I sigh. “The only shoes I own are the ones I’m wearing.”
Her mouth pops open. “The cobbler no longer keeps hours, but I will trace your feet for him.” At her prompting, I remove my boots. She grabs some blue paper and charcoal and carefully traces my feet. “All the royals are wearing heels this season. They’re frightfully uncomfortable, but you’ll be in style.”
I snort. “I’m not interested in being in style. I need to be able to move, to hunt, to work, and to ride.”
“A set of leather slippers, then. Not as flashy or modern but a conservative classic. They won’t stand out, but the other royals won’t judge you for them either. Still, I’ll leave the dress floor-length so that your shoes won’t be a topic of conversation.”
“That sounds like the answer I’m looking for.”
Carefully, she starts pinning the dress at the appropriate length. “You really aren’t a royal lady, then. How is it you ended up with Prince Damien?”
“He wasn’t a prince in my world.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, frustrated with this conversation. Does she like the royals? Hate them? Blame them for the condition of her shop? I’ve been dancing around her comments, trying to figure out what she wants from me. “Anyway, he’s not a prince anymore here either, is he? It’s a new kingdom.”
She finishes the line of pins and stands up, turning around to put her tools away. When she turns her head slightly, I notice tears in her eyes. “Ariadne? Did I say something wrong?”
“Remove the dress. I will hem it while you wait. It will take me two minutes. You cannot leave my shop wearing the other one.”
“Ariadne? What’s wrong? What did I say?”
“The dress,” she demands, holding out one hand.
I unclasp the shoulder and strip out of the dress. Frustrated and angry, I’m careless as I hand it to her and catch my finger on one of the pins.
“Ow!” Blood beads. It happens so fast, for a moment, I don’t know what’s happening, only that the room has gone dark. And then she’s in front of me with my finger in her mouth. Her fangs sink into my palm, her eyes wild with bloodlust.
I grunt as she takes a long draw of my blood. I could shove her or pull my hand away, but I look at the way her bones protrude under her thin skin and know she needs the blood more than I do.
I gently place a hand on her shoulder. “Ariadne? When was the last time you fed?”
She releases my hand immediately, like she only then realizes what she’s done. Her eyes are the size of saucers, and she plasters her hands over her mouth. Tears flood her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Eloise. The blood! I couldn’t help myself.”
“Of course not. You’re starving. Is this what the wasting disease does to you?”
Her brows knit, and her lips draw back from her teeth as a sob breaks from her throat. “There is no wasting disease,” she hisses. “The wasting disease is just a fancy name for starvation. The new queen has been slowly killing us for years.”
12
I Am No Prince
DAMIEN
While Eloise is fitted for her dresses, I leave Ariadne’s, and stride down the center of town toward the general store. A few Bolvet citizens are in the street, until they see me and duck behind the nearest doorway. This isn’t right. I don’t recognize the faces that stare at me from windows or disappear around corners, but there are a few things that stand out to me.
This town is dying. Everyone is like Ariadne, unnaturally old and thin. Part of me wants to believe Brahm, that this is due to some wasting disease that still plagues this community, but the tone of Ariadne’s comments makes me think there is something else going on here. Something far more nefarious.
Fuck. Brahm wasn’t what I’d describe as responsible in the past, but I’d never suspect he’d let a village in our kingdom fall into squalor. Then again, maybe this isn’t because of Brahm. Maybe the dark elf at his side is poisoning his mind, poisoning the kingdom. I need to know more before I draw any rash conclusions. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the centuries, it’s that when it comes to royal politics, jumping to conclusions can cost you your head.
I step through the open doors of the general store to find a single candle burning on the counter and more empty shelves then full ones. As for the full ones, I find a strange assortment of goods for sale. Plates, clothing, musical instruments. It reminds me of a thrift store.
A man comes out of the back room. At least he looks relatively healthy. Too thin, maybe, but not ancient like the rest of them.
“Are you lost?” he asks me, a defensive edge to his voice.
“No,” I say. “Just looking.”
He clears his throat. “Not much to look at honestly. Or steal.”
