Chapter 4 #3
There’s reverence in her words, and I am unable to decide if this is a good or bad thing.
Drosera and Atlas pull me through the darkness to the “visitors’ quarters” like a prisoner being led to their cell.
The dryad to my right has been exceptionally quiet, unlike the one to my left.
If my very life didn’t hinge on the Myrtle Queen’s decision, I would have already punched this one in the face.
The way her nails cut into my arm tells me the dislike is more than mutual.
I jerk my arms out of their grips. “I can walk perfectly fine on my own, thanks.”
The one on the right seems taken aback. The one on the left flashes her teeth, snatching my arm back and nodding for the other dryad to do the same. “Visitors don’t walk freely here, axeling. For their safety.”
My blood simmers. “What the fuck is an axeling?” I ask finally. A question I’ve had since I first heard the word sixteen years ago.
The dryad actually laughs. “Mortal brains are quite small, aren’t they? I’ll simplify it for you. A duckling is a baby duck, yes? And a fledgling is a baby bird. If this is true, then an axeling—”
“—is a baby axe. Brilliant logic.”
“So close. An axeling is the child of an axe wielder. But axe-wielder-ling doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it?”
Child of an axe wielder. I suppose it makes sense that the prejudice between us would swing both ways.
Unfortunately for these dryads, I cannot muster the energy to care about what makes sense for them.
“Guess I should call you daggerlings, then.” The children of the murderous dryads who drove their wooden blades into my parents.
Amanita implied it was not Myrtlewood dryads but Redwood who committed that crime, but before I can weigh the thought that maybe not all dryads want to kill mortals, the one to my left says, “I would have far more nicknames to choose from if you’re trying to name us after our weapons of choice.”
And just like that I’m back to hating them all equally.
As we walk, all I can glean in the darkness is that the one on the left has tan skin and dark hair in a braided mohawk between a pair of ebony antlers.
The dryad on the right is pale with hair so blond it’s nearly translucent.
It’s been ratted and pulled up into a wild ponytail flanked by white, two-pronged antlers.
Both wear leather armor strung with weapons.
I’m desperate to know what my dad asked the queen for. The idea of it still feels like a fictional story.
My father, who made a deal with the Myrtle Queen.
My father the liar.
My father the murderer.
But it also feels like a crucial piece to a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for years and years.
How he knew so much about dryads. Why he didn’t trust them.
Why he didn’t want me to trust them. The first thread of resentment toward my dad weaves through the cords of my heart.
Maybe he didn’t think a young child was ready to know the truth. Maybe he thought he’d have time.
My resentful heart clenches.
We make it to a row of chambers with a trio of torches hanging from strings of bones like grotesque Christmas lights. It makes me think of Javen, of the apartment I left behind. They feel like a million miles away.
The ruder of the two dryads guides me to the leftmost stone door in a row of dozens. “Open the door, Atlas,” the dark-haired one says. “I’ll hold her.”
Guess that’s Drosera, then. Cute name.
“So, these are your ‘guest rooms,’ huh?” I ask, pretending I’m not bothered that I seem a lot more like their prisoner.
The blonde—Atlas—lets go of my wrist, and Drosera grabs it, pulling my arm back to keep me from attempting to escape. Like I would be senseless enough to try. Atlas pulls out a white key that looks unnervingly like bone. Surely not human bone?
Bones as vessels for enchantments, one of my dad’s notes said.
Drosera guides me over the threshold, releasing my hands once we’re inside and Atlas is blocking the way out.
It’s quaint but admittedly lovely. A bed covered in woolen blankets and white animal furs is nestled into a small alcove.
More pillar candles stand in clusters, and there’s a shallow basin filled by a natural waterfall behind a partition of agate stone.
So, yeah, basically I’m Christine Daaé during the “Music of the Night” scene, minus the sexy, brooding, admittedly toxic Phantom.
Much less interesting, if I’m being honest.
“Enjoy your stay in the Myrtlewood, axeling,” Drosera says in a sinister mockery of a hotel room attendant. She makes to step out of the doorway, and I whirl around.
“Wait—how long will I be in here?”
“As long as the Myrtle Queen wants you to be.”
“Wait.”
Drosera pauses in the doorway, turning dark yellow eyes on me.
“I need my supplies—my insulin and needles. Please,” I add with a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Nice try.” She starts to pull the door closed behind her.
“I’m not trying anything,” I say quickly. “I could die in here without my—”
The door bangs shut, echoing with callous finality as the lock slides home.