“Like you did?”
Lately I’ve wondered how different my life might be if I accepted my circumstances. I fight because it’s all I know, but I’m tired and I’m hurting, yet I think I might be healing, too. The craving is never truly gone, but the need to drink lessens over time. Without the bottle, my head is at last clear, despite the growing pains.
I’m not giving up. I’m just… putting this mission on pause, my need to return to Edgewood on hold. I’m choosing something different for myself.
“Maybe it’s time to step away from the darkness,” I say, moving closer. “Time to step into the light.”
“What can the light offer me? I have everything I need.”
He fears it, the light. And why should he not, after what he has lost? It is a powerful force of illumination. “It is not so bad,” I say lowly, “when you do not walk in the light alone.”
Boreas angles toward me. The face of a cruel king, but he is not all hard edges. The last time we stood this close, the glass, geometric walls of the greenhouse enclosed us. I revealed my insecurities and he did not judge me. He is trusting me to do the same.
Something crashes in the kitchen. Clearing my throat, I step away to analyze our handiwork.
“The fabric is still crooked.” Turning on my heel, I stride to the long table pushed against the wall. It’s not fleeing if I maintain a walking pace.
“Wren!”
I sigh, turning to face him. “Yes?”
“I will not allow the people of Neumovos to infiltrate my home—”
“They are not infiltrating. They have been invited.”
“Regardless, they are not welcome here. Youwillcall off this foolish party.” The North Wind, a god whose existence spans many millennia, is throwing a tantrum.
A stack of completed wreaths awaits hanging. Grabbing one off the top, I climb the ladder to hang it from one of the nails I hammered in earlier. Boreas stabilizes the ladder as I position the wreath. He’s clearly unaware that even as he attempts to thwart my plans, he gives aid.
“You are my wife,” he continues, “and my word is law.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I won’t dissolve into laughter. Truly, he’s quite harmless. Like a kitten. “Well,” I say once I’ve gathered myself, “today, you aremyhusband, and I’m in charge. I’m doing this. You can try to stop me, but you’ll only make yourself miserable in the process. Now, hand me that hammer.”
His glower clashes with mine. He thinks I’ll look away first. Doesn’t he know me at all?
Eventually, Boreas passes me the hammer. And he does not complain for the remainder of the day.
Three days. It’s not enough time to bring this crumbling, derelict citadel out of the shadows, but I’ve never shied from a challenge before. Once the ballroom is transformed, everything polished to a high shine, the space artfully arranged with tables, chairs, and draping fabric, I shift my focus to the rest of the fortress. The Frost King observes the transformation of his home with hostility, flipping between horror and rage. When given the opportunity, I rope him into a task or three, as I find it helps distract him from the change.
Boreas hangs a tapestry I pulled out of storage in the entrance hall. The hammer thunks dully, as if connecting with something soft. He climbs down the ladder, growling expletives under his breath.
“Let me see,” I say.
He cradles his hand against his chest with a wary look.
I sigh in exasperation. “I want to make sure nothing’s broken.”
“Who’s to say you won’t break my fingers further to prove a point?”
“You’ll just have to trust me.”
As soon as the words escape, I wish to call them back. Boreas’ eyes darken with emotion.
Trust me.
A breeze nudges me forward, into the king’s towering body, and something heavy settles against the curve of my spine—his hand, pressed to my lower back.
“You can, you know,” I whisper. “Trust me.” It doesn’t feel like a lie. Weeks have passed since I’ve seen Zephyrus. I’m not sure I need the sleeping draught anymore.
