Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Fifteen
If I expected to wake up feeling rested or refreshed, I am, once again, disappointed. If anything, I feel worse than I did yesterday, my head pounding and my stomach roiling.
Worst of all, I feel weak.
I gather just enough strength to plop the chalyx unceremoniously onto the floor. If he did give her to me as a tool to use against me later, I don’t want to let on that it has been successful.
I’ve yet to see him be physically violent, but I’m not willing to risk Khijhana being hurt.
She’s still glaring at me grumpily when the king stomps his way into my room, as usual.
At least he doesn’t seem any moodier than he was yesterday. Last night’s excursion remains a secret, then.
Sigrid’s now-familiar knock sounds in time with Khijhana’s squeak of surprise as Einar scoops her into his lap. I barely resist the urge to narrow my eyes at him.
The tiniest arrogant tilt of his lips has me thinking he imagines he’s stirred up some jealousy within me, so I lay back down and resolutely ignore him.
I realize that my behavior isn’t mature or productive, and that I should be working to make things better between us, especially given my revelations about him last night. But it’s too early, and he’s too smug, sitting there with my cub and a cocky grin on his face, so I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He chuckles under his breath as I pretend not to care. And I don’t care. Not really. I don’t have time to dwell on it for long before Sigrid sweeps into the room, filling the open space with the sheer volume of her presence.
Judging by the huff beneath her veil as her head moves from facing the bed to the king’s chair, she isn’t terribly happy with either of us this morning.
I reluctantly pull myself from the covers to join my husband for breakfast, wrapping a robe around my sheer nightdress. It’s warm and alleviates the cold seeping into the soles of my feet from the frozen floor.
I tuck my icy legs under me as I take my seat at the table where Sigrid has laid out our breakfast. Einar watches me, his eyebrow quirking, but says nothing.
The older woman clucks her tongue lovingly at Khijha, and she springs from Einar’s grasp, running to a saucer that Sigrid sets on the floor. She is oblivious to the rest of the room now, focused only on what appears to be milk and honey.
I can’t imagine that is good for her, but I’m too tired to voice that thought aloud.
Besides, given the sickly-sweet smell wafting from what I can only hope is Einar’s breakfast this morning, I’m beginning to think this is how the woman feeds everyone.
Except for me.I notice with no small amount of gratitude the flat, seeded bread, two medium-cooked eggs, and a steaming cup of tea in front of me. I should at least be able to stomach this, if I don’t watch my husband eat his own ridiculous breakfast.
Once Sigrid leaves, the only sounds in the room are Einar’s obnoxious chewing and Khijha’s gentle lapping of the sweet milk.
My head is pounding, and each crunch or slosh of milk grates my already well-worn nerves. I guzzle down the glass of water before me and fill it again, drinking the entirety of it in one go. Nothing seems to help the dryness of my mouth or the ache in my bones that never goes away.
I stretch and start in on my breakfast when Einar finally decides to speak up.
“You didn’t come down for dinner last night,” he says, rather than asks, around mouthfuls of sweet cinnamon-filled rolls.
“I had my meal sent up.”
Einar sighs. “Yes, I noticed.” He shovels in another bite. “I suppose I was wondering why.”
I take a moment to decide how much truth to give him and settle for the easiest answer.
“Well, I’ve never been much on forcing others to watch me eat while their own meals grow cold. I figured it was simpler this way.” Who knows? Perhaps he’ll finally explain the masks.
“And yet, you have no problem making the servants walk three flights of stairs to bring you your meal?”
Touché.
I tilt my head and narrow my eyes at him before settling on another bite of my meal instead of responding.
He studies me under his furrowed brow but doesn’t say anything more as he dives back into his sickly-sweet breakfast.
“My apologies, I didn’t realize you had missed me so much,” I tempt after a moment.
“I just found the room had entirely too much joy for my liking, without you there to drain it away.” He speaks without inflection, but I don’t miss the slight tilt of his lips.
I startle myself by laughing.
“I’m glad I could oblige you this morning, then,” I respond.
“As am I.” There is something curiously close to warmth in his tone, and I take it for what it is.
If not an apology, at least a truce.
