Chapter 6
Month One
I am in a gilded cage, beautiful and stifling.
The bedchamber the guards led me to is larger than my entire house. The floor is decked with thick, plush carpet I sink into as soon as I am thrown inside. I stumble over the soft flooring before collecting myself and rounding on the guards. They close the door quickly behind them, leaving me to thump my fists uselessly against the wood.
In my house, I regularly had to fix the door as it fell apart each time it rained. But here, the door is so strong it is as though I am pounding against rock.
“Let me go!” I yell. The door absorbs the sound of my fists, rendering my attempts impotent. I resist the rising panic in my chest and flood it with all my fury instead.
I spin around, scanning the room. An imposing four-poster bed stands against one wall, as ornate and golden as the rest of the castle. There are several clothes drawers tucked into the far corner and a vanity table overloaded with perfumes and make-up. Bile rises in the back of my throat as I think of all the dead women who likely sat there, trying their best to claim the prince’s heart. And I am next. I am a Never Queen.
No.
I press my fists into my eyes until I see stars. There will be something in here which can help me. There must be.
There is a door on the right-hand wall. Breathless, I scamper over to it and twist the handle. As I swing through, I see an oversized clawfoot bathtub standing innocently in the middle of the tiled room. The walls are lined with various colourful bottles and interspersed with sponges. A washroom, nothing more. Squeezing my teeth together, I slam the door shut and review the rest of the bedchambers.
A large window spans the adjacent wall. Heavy curtains are drawn across it, dimming the room. I swipe them to the side and peer through the glass. From where my bedchamber is, the window is directly adjacent to where the canopy of trees hangs over one side of the castle. It has pushed through the brick over time, worming its way through until the branches hang several feet away from the castle walls. I start thinking of ways I can grab onto the branch from my window, but when I press my forehead against the glass, I can see the sheer drop from my chambers to the grounds below. I slam my palm against the frame in frustration.
“Miss Shivani?” a small, polite voice interrupts me.
I whirl around to a group of handmaids hovering in the open doorway. My eyes dart between them, calculating my chances of barging through. The glint of steel further into the corridor changes my mind—there will be guards waiting to skewer me as soon as I try to escape.
“My apologies, miss, we are here by order of the king,” the handmaid in front tells me with a soft smile and a small curtsy. “You are due for your first meeting with the prince tonight and we are to help you.”
Her eyes flicker to the vanity table. They start to step inside but I pick up a handheld looking glass and smash it against the bedframe. It explodes into a thousand shards as the handmaids shriek. I scoop up one and hold it in front of me like a knife.
“No one touch me!” I growl.
They flee. All but one. She hovers at the doorway, a notch between her brows.
“You are bleeding, miss,” she says.
I glance down at my hand. Dark crimson drips like syrup from my palm .
“That is not your concern.” I wave my shard of glass at her. “Get away from me. You will not take me anywhere.”
She looks at me with round eyes but makes no movement. Behind her, a guard appears, scowling.
“Is she causing trouble?” he grumbles.
“No!” The handmaid shakes her head firmly. “She is cooperating.”
I bristle.
“I am not —”
“You may go.” She ignores me and continues speaking to the guard. “She will be presentable for the prince. I assure you.”
I am ready to smash something else in this room but the handmaid’s eyes scream at me. She gives the tiniest, imperceptible shake of her head. I drop the glass shard.
“I am cooperating ,” I bite out.
The guard gives me a disdainful look but turns away. To my dismay, I realise he is guarding my room. The handmaid signals for the rest of the maids to come back and closes the door behind them. My shoulders sag as my chances for escape within the next few hours quickly dwindle into nothing.
???
My evening is spent with the handmaids as they clean, scrub and lather sweet-smelling cream on me. I fight the urge to cover myself in front of them, unused to being bathed by anyone except myself. My hair, which had been damp and ratty from my fight with the guards, is thoroughly washed until it gleams. Rough sponges are used to remove the grime and sweat from my skin. I sit and seethe through it all.
As I sit at the vanity table, I keep my eyes averted from my reflection. I do not want to think of myself in the same position as the Never Queens before me. Instead, my eyes constantly move around the room to see if there is anything I can use later.
“It is no use being so tense,” one of the handmaids tells me while scrubbing the dirt from under my nails.
