Chapter 22 Zara
Chapter twenty-two
Zara
The stars painted on my ceiling dance and spin wildly above me as my eyes flutter open.
I squeeze them shut again, forcing away the dizziness.
I’m drenched in a cold sweat and my stomach aches.
I feel like I drank too much the night before, but I don’t remember going out.
I don’t remember much of anything from yesterday.
Only that I retired to my rooms early. Because I was exhausted and needed rest.
Perhaps I’m getting sick. Or the stress of leaving my home is finally getting to me. I slowly sit up in bed, burying my face in my hands when sunlight attacks me through the windows as the thick velvet curtains are pulled open.
“Stop.” I mumble into my palms.
“Good evening, Your Highness! The queen has sent me to see that you are dressed and ready for dinner.” One of the house servants is in the corner of my bedroom, fluffing the throw pillows on the sofa.
Dinner? “But it’s only morning—"
“It’s nearly seven in the evening, Your Grace.
” She continues to fluff pillows and busy herself around the rooms, patiently waiting for me to either ask her to help me dress or dismiss her.
“You’ve been resting for nearly five hours now.
The other servants and I have been terribly worried that you’re ill, but I suppose with everything that happened to you and the Lady Emlyn… ”
“What are you talking about?” I wipe my eyes. She’s not making any sense.
Her brow crinkles. “The attack in the Woodlands.” She’s looking at me as though I’ve just transformed into a purple one-eyed monster. Her brow arches and she cocks her head, “Are you feeling okay, Your Grace?”
Attack. Emlyn. One by one at first, then all at once, memories of the day flood my brain.
I remember the woods, Emlyn getting injured, arguing with my father, going out to the stables.
Then…nothing. It’s a strange feeling, as if a chunk of my day is missing.
Maybe that was when I came back here to rest. Why was I even in the stables? Did I go for a ride?
I toss the covers off and look down at my clothes. I’m wearing the dress I wore that morning. My stomach drops at the sight of the dried blood staining the bodice.
I swallow hard against the nausea. Focus. The stables. I’m not wearing riding gear. So…why…? I massage my temples. My head is heavy and throbs along with my pulse. What the hell happened today?
The servant rushes to my side and places a hand on my shoulder. “Princess?”
“Fetch my father.” I brush off her hand and race to my closet.
“But I’m supposed to help you dress—” Her head bows and she clasps her small hands in front of her.
“Do not question my orders. Go and fetch my father.” I immediately regret my tone but glare at her sternly until she scurries from the room.
I quickly throw on a robe, unable to corset myself, and wait for the king to arrive.
I remember asking him to let me stay and fight with him but didn’t get a chance to beg him.
Not one-on-one anyway. Maybe if he hears how much this means to me, and after Emlyn—it’s my fault.
Everything. And I need to stay and fix it.
There’s a loud knock on my door and two guards enter and announce my father’s presence. I roll my eyes and perch on the window seat Emlyn usually occupies. My father walks in, concern etched into his face, and he dismisses the guards with a wave of his hand before sitting next to me.
“Are you okay? The house maid was in such a panic.” He studies me with the same eyes as my own.
He’s dressed in his finest golden overcoat draped with a royal white sash.
His long silver hair is tied neatly at the nape of his neck and his beard is impeccable, and I wonder what important royal task I’ve interrupted.
“I’m fine. I’m tired, but I’m okay.” I pull the robe tighter around me, blocking out the events of the day.
He searches my face, “Then what is it?”
“I don’t want to leave. It’s my fault that Emlyn is hurt, and no one seems to want to do anything about it except run away.” I hold his gaze, pleading. “Please. Please don’t make me leave.”
He shakes his head. “Zara, don’t start this again. It’s for your own safety.”
“I know. But I don’t want to go without Emlyn or Alix. Or you.”
He rests his forehead in his hand, exhaustion settling in over his features. I recognize the expression immediately, because I’m the one who usually causes him this much stress.
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Please, father. I just want to make it right. I’m so sorry for not following the rules.
Would it at least be possible to give me a couple of weeks before running away to Lanray?
For Emlyn to get well enough to come, and for Alix to train another guardsman to help the soldiers?
I don’t know what I’ll do if they aren’t with me. Especially since you aren’t coming.”
He sighs. “If anything were to happen to you in that time—I don’t know what I would do.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into a side hug. “What if I promise to never leave the grounds? I can practice fighting skills with Alix. Just allow me to stay for two weeks. That’s it. Then I’ll happily go with Prince Leer to Lanray.”
“Your stepmother will have my head.”
I cringe and give him another squeeze. “She’ll get over it. Please, father. Please let me stay for just two more weeks. Let me prove to you that I can learn to take care of myself. You’ll feel so much better knowing that I can protect myself, right?”
