I don’t think I entirely believe him about the lack of caring. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Do you want me to go?”
He gives me a long, searching look. “Did I say I wanted you to go?”
My cheeks warm. It’s none of my business, but I ask, “What dream did you give him?”
Boreas leans back in his throne, a small smile curving his mouth. All he says is, “Pass the cake.”
29
AS HAS BECOME HABIT, I wake before the sun. Beyond the window lies a bruised sky, the midnight hue gradually leaching to gray. Today, the sight of winter doesn’t send me into resigned acceptance. The world is cold, but it is also beautiful, lovely, pure.
The past week has been strange as Boreas and I continue to navigate the growing pains of our developing relationship. Meals have been a pleasant affair, and no one is more surprised than I am to learn the king is quite the conversationalist when the mood strikes. Once, I almost managed to make him laugh.
Leaping from bed, I prepare for the day. I have an idea. A bold, bright, brilliant idea that cannot wait. A few tugs of the comb through my hair, and I braid it down my back. By the time I’m dressed and ready to greet the morning, the sun has risen and tips the highest branches in shining gold.
I’m on my way out the door when something on my desk catches my eye. I frown, picking up a sealed envelope addressed to me in elegant script. Breaking the wax seal, I unfold the parchment and read.
Wren, the tonic is ready. Please respond with a day and time to meet. Leave your response in the opening near the courtyard wall.
The sleep tonic. I would not have gone through the trouble of stealing from the Garden of Slumber if I didn’t desire the king’s death, but many weeks have passed since then, and I no longer feelcertain of my path. Perhaps I should deal with this later, when I don’t feel so torn.
“Orla!” I call, shrugging on my winter coat and stuffing the note inside the breast pocket.
She pauses in putting away my laundry. “Yes, my lady?”
“I’ll need extra hands today. I want to clean the south ballroom from top to bottom. And I need to speak with Silas as well.”
Her mouth opens, then clicks shut in puzzlement. “May I ask why?”
I toss her a grin on my way out the door. “I’m throwing a party.”
The south ballroom is a long, rectangular space shrouded in darkness and neglect. The air is so thick with dust I feel the particles coat the back of my throat. Massive stone fireplaces sit cold on either end, and curtains cloak the entire western wall. Reviving this room will not be easy. I, however, am looking forward to the challenge.
But first, the curtains have to go.
“Orla.”
My maid appears with two other maidservants, plus a young man dragging a ladder behind him.
“I’ll need tools. And can you please light the fireplaces?” It’s about time they’re put to use.
The staff disperse. In minutes, flames brighten the fireplaces, gorging on piles of cut, dried wood. Using the ladder, I remove one of the curtain rods above the windows, tilting it toward the floor so the cloth slides free. The thump of the fabric hitting the floorboards is oddly satisfying, though the cloud of dust sends me into a coughing fit.
“My lady.” Orla fidgets below, her gaze darting from the curtains to the unobstructed window. Bright, shimmering sunlight floods the space, so intense my eyes water. “Are you sure the lord won’t mind this?”
“Positive.” I descend the ladder and jump the last few rungs. Grabbing one end of the drapery, I drag the entire length toward thefireplace. I’m smiling as I heave the enormous lump of fabric into the grate and watch it burn.
“My lady!” A tortured moan chases Orla’s outburst. Rapid footsteps sound at my back. “You can’tburnthe curtains!”
“They were a personal offense. They had to go.”
Another broken sound. I dearly love Orla, even her anxious tendencies.Especiallyher anxious tendencies. With a few words of reassurance, I send her off to help in the kitchen.
It takes an hour to remove—and destroy—the curtains. Another to clean the cobwebs from the rafters. Two hours to remove centuries’ worth of dust caking the floor. A little soap, a bit of polish, and the floorboards begin to shine.
Throughout the morning, I check in with Silas. He is looking forward to catering for a large crowd. Nothing too extravagant, I insist. Elk, if it can be found. Perhaps a hearty stew.
An hour past noon, I’m busy hanging swaths of gauzy fabric above one of the fireplace mantels when the doors at the end of the hall crash open, a howling, screaming wind extinguishing the fire to smoke and the memory of light.
