My lips purse in irritation.
The Frost King’s bootheels clip against the newly polished floor, each footfall singular and precise. His presence is to be expected. I’d prepared for it all morning: what I might say, what he might say. In the end, I have a right to be here. I have a right to grow some happiness in my life.
“What is the meaning of this?” the king demands.
I continue draping the pale blue fabric until I’m pleased with the result. Only then do I turn to Boreas. Clinging breeches and knee-high boots, a snow-dusted sable overcoat. Every round, golden button gleams, his collar parted to reveal the shadowed indentations of his collarbones. “You’re going to have to be a little more specific, husband.”
He gestures to the western wall, its many windows spared the insufferable weight of layered cloth. “What happened to the curtains?”
I step away to study my handiwork. The glass is so spotless my mind tricks me into thinking it’s not there at all, just open archways offering an unobstructed view of the courtyard. A vast improvement to the previous gloom, as far as I’m concerned.
Turning away with a shrug, I reply, “I burned them.”
His eyes bulge. “Burned them?”
“Yes.” The smell of cedar teases my senses as I brush past him. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
He trails my heels, boots stomping so obnoxiously I’m grateful we cleaned the floor before his arrival, otherwise I’d be maneuvering through a haze of filth. “That is going to be a problem,” he snarls. “You destroyed my property!”
“Yes, well, it’s done now. And stop barking at me. You’re scaring the servants.”
The people in question currently huddle around one of the uncovered tables, hands tangled with ribbons, eyes shifting between me and the king nervously. He spares them a cursory glance before returning his furious gaze to me. “I’m not—”
“Yes,” I snap, yanking another bolt of gauze from the pile in the corner, “you are. You’re also in my way.”
His nostrils flare, but he steps aside. I stride toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Boreas follows, still fuming.
“You are not to host anything without my permission,” he hisses. “I forbid it.”
Short, startled laughter breaks free. Oh, heisfunny. “It’s too late for that.” I toss a wide, beaming smile at him over my shoulder. “Now hold this.”
He stares at the fabric in his hands, as if confused as to how it has suddenly appeared in his possession. “Too late?” A vein throbs in his temple. “Explain!”
This man. “It’s quite simple,” I say, draping one end of the blue gauze above the fireplace mantel. “There will be a celebration in three days’ time. I extended an invitation to the people of Neumovos inhopes of establishing an allyship between us.” Stepping back, I study my handiwork. The left end of the fabric needs to be a little higher, but I can’t reach.
“An allyship?” he demands incredulously. “With Neumovos?”
“Boreas, can you adjust the fabric so it’s centered?”
He frowns, but does as I ask. His coat stretches taut against his back as he lifts his arms to fiddle with the placement. “They are not our allies, nor are they our equals.”
“That’s what you think.”
“I am a god. Iknow. They were judged, and now they serve me. That is their punishment. They were foolish mortals—”
“As am I,” I snap, for his blustering begins to grate on me. “It’s time you stopped living in the past, Boreas. You can’t live locked away in this citadel for the rest of your immortal life, becauseIrefuse to live like that.”
He stiffens, face turned partially away, and a pit forms in my stomach. Already he’s striding toward the door, but I catch his arm, pulling him to a halt. “Wait.” My fingers press into muscle frozen with rigidity, and I sigh. “I apologize. That was insensitive of me.” I placed blame on him for something I don’t understand, and that is because I’ve yet to form a clear image of the situation. I haven’t demanded answers, in part because I hoped he would offer them freely.
Two heartbeats pass before he says, “An apology, from you? Is the world ending?”
“Prick,” I mutter, and he snorts, tension bleeding from his frame. I’m relieved to have not ruined the moment completely.
After a moment, I release him, vaguely aware of the staff decorating in the background. “Why do you hate mortals so much?”
Quietly, he responds, “The bandits.”
Of course. “I’m sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.” I hesitate, then decide to push onward. It must be said, one way or another. “I know it’s probably not what you want to hear, but not every human is like that. People might surprise you.”
