Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison

Chapter Sixteen

For all the king had said I looked like death yesterday, I certainly feel like it today.

My mouth is constantly dry, and my bones always ache. It seems that no matter how much rest I get, it’s never enough.

I’ll be damned if I’m in bed again when he flounces in with his superior expression, though, so I force myself to stand.

Besides, I know him well enough from our brief encounters to know he will pretend nothing happened yesterday, and I will not let that stand. Everyone has heard the rumors of the beastly king and the castle full of people no one has seen up close in years.

Now I’m here, in the midst of it, and it makes even less sense than the convoluted stories. Someone is going to tell me what’s going on.

My steps are unsteady on the way to the table as it is, and Khijhana nearly topples me entirely in her haste to wait at the door for Sigrid. She’s an intelligent little nuisance, I’ll give her that. And she seems to be growing before my very eyes.

Surely, her paws weren’t that big yesterday...

Sigrid arrives before the king, for a change. He is late. Worse yet, Sigrid has brought another of her horrid tonics.

With a sigh, I force the thing down. Every last salty, citrus tasting bit of it. I’ve already determined it’s not actually poison, and it does help, just as it did yesterday.

“Shall I assume the king won’t be joining me this morning?” I phrase it as a question, but I already know the answer.

She hasn’t brought him a plate, and I’m not surprised he’s avoiding me after yesterday. I am, however, curious to see what she has to say about it.

“You need be drink more water. Your body is hungry for liquid,” she deflects, picking up the wooden pitcher and pouring me a large glass. “The mountain sickness, it sits with you.”

“Sigrid?” I press, and she sighs.

“His Majesty has much things to do with the kingdom today.” She is already moving toward the door as she answers, uncharacteristically eager to get out of this room herself.

“I thought you said he had nothing better to do than spend time with his wife?” I inject polite interest into my tone, but I doubt she is fooled.

“The things are come up,” she answers.

Her tone has a ring of truth to it, but I can’t let it drop.

“Things like what happened yesterday? In the West Wing?” I prod.

If I expect her to lie or hedge, she surprises me by doing neither.

“Yes,” she says simply, her tone more accented than usual. “Things like that. I must get to them as well, Mistress, unless there is another things you need.”

There is nothing I can think of that wouldn’t be childish, and I can see I won’t get any more answers from her. So, I shake my head.

“I won’t keep you.” The words have less warmth than I mean for them to, but Sigrid doesn’t bristle.

If anything, she practically deflates on her way out the door, as though she’s exhausted and disappointed all at the same time.

That makes two of us.

I lived most of my life in Madame’s household, where it went without saying that someone was hurting at any given moment. It’s no different here. Still, people suffer, and I am helpless to stop it.

I don’t even know what it is.

I shouldn’t be so concerned. That’s not why I’m here, but I can’t seem to help myself.

I had assumed Madame chose this kingdom because Einar is the only unmarried king this side of the Cerulean Sea, the quickest route to a throne. But perhaps it was more than that. Did she know they were weakened from within?

I heave a frustrated sigh.

It’s clear no one else is going to give me any answers today, so I’ll have to find them myself. Though only a handful of days have passed since my arrival here, it feels like a lifetime. It feels like more than long enough to live in a castle where I can’t see another human face, save for that of the indecipherable king.

This has gone on long enough.

I dress in one of my many impractical gowns, this one a pale shade of yellow with sheer sleeves that drag along the stone floors, and I don my usual array of head jewels before leaving. Khijhana is at my feet, as impatient to escape this room as I am.

After yesterday, I wonder how the guards outside my door will react, but I stride out of my room without giving them a chance to doubt my right to be there. They let me pass, following behind me on eerily soundless footfalls.

I wonder if the guards rotate, if these could be the same ones I encountered yesterday. I only have small cues to go by when their faces are covered by the beaked masks, but I’m fairly certain they are different. One of their builds is a mite too thin, and the other seems an inch or two shorter.

My confidence in that assessment leads me to the West Wing, where I hope they won’t know I’m not allowed.

It’s a feeble hope, and one that I am rid of as soon as I spot the massive staircase with two frustratingly familiar guards posted at either side. They stand a little straighter when they see me, and I stop in my tracks.

“Are you lost, milady?” This from one of the two following me.

I never get lost, but I don’t tell them that. Instead, I continue past the staircase like I had always planned on going this way.

Before I know it, I find myself nearing the room I had been drawn to on my first tour of the castle. The study is smaller than the other rooms I’ve seen here, the ceilings not quite as cavernous, allowing the roaring hearth to actually inject some heat into the area. The deep brown panels of the walls are as appealing today as they were the first time, and there are a number of plushy chairs situated in small clusters to allow for conversation, if I was not the only one present.

What calls me here, though, are the windows. High, curved structures that span nearly the entire height and width of the outward-facing wall, they overlook the back end of the estate where deep green, snow-capped cedars stretch as far as the eye can see. Beyond the trees are mountains that dwarf even the massive, imposing structure we are in.

I can imagine running through those woods, tiny glistening snowflakes settling in my eyelashes. The sight is so much freer than I will ever be, and I allow myself to sink into that feeling while I stand here, surrounded by the rare warmth of the crackling flames.

For the first time since I arrived at this place, I feel like I can breathe.

It’s not a feeling I’m eager to let go of, so I search the room for something to pass the time until dinner. The far side of the study holds a small collection of books, but it’s nothing I have any use for.

There are playing cards and wooden puzzles on a few of the tables, showing an interesting amount of use considering the vacant state of the room. There is even a small wooden chess board, pieces frozen in place halfway through a game. Finally, my eyes settle on an ornate grand piano in the corner.

My heart falters for a beat.

It’s not my instrument. It never has been.

But it was my sister’s.

I have never been away from Melodi and Aika this long, and the knowledge of what I left them to face alone is more than I can bear to think about.

I move toward the piano and settle onto the bench. My sentinels wait outside the door, but Khijhana follows at my heels, sitting between me and the doorway as though she is the one guarding me.

Hesitantly, I lift the lid that protects the ivory keys. I was brought up as a lady — we all were — so I know how to play, even though I generally choose not to.

There is sheet music here, but it is foreign and looks as barbaric as the rest of this place feels. Instead, I let my fingers play along the keys an achingly familiar tune. It’s not long before I am lost in the notes, lost in my own head.

It’s warm on the balcony we share at the château, even with the late evening breeze rolling in from the water. Madame is in Bondé, and we are left alone for a rare change.

Aika plays her fiddle beside me, her shiny black hair whipping around with the intensity of her motions. She is tiny, shorter even than my shoulder, but everything she does is intense and fiery and bold.

Melodi dances along as if there isn’t a care in the world, as if we haven’t just watched a person be slaughtered for nothing more than a show of power. She is swept up in this moment in a way I am incapable of replicating, giving herself entirely to the music while her tightly coiled red curls spin nearly as gracefully as she does.

Mel begs me to sing, and usually I would give in. Usually, I can deny her nothing, but tonight I am playing the piano because Rose is sleeping. I can hardly begrudge her the escape I long so desperately for, not when she needs it so much more than I do.

Her golden waves and deep blue eyes are even more appealing than my own unique features, and that means nothing good here. At least she doesn’t have to worry about that right now.

So, I am grateful, but I am jealous, too. Jealous of Rose’s sleep, and Melodi’s sense of self, and Aika’s endless supply of passion…of everything that allows them to cope with the unthinkable when all I can seem to do is disappear a little more each day.

There is no relief now that I’m here, now that I’ve left them to fend for themselves without even my dubious, haphazard protection. Besides, it’s not as though I’ve escaped. Not really.

Not at all.