The Messenger’s eyes crinkle. “Oh dear,” he whispers. “I have offended you.”
He has not offended me. He has belittled me.
“You know, I think I’ve changed my mind.” Stepping back, I begin to close the door.
Zephyrus inserts his foot against the jamb. “Have a laugh, Wren. It was nothing but harmless banter.”
Ma always insisted Elora and I treat those we don’t know graciously, I think, but then I remember Ma is dead, and I am a woman grown, and this god dares test my boundaries as though it is a game.
Swinging open the door, I plant a palm against Zephyrus’ chest, shove him back with all my strength. He trips over his feet in surprise.
“Perhaps last night I gave the wrong impression.” We stand nose to nose. His breath smells of sweet nectar. “Let me be clear: do not toy with me. It will not end well for you.”
The green of his eyes pales. He is no longer laughing. “Are you threatening me?”
“Interpret it how you will,” I say, stepping back. Foolish I may be, but I am who I am, and I won’t apologize for it.
His mouth purses in contemplation. Then he laughs gustily. “Boreas will have his hands full with you, mark my words.” Once his chuckle dies down, he says, “I apologize for my behavior, Wren. You’re absolutely right. I’d love to explore the grounds with you. As friends,” he adds with a charming bow.
“Fine. One moment.” I slam the door in his face.
Though my stomach still lurches with nausea, it finally settles when I take a swig from the wineskin I’ve hidden in my dresser drawer. A craving soothed, for now.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I don thick breeches and a tunic, two pairs of woolen socks, fur-lined boots, and my coat. Patchy it may be, but it’s my last tie to home. The coats I’ve been provided—soft white fox fur, plush mink—collect dust in the bureau.
Zephyrus pushes off the wall when I exit my room. “Warm enough?”
“Yes. But don’tyouhave a warmer coat? It’s cold out.”
“Bringer of Spring, remember?” He flicks a warm breeze toward me. “Helps keep the cold out, though my power isn’t as strong in my brother’s realm.”
As he leads me down a staircase, I ask, “What is your realm like? Is there snow?”
“Snow doesn’t fall in my realm, or it didn’t.” He sighs, and it is the first time I sense fatigue beneath those many layers of pleasantry. He’s hidden it well. “When Boreas was banished to the Deadlands, his power was contained to his respective realm. Lately, however, things have begun to change. His influence has spread and now threatens my realm.”
“I’m sorry.” Outside, we cross a small courtyard with snow-topped benches pushed against the curve of the outer wall. It may have once been a garden, for there are raised, empty beds and lingering tree skeletons. “Why does his power encroach on your lands?”
“They lie adjacent to one another. It’s my belief that Boreas’ self-control weakens, causing his influence to spread beyond the Deadlands. With what I’ve heard concerning the Shade, it doesn’t surprise me, but I’m curious as to why it has not yet been addressed.” He drags a hand through his curls, gripping them near the crown of his skull briefly. “I don’t care for the reason. I want my lands cleansed of his hoarfrost. That is all. It’s why I traveled all this way—to plead with him.”
From what little I know of the Frost King, he is unlikely to grant his brother that wish. But what is it Zephyrus knows of the Shade? I want to question him, though I must take care not to reveal too much of myself until I’m certain of his character, what risks he poses to me, if any.
The courtyard flows into an empty square with broken pillars. This is clearly not Zephyrus’ first visit; he is familiar with the layout of the citadel.
When we reach the gates, they open for us without issue, and I walk right through, so pleased to have some semblance of freedom that even the snow fails to dampen my mood.
Abruptly, Zephyrus states, “You favor the bow.”
“Yes,” I say with surprise. “How did you know?”
“You told me at dinner last night.”
Now that he mentions it, I have a vague—extremely vague—recollection of the conversation. Too slippery to grasp. “Truthfully, I don’t remember much of last night.” As first impressions go, it wasn’t the best. In hindsight, I should have never allowed myself to drink so much, but that’s how it goes, generally. I’m not thinking about control or discipline or any of the other terms Elora has used in the past. I’m thinking only of that far-away place I reach with one more sip.
“I understand.” We veer off the road of trampled snow, vanishing into the surrounding forest. “And I don’t blame you. Boreas would drive anyone to drink. But even if you hadn’t mentioned the bow, I would have known.”
“How?” Snow dusts my coat, my breeches, my boots.
“Your hands.” Light as a feather, he touches his gloved fingertips to mine. “Calloused and slender. A natural-born hunter.”
