Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
After the maids bring me a small cup of water to drink, the head housekeeper, with a tight hair bun and sharp eyebrows, orders them not to talk to me as they work.
They drag a circular wooden tub, barely big enough for me to sit in, into the room.
Trying not to give them the satisfaction of my complaints, I lower myself into the icy bath, scrunching my knees together as stiff-bristled brushes and harsh lye soap are used on every part of my body.
They attempt to take control of my hair. The greasy concoction they pour onto my scalp and massage in smells like lard. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as they cajole me into removing the circlet once it loosens, and when some still-stubborn tangles are ripped through, I free the circlet.
The housekeeper pushes forward a black velvet pillow for me to place it on, and I do so without being told twice. If I felt bad before, I now feel as though I’m a beaten animal. Every limb. Every inch of my skin screams in protest without the healing properties of the Alexra.
I shriek as another bucket of water goes over my head.
The housekeeper snaps her fingers and motions for me to stand.
Someone must have opened the little window to let out the remainder of the smoke, because a strong draft whistles around my wet body as I rise.
They drape me in a coarse bolt of linen, the fabric scratching my skin.
Footsteps sound outside the door, and the housekeeper and maids exchange worried glances.
The man with silver eyes enters as the servants file past—the man I’m now painfully aware is the Witch-King of Ashland. One of them blushes as she slides by, but he doesn’t notice as his focus is fixed solely on me.
I wrap the rough fabric tighter.
“Surrender the circlet of your own volition,” he demands, his dark hair blowing in the draft.
I tilt my head toward the pillow on the mantel. “It’s right there. Take it if you want it so badly.” My soaking-wet curls whip against my neck, beads of moisture rolling down my cleavage.
“No,” he counters. “You must place it in my hand yourself. There is no other way.”
Keeping a firm grip on my cover, I shimmy over to the circlet and pick it up. It sends warmth up my arm, and I yearn to place it back on my head. The whispers plead, but I ignore them, pushing their influence away.
I turn and step slowly toward him, willing my limbs to move. Surrendering the only thing that makes the noise in my head manageable feels wrong. My foot catches on something. The fabric slips from where it’s tucked under my arms, revealing the far sides of my curved breasts.
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
Heat flushes my face. I stretch my arm, and he meets mine with his open hand. With a shuddering breath, I place the circlet in his palm. Each of us holds one end, and then something like a lightning bolt shoots through me.
My eyes snap to his hateful stare, and I let go. My body crumples onto the half-charred mattress as sobs rack my chest, and I long for the addictive nature of the circlet’s power.
I can feel him watching me—judging me. But when I raise my head again, he’s gone.
The pressure of grief only builds.
Tears fall until all sunlight vanishes, and the room grows quiet.
I lie there until I lose track of time. My fingers graze the leather diary hidden under the mattress until I decide to pull it out.
Stifling my runny nose, I shuffle over to the window, where a full moon shines through the open crack.
I flip open the journal and examine its state.
Despite the pages being warped and wet in some spots, the ink is still visible.
Squinting, I struggle to decipher the words etched by Cliodna’s quill so long ago. While I know there’s little hope left for me, maybe there is some bit of information about the Kingdom of Ashland that I could use to my advantage with my remaining time.
Or perhaps I’m falling into madness, desperate to hold on to something they haven’t taken away.
Either way, I read:
80 days until my return.
Another summer—another Betrothal Ball held in my honor.
It’s to celebrate me, or so I’m told, but these Ashlanders only want an excuse to show off their decadent wealth. By this point, they’ve practically forged the castle with gold, and the city’s nobility is just as insufferable. Each year, when I arrive, there’s been some recent addition or upgrade.
This time, it’s the atrium, but I think this is the queen’s attempt to bring her son inside for his botany rather than let him roam the grounds daily.
Every plant imaginable grows within its glass walls.
I take full advantage by going in there with my books and finding a hidden corner where nobody can find me.
My mother would not be happy to know that I’m hiding. She is upset that Prince Aros and I haven’t shared a first kiss yet. She said that I should be fighting him off by the age of nineteen. But honestly? I think he goes out of his way to avoid me.
She urged me to inspire him to be bold, or all might become lost.
—Cliodna
The moon dips behind the clouds, extinguishing any light I previously held. I close the pages, wishing I could read more because delving into Cliodna’s mind is the only thing that makes me feel like I’m escaping this tower.
I dress in my now-dried shift and stays. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring, I want to prepare as much as possible. I slip the diary under the safety of my laces and hope it remains concealed. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I lie back on the disfigured mattress.
Inspire him to be bold, or all might become lost.
I sit up, my heart pounding.
* * *
A new morning. A new strategy.
It may be poorly thought out, but it’s all I have.
The Witch-King hates me.
Yet despite that, he’s still a man, and judging by how he looked at me—a hungry man. Surely some flexibility could be found beneath his cold exterior.
Who am I kidding? This plan is utter lunacy, but I see no other way out.
The disgust in his eyes and the cruelty in his threats ring fresh in my mind, but if I remain locked in this tower, I’ll be as good as dead. Seducing him and then finding a way to flee may be my only chance, however twisted it feels even to contemplate it.
I mutely stare at the white tree in the stained-glass window and remember all the times I seduced members of the nobility at Balor’s insistence. My gut churns so severely that I nearly run to the broken chamber pot.
I could do this again, couldn’t I?
But wasn’t I done with that chapter of my life, as I always wanted to be? There must be another way, another choice.
None comes to me.
As I sit with my thoughts, something occurs to me. I wouldn’t be doing this for Balor; I’d be doing it for myself.
The Witch-King will probably be cruel, just as Balor proved to be, but I won’t be afraid. Not when Balor trained me to deal with men like him. My stomach aches horribly. I don’t know if it’s from the growing panic or my hunger. Idly, I make ripples in the forgotten bathwater and wait. And wait.
And wait.
The door opens, and a maid comes in carrying a tray with hot porridge, the crusty heel from a loaf of rye bread, and a water pitcher. She leaves it on the tiny table without saying a word and exits just as quickly.
I race to the food and begin to devour it. There’s no spoon, so I tilt the bowl to my lips. Porridge dribbles from the corners of my mouth.
“Are those the sort of manners they abide by in Alexandria?”
My head whips upward. The Witch-King leans against the door frame with crossed arms and a disapproving expression.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “They’re the sort of manners your hospitality inspires.”
“Queens who sponsor wars against my people don’t get hospitality. They get what they’re due.”
“I’ve had very little to do with this war.” I try to explain.
He scoffs. “The ink from your pen is barely dry, yet you try to lie to me? Even if I were a fool and believed you, you’d still be the company you keep, and I’m not interested in hearing a cockroach plead its innocence.”
“I’m not a cockroach,” I whisper, more to myself than to him, my plan crumbling at my feet. “What do you want?”
The Witch-King hesitates. “I, on the other hand, wasn’t lying to you last night.” He stares at me briefly. “I’ve come to collect.”