“I am quite unsure how else I should feel when I have been sentenced to death,” I snap, but she does not blink at my tone.
“You may break the curse yet, miss,” she replies, putting my hands down once she is satisfied my fingernails are clean.
“If you believe anyone can break the curse, you are a fool.” I snatch my hand back and fold my arms. The handmaid smiles sadly.
“Perhaps,” she says eventually, her voice even. She moves to stand behind me and begins to gently rub scented oil through my dark hair. The adrenaline and anger from earlier putter out, slowly replaced with exhaustion. There is something soothing about the handmaid's voice and slow, methodical movements. I fight hard not to relax into her hands.
“What is your name?” I ask. Partly to gather information and partly to keep myself alert.
“Inez, miss.”
I glance at her in the mirror of the vanity table. She is older, with fine lines around her mouth and the beginnings of grey streaked through her copper hair. When she smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkle. Her fingers massage my scalp, and I lean into it despite myself.
“How long have you worked here?” I probe.
“All my life, miss. My mother worked here and when I was born, the work was passed to me.”
I sit in silent horror at this but Inez speaks so casually, I am lost for words. The king’s reputation for cruelty is known throughout the country, but to keep people locked up in his castle through generations of families…No one in Mossgarde knows what happens in the castle. No one but me knows there are people trapped in here. I suppress a shiver.
Inez and the other handmaids work my hair into a thick braid and drape it over my shoulder. Jewelled pins are pressed into the grooves of my braid, sparkling against my obsidian hair. They paint gold powder across my eyelids and lips, stark against my dark skin .
Like everything else here, they have made me so beautiful it turns my stomach.
They dress me in a long gown with soft shoes on my feet—shoes I cannot easily run in, I note. A sheer shawl is draped over my shoulders, and several bangles line my wrists. They remind me of the shackles the guards put on me.
The gown is unusual. Long sleeves, a low neckline and a corseted middle, tight and stifling. Mossgarde royal fashion dictates thin fabrics, draped and layered delicately to remain as breathable as possible in the stuffy air. This dress, however, is not so concerned with practicality and instead serves only to emphasise my curves. It is entirely unwelcome.
Inez looks at me with something like pride when they deem me ready.
“You are a pretty sight, miss,” she says. Her accent is strange, so like a Mossgardian but not quite. “The guards will collect you when it is time for dinner.”
With another polite curtsy, Inez and the rest of the maids exit the bedchamber, and I am left alone.
I tug at my gown and squirm at the uncomfortable way it pinches at my arms and waist. My irritation rises but not quite enough to overpower my weariness. I have not even eaten today. I sit on the large bed, breathing in deeply to hold the tears at bay.
I am a snow hare, trapped and helpless, at the mercy of her hunters.
Closing my eyes, my ophid thrums, desperate to be released. The rest of my back aches, compensating for the tightness of the muscle. I reach up to stretch it.
Myophidis less sluggish now. More alive. Hopeful, I reach out to myau’mana. It hums to me, hovering just past where I can go. I raise my hands in front of me and try to conjure the swirling purple smoke.
Nothing appears.
“Argh!” I yell, my eyes snapping open in frustration.
I have no magic, no allies, no help. Aunt Meena is likely sitting alone in the library, wondering why I have not returned from my walk with Eoin.
The image of her waiting for me to arrive, only for me to never show up again, is enough to make me scream. I imagine my head on the chopping block. I imagine Aunt Meena’s heart snapping in half.
I fall to my knees and unleash the rage built up inside me, curling my fingers into fists and throwing back my head to shriek. My father has stolen my future from me. He has stolen everything. I fall to the side and curl into a ball, thinking of all I could have been. The things I will never see and the people I will never meet.
I lie on the thick carpet, my ophid crippled and everything I have worked for snatched away. I wait for the tears to come.
And then I see it.
A scratch on the foot of the bed, too small to see from standing. Eyebrows furrowed, I wriggle closer to read it.
Morraine.
My eyes widen. The name is a shard of ice in my heart, sharp and cold. It is a flash of red hair and chestnut brown eyes, a tired smile and a loud laugh.
I knew her.
Past tense.
By the time the guards arrive to bring me to dinner, my nerves have hardened, and my mind is set. They will not break me.
I will break them.