He regards me, considering my request. His face softens and I know he’s about to say yes. “Very well.”
I hug him harder. “Thank you!”
“But it’s only for two weeks, and not a minute more. And you can’t step one foot out of this court. Even with guards.”
“I swear.” I jump off the window ledge and beam at the king.
“And you will practice fighting each day with Alix.”
I nod, still smiling wide.
“And you will learn to shift with the squire from Lanray.”
My face falls. Great.
Before dinner that night, I stop by Emlyn’s rooms to check on her, poking my head into her bed chamber without knocking. She’s still in bed, but she’s awake and slowly turns her head toward me as I slip in through the door.
Thank the gods. “Hey,” I say, tears threatening to stream down my face. I perch next to her on the comforter and brush her hair from her forehead. She smiles weakly and closes her eyes.
“She should be able to get out of bed soon.”
I jolt at the soft voice behind me. Alfrie stands in the doorway.
He’s dressed as a courtier in navy pants, and a matching dinner jacket, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
A strand of blond hair betrays him, falling over his left eyebrow.
He’s in his human form again, and I swallow a pang of jealousy at his ability—and a slight hint of attraction.
He studies me with those verdant eyes for a brief moment, and his jaw works as if expecting me to say or ask something. When I don’t, he wanders to the other side of the room to refill the glass of water on Emlyn’s bedside table. “I won’t stay. I only came to check on her.”
“Me too. I won’t get in your way.” I stand and back toward the window, giving him plenty of space to work.
He dampens a cloth and attends to his patient, pressing the rag to Emlyn’s head with a surprising gentleness, then lifts her blankets to look at her wounds.
I watch him work in silence, feeling like I should be helping somehow.
He leans over Emlyn to change her dressing and a small white striation on his neck peeks out from beneath his shirt collar.
A distant memory of violence slams into me and my head pounds, heavy with something that feels a lot like shame. And horror. My eyes sting with an onslaught of tears, but I don’t know why. I furiously rub my face, hoping to force a clear thought back into my brain.
“Are you feeling okay?” Alfrie gives me a sideways glance from the bed.
“I—I don’t know. I sense I should be asking if you are okay…
” My voice trails and Alfrie's jaw tightens, but he quickly returns to his work. I reach out toward the scar peeking from his shirt and lightly skim my fingertips over his neck. “What happened?” He flinches under my touch, and I whip my hand back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” His brow furrows with intense concentration as he adjusts Emlyn's bandage. He doesn’t look my way again or answer my inquiry about his scar.
Something isn’t right. Did I see him earlier? Of course I did. He was here attending to Emlyn, and then in the throne room. Did I see him somewhere after? I bite the inside of my cheek. Why can’t I remember? “Alfrie?”
“Hmm?”
“Did I happen to see you this afternoon? After we spoke to my father in the throne room, I mean.”
He stiffens and his hand stills, hovering just above Emlyn’s dressing. His throat bobs and he continues cleaning. “Yes. Um, you were in the stables. Hell bent on running away, I assume.”
The stables. Running away. That sounds about right. “And you were there?”
Alfrie doesn’t tear his gaze away from Emlyn’s injury. “I saw you as you ran past. That’s all.”
“That’s all? Nothing else happened? Did we speak? In the stables? I feel like there’s more. Like I was upset about something other than the attack or leaving Masseda.”
“No, that was it. Nothing more.” He tucks Emlyn back under the blankets and removes the damp cloth before smoothing out the covers over her. His hands tremble, just barely, before he washes them in the basin then turns to leave after giving me a slight bow.
“You’re in your human form again.” I say to his back.
“You’re quite astute as always, Your Grace.”
I frown. I guess he’s in his jerk form again too. “I hear you’ll be teaching me how to wield shifting magic.”
He pivots to face me, and I’m awestruck as a flash of white light illuminates the room and in less than a second, he’s transformed back into Fae. Aside from his elongated ears, and slightly more chiseled jaw line, he looks exactly the same this way.
Heartbreakingly beautiful.
“Yes. I suppose we can begin when we return to Lanray.”
“I’m staying. We all are. Until Emlyn is better.”
His face falls but he quickly covers it up with a curt nod of his chin. “Then tomorrow. I’ll see you in the dining room, Your Highness.” He reaches for the long metal door handle.
“Alfrie?”
He sighs and grips the handle tighter but doesn’t turn to look at me, “What else can I assist you with, Princess?”
“I was just wondering. Why do you choose to change into a human? You said you have many forms, so why that one?”
His eyes soften with a gut-wrenching sadness for the briefest moment. “Humans have incredibly poor memories. Your Grace.” He glances over his shoulder, dipping his chin to me, then escapes from the room.