Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I tell myself that over and over when my thoughts stray to Kathras.
Twice now, he has protected me. I want to deny it, to reason that the minotaur posed as much a threat to him as to me. That Kathras killed the architect to hide his own secrets.
That doesn’t explain the cephalopire.
A knock at the door startles me. I’ve been staring at the same page of Parphia’s journal for so long that I don’t remember what I was reading. The sylphs don’t knock, and Arcus would have simply appeared. I approach with caution.
“Your Majesty.” Firo bows at the waist when I open the door.
I almost catch him up in a hug, I’m so relieved to see a friendly face.
The room beyond my door is small, decorated all in frothy pinks, with satin wall coverings and delicate furniture. Gilded ornamentation sparkles from the legs of the chairs to the medallions at the corners of the ceiling. Even the hearth is gold.
“What is this place?” I ask, stepping out of my bedroom.
“The queen’s formal salon, Your Majesty,” Firo says looking around. “You haven’t yet been introduced to it?”
“I haven’t been crowned yet.” If Arcus finds out what Kathras has done and why, I may not have a head to wear a crown. “And you are aware that I am in a delicate position.”
“Indeed, I am.” He rolls his wrist, and a glass pot of amber liquid appears atop his palm. “This might bring you some cheer.”
“What is it?” I take the jar and turn it over in my hands. A bejeweled serpent coils on the lid. The substance inside is thick, like—
“Honey,” he says. “The king’s favorite. Rumor has it that he is in a foul mood. Perhaps this will sweeten his disposition.”
“How thoughtful.” Though, I have no doubt that the only thing the king will enjoy is torturing me. I wonder what it will be this time. An ogre in chains? A tree beast? One of the statues from the library?
I think Arcus would allow a troll to rip me apart for his own amusement if the notion took him.
“Perhaps permanently,” Firo adds in a near whisper.
My gaze whips to his and he holds it, silently willing me to understand.
I do. And rage fills me from my stomach outward, sending a dizzying rush to my head. “You mistake me. I am no longer a part of that plan.”
“That isn’t why I offer it.” He searches my face. “You need this, Cenere. You won’t last long here with his temper.”
I turn the jar over in my hands. “I thank you for the gift. Whom shall I say it is from?”
“You won’t be called upon to divulge that,” he promises. “Just a small taste, and you’ll both be at ease.”
“I’m so careful about what I eat here,” I say, my tone heavy with double meaning. “I don’t wish to consume anything that would disagree with me.”
Firo clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. It won’t harm you at all.”
It won’t harm me, but it will harm Arcus.
I fold my hands over the jar, which has become my savior. “I am grateful to you. For such a kind, thoughtful gift in my beloved king’s time of sorrow.”
“I thought you would be.” Firo again bows to me. “I will leave you to your mourning.”
He vanishes, and I head back into my room, gripping the jar tightly. I need to hide it. If I’m caught in position of a poison that will only work against faeries, it will all but seal my guilt in the deaths of both the architect and the cephalopire.
The sooner it is out of my hands, the better.
Which means that I must act immediately.
* * * *
I do not await Arcus’s invitation. Judging by Parphia’s journal, it may be weeks or months before his bad mood passes and I am called to him. I can’t hold onto such an incriminating object for that long. So, I bathe and perfume myself, bedeck myself in gold jewelry with amber stones to match my weapon, and go to him otherwise nude. My door helpfully opens directly into his bedchamber.
I spy him sitting in a chair before the hearth, staring into the flames. His back is to me. I see only his chestnut curls, lined with gold from the firelight, and his hand draped morosely over the arm of the chair.
“I wish to be alone, Cenere,” he says, without sparing me a glance.
“As I expected. But your sorrow is so heavy. I felt your very spirit crying out to me, urging me to come to you. To comfort you.” I move slowly to stand beside him, placing the honey carefully on the table. “To distract you.”
With a long, slow exhale, he leans his head against my chest, that limp arm rising to rest across the small of my back as he pulls me closer. “You are a dear human, my love, and well-meaning, but naive. I am your king, and I will have your obedience.”