“My lady!” The shrill cry makes me wince. I’m not sure when my head started pounding, but pressure throbs behind my eyes at full force. “Please.” She snatches the wineskin from my grip, or rather, she attempts to. I cling to the container like the lifeline it is, and Orla has to peel my fingers free of the neck. She then marches to the open window and upends the remainder of the liquid over the ledge.
“What are you doing? I need that!”
“What you need is to get dressed.” She hauls me off the bed, and I nearly slam my face against the bedpost. I’m stripped down in seconds, dropped into the tub, and scrubbed clean. While my hair dries, Orla selects an ivory dress, one of many plucked from my extensive wardrobe, the attire altered to exactly my size. Pretty it may be, but I’m tired of dresses. I long for my trousers and loose tunics.
“Can’t you make my excuses?” Orla draws the laces of my corset tight against my lower back. The boning pinches against my ribs, and I wince. “Tell the king I’m ill.”
“I cannot lie to him, my lady.”
“It wouldn’t be a lie. I do feel ill.” My skin buzzes uncomfortably and my face is flushed, feverish. Such is the trap I’ve set for myself. A droplet hits my tongue, and my mind empties, muscle memory taking over. Sip and swallow.
Clarity only exists at the bottom of a bottle.
Orla huffs in exasperation, tying off the laces and turning me to face her. She tames my hair and cakes my face in colors until mysullen expression is frozen with dried face paint. I appreciate that she did not try to conceal my scar, merely evened out my skin tone. “If you hadn’t drunk so much wine, you would not be in this predicament,” she chides.
“If the Frost King hadn’t forced me to marry him, I wouldn’t have drunk so much wine.” Probably.
She all but shoves me out the door. “Don’t forget to smile.”
My slippers whisper against the stone floor as I descend the stairs to the equally dim lower level. Wall sconces provide small, glowing pockets of light. It would help to know where I’m supposed to go. The king never mentioned it.
“Excuse me.” I approach a man standing ramrod straight against the wall. “Which way—”
He points to a corridor on my right, but does not speak. The top of his skull—the area closest to the flame of a nearby sconce—shines transparent.
The doors in this hallway are all made of glass. The passage leads me to a set of double doors at the end, open in invitation.
This room reminds me of a cave: low ceiling, cramped walls, windowless. Despite the dreary location, there is a surprisingly elegant dining table where two men sit. Crystal glasses reflect candlelight and cast prisms of light onto the walls.
The Frost King glowers from his seat at the head of the table. An overcoat of lustrous black thread drapes his broad torso, and beneath, an equally black tunic is buttoned to his chin. No color. No warmth.
His guest, on the other hand, is in direct contrast to him. The man’s hair is a tumble of oaken curls, and as I cross the room, his eyes settle on me with a healthy amount of intrigue. A tunic of rough cloth the color of a forest presses against his lightly tanned skin. He’s up and across the room in an instant, taking my hand as if he has every right to. The way he moves reminds me of a dance.
My, but he is pretty. Thick lashes frame his clover eyes, and freckles dot the bridge of his straight nose like droplets of rain. I can’t help but stare. His face is pleasing to me. Open.
“Lady Wren.” A warm, cultured voice. “It’s an honor.”
This man is polite, if nothing else. “Thank you.” I expect an introduction, but it doesn’t come. “And you are?”
“Most folk call me the Messenger.” Nimble fingers rest lightly on mine, gentle as butterfly wings. He smells like moss. “But to you, I am Zephyrus.”
The man speaks as if he presumes I’m familiar with his identity. My wine-addled brain struggles to place it.
“My brother,” the king intones.
The Messenger. That would make him the West Wind, Bringer of Spring. No wonder he’s so pleasant.
“Nice to meet you, Zephyrus.” He is a few inches taller than me, although not nearly as tall as his brother.
“The pleasure is mine.” An indulgent smile curves his mouth—the mouth of a man who looks as though he dearly loves to laugh. “When I heard Boreas found himself another wife, I did not expect her to be so lovely.”
The Frost King scoffs.
My face warms, and my stomach sloshes uncomfortably. I’ve never been called lovely. Good enough to bed, but little else, what with my scarring. As for the king’s response, I ignore it.
“Thank you.” I’m not sure I believe this man, considering we just met, but it is more kindness than I’ve received from the king, and I find myself warming toward him. Bringer of Spring, indeed.
“The food grows cold.” The king glares at us, his words curdling.
