33. Adelina #2
When she is gone, the room grows too quiet.
I open my satchel and take out Freya’s shawl first, then my sketchbook, then the little stuffed unicorn, which I place on the bed and immediately feel foolish for needing it.
I take out the portrait of my parents last, holding it close to the firelight.
My mother’s painted face looks softer here.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the portrait until the fire blurs.
For the first time since leaving Dravaryn, I’m in a room no one has locked. That should feel like freedom. Instead, I keep looking at the door and realize that it might as well be locked as I was commanded to remain here.
A knock comes sometime later. I jolt so hard the portrait nearly slips from my hands.
“Princess?” Sylas’s voice. “It’s only me. May I speak with you?”
I freeze. It takes me a minute to compose myself. “I’m dressed,” I say, because that is the first safe answer I can think of.
A pause. Then, “That is good to know, but not quite what I asked.”
Heat touches my face. “I’m sorry.”
“You do not have to apologize. May I come in?”
My fingers curl around the portrait. I don’t want anyone in here. I also can’t refuse. “Yes.”
The door opens slowly, and Sylas steps inside carrying a covered tray. He leaves the door open behind him. He sets the tray on the small table by the fireplace and keeps his movements easy, visible, unhurried.
“I brought tea,” he says. “And honey cakes. They are essential to recovering from travel.”
I remain mute, unsure how to respond to this kindness. Is it a trap?
He notices the portrait in my hands. “Your parents?”
I look down at it. “Yes.”
“They look kind.”
“They were,” I whisper.
He does not ask more. Instead, he uncovers the tray and pours tea into a cup. “Kaedryn is occupied with reports.”
“I did not ask.”
“I know.” He hands me the cup, then sits in the chair farthest from the bed. “But I thought you might wonder.”
Wondering is for people who believe answers change things.
I take a slow sip of tea. It is sweetened with honey and something floral.
Sylas watches the fire rather than me. “He’s not angry at you.”
The cup stills halfway to my lap. “He seemed angry at me.”
“Yes.” Sylas grimaces. “That’s, unfortunately, because he is a complete idiot when frightened.”
Frightened does not fit Kaedryn. It’s too soft for him.
“He was not frightened,” I say.
Sylas looks at me then. “He was terrified.”
I shake my head once, before I can stop myself. “I failed, and he was angry with me.”
At that, his expression changes. “You don’t believe that, do you?”
I look into the tea. “Men like him do not fear for women like me.”
“Men like him fear very little except losing control or losing someone they care for.” Sylas leans back. “And you have wrecked his control in a rather spectacular fashion.”
“I did not mean to.”
“I know.”
“Does he?”
Sylas does not answer quickly enough. That is answer enough.
He sighs and rubs a hand over his jaw. “He is trying to make sense of too many things at once. The treaty. Varek. The Varrow attack. The men who died. You nearly dying in his arms. The fact that you knelt because he raised his voice.” His mouth thins. “He handled it badly.”
I wrap both hands around the cup. “If I didn’t anger him and that is how he handles fear, what will he do when I truly anger him?”
Sylas goes still.
I have said too much. My skin prickles. “I should not have said that. I’m sorry.”
“No.” His voice is quieter now. “I’m glad you did.”
I look toward the open door.
Sylas sets his cup down. “Adelina, he will not strike you.”
My throat closes. I look at the portrait because it is safer than his face. “My brother did not strike me at first.”
The room changes. I feel it instantly. Sylas does not move, but something in him goes very still, the stillness of a warrior before violence. His voice, when it comes, is careful enough to frighten me. “What did he do at first?”
I should not have said it. I should not have said any of it. My pulse climbs too quickly. “Nothing. I only meant…” The cup trembles in my hands.
Sylas rises slowly, and I tense before I can stop it.
He stops at once. “I’m leaving,” he says. “I think I have made you uncomfortable.”
I cannot answer.
He looks toward the tray. “Eat the honey cake if you can. The cook will be unbearable if you don’t.”
He turns at the door, one hand resting lightly on the frame. “And for what it is worth, Kaedryn is an ass, but he is not cruel. He does not want another cage for you.”
I want to believe him. That is the worst part.
Wanting belief feels like standing too close to a fire with frostbitten hands. It may warm me, or it may hurt worse than the cold.
Sylas leaves the door half-open, then seems to remember privacy and closes it softly.
The room is quiet again. I set the tea down before I spill it.
His words linger.
“He does not want another cage for you.”
But then I remember the estate hall.
You will remain in your rooms unless accompanied.
I remember the carriage.
“Perhaps we will keep to formalities in this relationship.”
I remember the dining cabin.
“You do not get to freeze and make others pay for it.”
Maybe Sylas is right. Maybe Kaedryn does not mean to be cruel. Maybe he is only a prince, and princes build cages by instinct because they have always been told that walls are protection when they are the ones holding the key.
A soft sound escapes me, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. I take Freya’s shawl and wrap it around my shoulders, then move to the balcony doors.
I stand behind the glass and look down at the gardens below.
They are beautiful even in the dark. Pathways curve through low hedges and flowering trees.
Lanterns glow beside a fountain. Beyond the garden wall, the lake reflects broken pieces of moonlight, and the mountains rise dark and green against the stars.
There is so much space here. So much beauty. So many doors I don’t know if I may open.
I press my fingers lightly to the glass. How am I supposed to survive another cage if this one is lovely enough to make people call it kindness?
Behind me, the fire pops softly. The honey cakes cool on the tray. My satchel rests on the bed with the last pieces of my old life tucked beside it.
I close my eyes and breathe through the ache in my ribs, through the fear in my chest, through the dangerous little hope that keeps trying to lift its head no matter how many times the world teaches it to stay down.
Tomorrow, I will reach the castle.
Tomorrow, I will meet the southern king and queen.
Tomorrow, the court will look at me and see whatever Varek wanted them to see.
Tonight, I stand in a beautiful room in a beautiful estate, wrapped in Freya’s shawl, and try to remember that a door left unlocked is not the same as freedom.