it in so long.
She used her fingers to draw two furrows on top of the dough, then brushed her hands off and gestured for Maude to move it to the oven, too.
Then Anya saw me, and the smile slipped.
“Hello,” I said, trying to pretend that change in expression hadn’t hurt worse than seeing her smile to begin with. “What are you doing?”
Triana stood over a scarred preparation table, stirring a bowl with a wooden spoon. Unlike Anya, her expression grew warmer at the sight of me. “Use your eyes,” she signed.