Of Thorns and Beauty by Elle Madison

Chapter Thirty-Four

We are standing in the middle of his room, the silence filling the space between us as I watch his chest rise and fall with each grieving breath he takes.

He’s leaning against one of his bookshelves with his head tipped toward the ceiling, and the quiet continues to stretch on.

Part of me wants to reach out and touch him, hold him, be held by him. Only hours ago, we were locked in a moment where nothing else existed, and I can’t deny a selfish part of me that wishes we could be in it again, feeling only each other and drowning out the world and its problems and its pain.

But that won’t make them go away.

So, I try very hard to ignore the oppressive presence of his massive bed, even larger than mine. I try not to remember how I felt the last time I was in a bed with him, or the way his lips felt against my bare skin, or how he tasted like cinnamon and honey.

I try to ignore the traitorous part of me that just wants to crawl back there with him, even if we are just a couple of liars.

I shake my head to clear those thoughts, looking him straight in the eye when I call him out.

"An illness?"

He says nothing, his gaze settling slowly on the bed as well, and I can feel the tension stretching between us like one of Aika's fiddle strings about to snap.

"Funny,” I pull his attention back to the conversation at hand. “It's like no sickness I have ever seen. In fact, if I didn't know any better, I might even think she had been --" I stop before I finish my sentence, unabated horror washing over me.

"Think she had been what?" Einar's voice is reserved, curious, as he moves away from the bookshelf and angles himself toward me.

"Poisoned." I breathe out the word through lips that have gone numb.

All at once, I feel like an idiot, like even more of a pawn than I have always been.

"And what would you know of it?" He narrows his gaze, cocking his head to the side.

It isn't hard to summon the anger I need to lift my chin, my own eyes burning with rage when I respond.

"Only that it is like no sickness I have ever seen, nor heard of. Or would you like to double down on your lie and pretend that it is some rare Jokithan plague?"

Instead of so much as a flicker of remorse crossing his features, indignation widens his eyes.

"You wish to speak to me of lying?"

I distantly register that his lips aren't moving exactly as they should, but my mouth outpaces my mind when I answer.

"And what have I lied about?" Plenty, but I mostly want to know which of them he has figured out.

But he doesn't answer. He only looks at me with a waiting expression, like he expects me to deduce the answer on my own. And belatedly, I do.

Because we aren't speaking the common tongue.

I realize now what his sharp glance in my room had meant. Not because I had refused Sigrid what she had asked for, but because she had been speaking Jokithan when she told the king to have her moved.

Inwardly, I curse my thoughtlessness. Outwardly, I remain calm.

"Are you expecting me to apologize for picking up some of your language in the several weeks I have lived here? Would you rather that I remain ignorant of my own people?"

"Your knowledge would suggest far more than picking up some of the language," he shoots back at me, using my own phrase.

Again, I pull from the substantial supply of rage and injustice swirling around in my mind and infuse it into every one of my features, my posture, and my voice when I speak.

"If you'll recall, I had very little else to do when you brought me to your castle, alone, then refused to see or speak to me for weeks."

Shame crosses his features, just as I had hoped it would.

"None of this is helping Sigrid," I add in a softer tone. "Why don't you tell me what you know, so at least I can better care for her. Maybe I can help."

He sinks into his armchair, letting his head fall into his hands.

“There's nothing anyone can do to help.” He gestures around at the books, and I realize that this is the first time he is aware that I have been in his room.

I take a moment to study it ostensibly.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"Research. Seventeen years’ worth. I've been looking for an antidote, and I am no closer than I was when I started. And I'm running out of --" He cuts off, looking at me sharply.

Seventeen years.

“Running out of what?" I prod him.

“Time,” he says at last, his fingers tugging at the chain around his neck that he never takes off.

I suppress a scowl. He might be running out of time, but that's not how he had planned to end that sentence.

What is he running out of?

He is still keeping secrets, though probably not as many as I am.

Before I can ask anything else, a loud knock sounds at the paneled door.

“Enter,” Einar says, his eyes still locked onto mine.

“We’ve had word,” Leif says, limping toward us to hand Einar a rolled-up piece of parchment.

“Already?” I ask.

Though, in a country with dragons and magically growing fantastical cats, I’m not sure why I’m surprised.

The king quickly unfurls the letter, his eyes scanning its contents before he nods.

“Right. He’s close, then. I’ll be leaving immediately.”

Leif nods and opens the main door to the king’s room to signal something to the guards before heading back to Sigrid.

"Who did you write to?” I ask while Einar throws a few of his journals and vials with various plants into a satchel.

"My ambassador. He has been helping me. Last I heard from him, he believed he might be on to an antidote, but that was months ago --” He pauses, sighing. “When they took a sharp turn for the worse."

I nod, but then something strikes me, and the room begins to spin.

Right before I got here. Right before I was sent here, last minute, more like it, by an ambassador. Like the one allegedly helping him.

He casts a sideways glance at the tapestry on his wall before turning away.

“I’m coming with you,” I announce as he reaches for the door.

“The hell you are,” he commands with finality before slamming the door shut behind him.

I feel frozen in a flurry of emotions. My pride makes me want to chase after him and insist. My fear makes me want to stay with Sigrid. My rage wants to shatter everything in this room. But Madame’s voice in the back of my head is telling me something else entirely.

It makes sense now, why Madame had chosen this castle. How she knew it had been weakened from the inside. How many people in the world have the knowledge to turn a person into an animal, or even a version of one?

Haven’t I seen her do this before, or at least something similar?

So many things are clearer now. I wish they weren’t. I wish I could go back to when the king was just a cold bastard and I was just the bride he purchased. Because all of this knowledge and insight, even though it feels like it changes everything, it changes nothing in the end.

But when has wishing ever gotten me anywhere? That was one of the first lessons Madame taught after she obtained me.

After she stole me.

Khijhana presses herself against my leg as though she senses my despair, and I let her, because I lied before when I told Einar I am not a monster.

I’m just not nearly as much of one as the creature who made me. The one who plucked me from my home and molded me to suit her needs.

The one who poisoned this entire castle.