“A spirit.”
“Yes. A specter.”
“Are there others as well?”
“The entire staff. Everyone who hails from Neumovos.”
“But… how was I able to touch you earlier?” When I’d pushed Orla toward the chair, her body, her clothing, had felt solid.
She stays quiet for a noticeable length of time, her answer curiously short. “Because we have not yet passed on.” A harsh tug removes the sheets from the mattress. She bundles them up, drops them in a basket at her feet.
I see. Because without the staff, the Frost King’s citadel would not function. They are the foundation upon which this fortress is built, likely maintaining the grounds, cooking the king’s meals, among other things.
“I’m going to ask you another question that is probably rude, but do you eat? Sleep?”
“Yes, I eat. Yes, I am able to sleep, and feel emotion, and pain.” If I’m not mistaken, her wan complexion fades as she speaks, her outline growing faint. Now that I know she is incorporeal, it’s impossible to overlook. “But food tastes like ash in my mouth, my sleep is plagued by nightmares, and I am burdened with memories of my old life. It is the same for every specter. Generally, when someone passes on, they shed those memories. The people from Neumovos do not.”
Why make his staff suffer? I mean to ask her to elaborate, but Orla grows twitchy. For now, I set aside my questions and steer the conversation to the matter at hand.
“Let’s say I skip the wedding. Theoretically, of course. What then?”
“No, my lady, youmustattend the ceremony.” With a sound of distress, she returns to the fire, poking the logs with more force than is necessary. Flames lick the wood hungrily.
“What will he do?” I say, rising to my feet and planting my hands on my hips. “Lock me up?” He has already done that. He has taken me from what I love most.
Orla grows quiet. “No, my lady.”
My gaze sharpens as the woman’s head dips, an attempt to make herself small and unnoticeable. That is how prey behave when in the presence of an apex predator.
Kneeling in front of her, I gently pry her fingers from the fire poker and set it aside. Over the years, my memory of Ma has faded, but Orla reminds me of her. Rough hands, soft heart. My knowledge of the Frost King is limited. I must build a picture piece by piece. “What will the king do, Orla? Will he hurt you?”
She pales, drops her gaze. “He has never laid a hand on a staff member, but he has a temper. It doesn’t often appear, but when it does, it is… frightening.”
“I see.”
Helplessness is a feeling I know well. I understand Orla, thoughI barely know her. She, too, lives in the Frost King’s shadow. I will not see others punished for my defiance.
Wedding it is.
“All right, Orla. You win.” I stand, arms spread at my sides. “Do what you will with me.”
She strips me like a madwoman before dumping me into the roomy tub behind the divider. Scalding heat eats away the dirt and grime coating my skin, and I groan, loud and long.
I scrub myself from head to toe—twice. By the time I’m done, the bath water is an unpleasant, murky gray. I step from the tub and dry myself with a towel. At this point, the scarf seems pointless, since Orla isn’t aware of my deception, so I leave it off.
As I step around the barrier, I go still. “What are you doing?”
Orla holds my clothes over the fire, as if preparing to toss them in as fuel for the flames.
She snatches her hand back, shame coloring her cheeks. “They are so filthy, I thought—” Her eyes dart to my scarred cheek, then away.
“It’s all I have left of home.”
Orla’s shoulders droop, and she nods. “Once they’re washed, I will return them to you.”
Thus, the remainder of the hour is spent in preparation of the approaching ceremony. My maid tugs a simple dress over my head. Long-sleeved, thankfully, and a midnight blue that complements my brown skin. It fits quite well. I’m assuming this was worn by a former wife, which is a rather dismal thought, for the woman is, in all likelihood, dead. At least the dress isn’t white. I am not that pure a woman.
Gold slippers and a matching headband complete the ensemble, my hair plaited down my back, clean and glossy. While Orla busies herself smoothing the wrinkles from the skirt, I slide on my arm sheath and dagger. Lastly, the veil. Once the Frost King removes it, he’ll learn of my deception. The time for hiding, however, is past.
