Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison
Chapter Thirty
Itry to collect myself, but I know Einar notices. He doesn't comment, though. The only words he has spoken to me since we met back up at the sleds, were to say that the girl can sleep in the stables and is not permitted within the castle walls.
I don’t bother arguing. I know enough about him now to see that there is no getting through to him in this mood. At least Sarah Agnes will be safe until I can help her figure something else out.
Despite the stormy disposition of the man behind me and the appearance of Damian at the festival, it's hard not to lose myself in the feeling of the wind racing by as we take the dog sled back to the castle. The wolves pick up speed, catapulting me just a bit further back into his arms and his warmth for a fraction of a moment before he stiffens, backing away from the contact.
He dismounts the moment we are in front of the castle doors, and I follow suit, coaxing Khijha to my side. We stalk away from him without a backward glance, and he doesn't bother to follow.
Perfect. I try to tell myself how little it matters, how little I care in the grand scheme of things. I try to busy myself with one hundred other things, grateful that we have arrived well after dinner and I won't have to suffer his presence in the dining hall tonight.
But by the time I finally make it back to my rooms and fall into bed, I can’t lie to myself any longer. Khijhana is warm, but she is not the warmest thing I have slept next to lately. I hate how my bed feels stupidly empty without him next to me. But mostly what keeps me awake well into the night is that I have never been more furious with myself.
Finally, I fall into a sleep even more fitful than last night’s was.
By the time the king arrives for breakfast, I am awake and dressed, no sign of last night's lack of sleep marring my features. I am practiced in nothing if not putting on a face.
Since I have no plans of venturing outdoors today, I have dressed in a simpler outfit. Citrine stones at my nose and ear bring out the pale blue embroidery on my silver velvet gown, not that Einar seems to notice. I'm not sure why he has graced me with his presence this morning only to stare stone-faced ahead, nibbling at the breakfast Sigrid left with a decided lack of enthusiasm.
Finally, I lose whatever fragile hold on my patience I had to begin with, the façade breaking along with my desire to play coy.
"One might think that sharing an igloo with your wife was the worst thing to happen to you all year, dear husband." I don't look at him as I say the words, but my ire is clear, all the same.
He, however, sets his book to the side like it's the opening he has been waiting for. He looks straight at me before he responds.
"You talk in your sleep." He says the words like he is pronouncing a death sentence.
I will the blood to stay in my face, in my extremities, to not let him see how that pronouncement terrifies me. Racking my brain for the details of the dreams I had that night, I try to figure out what I could have given away.
“Is that what you’re so upset about?” I ask, mostly to give myself a moment to think. “Tell me, Your Majesty, is that an offense punishable by death, or shall the king grant me a pardon, just this once?”
If I expect to goad him into acknowledging his own ridiculousness, I am immensely disappointed. He glares at me as though he fails to see the humor in his complaint. Then, he narrows his eyes, studying me as though there’s something he can glean from his perusal before he speaks again.
"You spoke of a rose."
I blink, even my usual quick wit abandoning me as I realize I have absolutely nothing to say. His eyes squeeze shut in something like pain, and he shakes his head.
"So, you don't deny it, then?" he asks me.
"Deny what? That I talk in my sleep?" It would appear I have found my voice at last, though not to say anything particularly useful.
"How peculiar, what appears to be on your mind. A rose." He says the word again, enunciating each sound. His eyes burn with fury and accusation, and I know I have no choice but to give him the truth.
Or at least a truth.
"Rose." I repeat his last word, but I say it like an argument.
His eyebrows lift, and I clarify further.
"Not a rose. Just Rose." I can't seem to make myself say anything else.
"Would you care to explain the difference?" He says it in a tone that makes it clear he does not see a difference. But to me, there is every distinction in the world.
"You asked before about my sisters. I told you that I had three. Yet, only two wrote to me." I haven't put the pieces together for him, but he surprises me by not interrupting.
Something in his expression tells me he had already been curious about that and reminds me what a fool I would be to underestimate the man who bested me at my own game.
So, I continue, treading carefully.
"Melodi is the youngest. Aika is only a year older than she is. And Rose," I stumble over her name, it's been so long since I said it out loud. "Rose was two years younger than I am. She would have been 20 this month."
His face crumples in sympathy, in remorse, and it's more than I can take from him right now. All at once, I am done, with this conversation, and with this king, and with every sands-blasted bit of this kingdom.
He opens his mouth, and I'm sure the next words out of it will be an apology, but it's one I can't bear to hear.
Without another word, Khijhana and I flee the room and all of its unsettled emotions. I don't know exactly where I'm going, but I know that the walls around me feel more suffocating than anything. I have to get out of this castle.