Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison

Chapter Twelve

The only sounds in the room are the crackling of the flames in the hearth and the gentle snores of the cat, or whatever the creature is. It’s nearly enough to lull me to sleep. I take comfort in the melody of the two until the door opens and Einar’s heavy footsteps remind me of my purpose here.

I hastily plop the chalyx back into its box before they open the door. Taking a deep breath, I turn and see that Sigrid has followed him, pushing him toward me like he’s a child being rebuked.

“Good afternoon, Mistress. I will start bath.” She immediately sets to work in the small room off to the side of this one.

I had glanced briefly at the fixtures this morning before I got dressed, relieved to see pipes and faucets. Plumbing is something we had gotten only a few years ago in the château, but it looked like theirs had been installed for a while.

For being so closed off from the rest of the world, they seemed to be advancing well enough on their own.

The king lowers himself onto a small sofa, one that looks like children’s furniture once his massive frame covers it.

Still, I ignore his presence and that of the gift he gave me, the latter of which is scratching at some cedar shavings in the box she slept in. Sigrid shuffles around in the privy, and I wonder if she is taking longer than she needs to on purpose, to force us to communicate.

If so, it’s a wasted effort. There is nothing I especially want to say to him right now.

Actually, there is one thing.

"Why is it so quiet here?"

He shoots me a pointed glance over the book he has brought with him, indicating that I have clearly interrupted his reading.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." If he is trying to irritate me with his answer, he has succeeded.

The image of him doing something so...normal is so at odds with his appearance. His hair is still braided to the sides of his head, but, this morning, the long mass is pulled up into a knot. The sleeves of his tunic hug his biceps as he turns another page of the book that looks terribly small in his hands.

I add it to the list of contradictions about him.

"Is hiding their faces not enough for you? You’d prefer no one in the castle speaks, either?" I am genuinely curious about this, but I am also happy to return his ire in spades.

"Did I imagine Sigrid's greeting just now, then?" he growls over the book but doesn’t look up at me.

I'm sure he is only pretending to misunderstand what I am implying. I feel my temper rising again.

"Fine. I suppose it's hardly my business if everyone in this castle is miserable."

He shuts his book, placing it forcefully on the table before he matches my furious gaze with one of his own.

"Have you considered that the only miserable person in this castle is you, and if its inhabitants seem so in your eyes, then perhaps it is only because you managed to siphon the joy out of every room you walk into?"

My jaw drops open at his audacity.

“If I manage to siphon the joy out of any room, it’s only because you’re following me into it with your revolving carousel of moods. You would think sixty-five years would have given you time to sort out your emotions, but please, tell me, how are you feeling now, Einar?” I hold up my fingers as I count off his various unpleasant dispositions. “Is it to be hostile Einar? Self-centered bastard Einar? Or my personal favorite, downright unlikable beast?”

I am practically shouting on the last word, and the feeling is so foreign to me that it stills my tongue.

Einar opens his mouth, but his response is cut off when Sigrid practically comes running into the room, confirming my assumption that she was less preparing than she was giving us space...space she clearly no longer thinks we will benefit from.

“Sorry I not have this ready early, Mistress,” Sigrid says in a forcefully cheerful tone. She gestures for me to come over. “I was want for you have surprise kitten.”

I try to let myself be soothed by her matronly mannerisms and the cheerful way she speaks the common tongue. “That’s all right, Sigrid. I --”

My words are cut short by the large bath that is filled almost to the top. I am already frazzled, and the still water mocks me. The deep tub was clearly built to accommodate the average Jokithan.

But for me...

I place a hand to my throat, swallowing hard, fighting back the images that come unbidden.

Disobedient soldiers, spies, and anyone who was disloyal… I see their wild eyes and hear their pleas as they are locked in a cage and lowered into the raging seas.

Shipwrecked trespassers who have nowhere else to turn are forced to swim to the continent.

None of them make it. Even if they can swim, their bodies are dragged down to a watery grave by Sharks, or, even worse, the Mayima, the cursed sirens off the coast of Delphine.

A single mother — starving, begging, desperate — walks her crying babe into the Cerulean Sea and allows the waters to take them. Any fate is better than watching your child waste away, slowly and painfully.

A bubble rises from the drain breaking at the surface of the bath, but all I hear is the gurgling, final breaths of each of them, the sounds of death and drowning. My mind spins as each of these gruesome scenes play on repeat for me until I can’t take it anymore.

“Remove half of this at once,” I croak out, not caring for a moment how rude I sound.

Sigrid freezes, her head tilting to the side.

“Pardon, Mistress?”

I try to collect myself, to come up with a reason that makes sense, but it’s all I can do to speak in a halfway reasonable tone.

“Remove at least half of the bath water,” I repeat. “Please,” I tack on belatedly.

Sigrid tsks and mumbles under her breath in Jokithan but does what I ask before leaving the small room. She’s probably gone to complain to Einar about my manners.

Not that he would have room to judge.

I rub my temple again, close the door behind me, and lean into the dark spruce frame.

I’ve never been so far from my sisters, and I can’t help but wish they were here to help me figure this whole mess out.

I undress and climb into the tub of steaming water, bracing myself. Most people find baths relaxing, but they are nothing short of torture for me.

Sigrid comes back in as I’m methodically washing each inch of my skin. She doesn’t even hesitate before kneeling down on creaky joints to start in on my hair.

“Thank you,” I say after a moment.

She nods, and the veil moves with her forced breath. But whatever words she is about to speak are cut off when I get to my stomach.

I immediately regret not sending her away. The water has washed away the balm that concealed the carefully hidden row of scars along my abdomen. Madame could have made them disappear with one of her concoctions, but she insisted they were a healthy reminder for me.

I forget about them most of the time. It’s easy enough when I refuse to look at them, but here they are now — white, stark slashes against my tawny skin.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the hideous sight of them and the visceral memories of the man who gave them to me. They are a harrowing remembrance of the night my innocence was stolen. With one quick glimpse of them, I can practically smell the peppermint leaves on his breath all over again, and I want to be sick.

Shivering, I swallow hard, and belatedly attempt to cover them with the small washcloth in my hands.

The servants in Villa Paradís were accustomed to seeing much worse than a handful of healed wounds here and there, but that isn’t how I want to be seen here.

Sigrid’s hands still, but she says nothing. When she eventually starts applying the oils to my hair again, her touch is softer. Maternal.

And I’m not sure how to interpret it.

When she finally finds her voice, it’s not to ask about the scars, as I expected. She says something else entirely.

“You are so beautiful. But you have too many...thorns.” She pauses, and I wonder for a moment if she’s referring to the obvious physical flaws she has just borne witness to, until she speaks again. “You prick at his Majesty...use sharp where soft would work. You do with everyone, I believe.”

I know I’ve been rude, harsh even, but her mild scolding is an unwelcome reminder of how differently things have gone than I wanted them to. Even if the overgrown toddler that serves as Jokith’s king is largely to blame. Still...

“Sometimes thorns are useful,” I add after a moment. “Sometimes they’re even a protection.”

“This is true.” Sigrid sighs. “And it is difficult to be in new home, be with new people so far from the ones who belong you.” Her voice trails off, and I hear the sadness etched into each word. The empathy. “But you will never have happy here if not you try.”

Truer words...

She pats my shoulder and goes back to rinsing my hair without waiting for a response. The rest of our time passes in a silence that leaves too much room for the thoughts and memories that haunt me.