When our meal is finished, he isn’t as quick to leave my room as before. He, instead, stays to play with the chalyx and read next to the hearth while I bathe. I finish my bath quickly, all the while wondering if he’ll be gone when I return, but he’s still here, sitting in the same spot.
I pull another gauzy, impractical dress from my trunk and a matching array of jewelry. An emerald-encrusted nose ring replaces the pure gold one from yesterday, and I pair it with a similar ear cuff. After deliberation, I connect them with the gold chain again.
No one here knows its meaning, anyway, and I’ve always liked the look of it. A teardrop-shaped pendant graces my forehead, hanging from a chain woven through my hair.
I consider adding a set of bangles to my wrist, but I don't want him to think I am trying to hide the intricate artwork he is too uncultured to appreciate.
By the time I finish dressing, I still feel out of breath and light-headed, but I ask anyway.
“I’d like to see more of the castle today, to finish up that tour.” I would like to see more of this place, but also, a do-over would help to further our unspoken truce.
He eyes me for a long moment before answering.
“You don’t appear to be up to walking anywhere.”
“Are you implying I look unwell?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“I’m not implying anything. You look like hell.”
If by “hell,” he means the circles under my eyes are turning a deep shade of blue, then fine. But I’m not the only one.
“Well if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle haggard,” I quip, gesturing to the signs of exhaustion on his own features before adding, “You know, some women might be offended by your thoughtless way of speaking.”
“Of course not. I’m saying it outright. I truly think you look like hell.” His expression turns thoughtful. “Besides, you’re not like most women, are you?” There’s an undercurrent to his tone that makes me doubt myself for a fraction of a second, but I push it away.
I hold his eyes with my own, refusing to look away or answer him directly. Finally, I make my way to the door, resting my hand on the knob in a challenge. “Are you coming?”
Khijhana is quick on my heels, and we wait for his answer.
He looks me up and down for several long seconds, then shakes his head and stands.
“So be it.” He opens the door for me and gestures for us to lead the way.
“That’s the spirit,” I add, and I swear I hear the masked guards outside the door chuckle.
Any truce or good humor that I may have imagined in the beginning of our tour is cut short when we reach a staircase leading to the West Wing.
“Maybe we should wrap things up for today.” Einar hedges, turning away from the steps.
“But why?” My curiosity is piqued. “Don’t you want me to know my new home?” I have to force that last word, sure I will never view it as any such thing.
“This wing is reserved for the staff and guests only. There isn’t anything to see.” He proffers his arm and tries to lead me away, but I press on with a light-hearted tone.
“Oh, come now, let’s just --”
The sounds of glass shattering and a cry ringing out from the top of the staircase cut me off.
Einar pales and dashes up the steps without hesitation. I move to follow him, prepared to help in any way I can. My heart is pounding in my chest, while I envision what could have caused the sound, who might be in pain, injured, or even being attacked.
“I said no, Zaina!” His booming voice echoes off of the tall ceilings and bare walls. “Go back to your rooms.” His words stop me on the second step. They are final, his command clear.
He doesn’t wait to see if I will obey, only motions to the guards nearby. They walk toward me to enforce his order.
Khijhana growls, and her ears go flat as the men approach. They hesitate for only a second before I pick her up, forcing her to obey as I have to.
I clench my fists around her fur in an attempt to fight down the panic and fury rising inside of me. The guards are thrumming with tension. Whether it’s for the person who cried out or because of the king’s raised voice, I can’t tell. They silently lead me back to my rooms, exchanging a few hushed words with the guards who stand watch by my door.
Khijha paws gently at my face, her claws retracted, as she tries in her own small way to comfort me. I scratch her behind her ears, and she purrs, but it offers me little consolation.
My head is spinning, and my heart is thundering in my chest. I’m not sure why I expected this tour to go any differently than the last one, but at least it taught me some things that I didn’t know before.
One. The king has no trouble raising his voice to women or humiliating his own wife.
Two. He would rather keep things from me than accept any assistance I might have to offer.
Three. I need to know what is in the West Wing.
If I am going to begin to unravel any of the secrets that shroud this sands-forsaken castle, it will undoubtedly start there.