“Call me Wren, please. And you are?”
The man plucks a towel from the counter, dries his hands. “Silas, my lady.”
“Silas. I was wondering if you take requests.”
He glances at the fare bubbling and steaming in assorted pots and pans. “The food is almost done, but—”
“Not for dinner,” I clarify. “Dessert.”
His mouth opens, and a squeak of air emits from his throat. “Dessert.” The workers pause amidst their tasks, the silence startling in the wake of all that rattling and clanging.
“Yes.” My eyes dart to the staff, who spring into motion again. “Cake, to be specific.”
“Cake?” More tentatively: “The lord requested this?”
“No, but it won’t be a problem.” I offer him an indulgent smile. “Cake is my favorite dessert and my husband wants to make sure I’m happy.” And it’s quite simple: cake makes me deliriously happy.
He tosses the towel aside, considering. “Well,” he says, “if the lord is amenable, my lady—”
I lift my eyebrows.
“Wren,” he corrects. “I would be honored to bake you a cake. Is there a particular flavor you prefer?”
“Chocolate would be lovely.” Beaming from ear to ear, I return upstairs to take my seat at the unoccupied dining room table. Moments later, dishes heaped with steaming food are served. I begin filling my plate with roasted sprouts, thick slices of soft bread, a whole quail, its skin crispy and smelling of rosemary, and savory gravy that pours out rich and thick. I’ve barely eaten the last few days. Now I attack the food with vengeance, pushing all thoughts of the starving townsfolk from my mind. If I’m to help them, help Elora, I need to keep up my strength.
A full glass of wine awaits me. I take a sip. It feels like relief. It always feels like relief. Elora never understood. Time and again, I asked her if she would not cure someone who was ill, had the cure been inreach atop the table, red liquid in a clear glass. She never deigned to answer.
I’m halfway through my meal when my skin tingles in awareness, tendrils of icy air sliding exploratory fingertips down my spine. My fingers twitch around my fork. I will them to settle.
With my back to the king, I’m blind to his approach. But I can hear those clipped footsteps echoing in steady increments. Seconds later, he rounds the table, pinning me with the force of that otherworldly gaze.
My chin lifts despite the incessant hammering of my heart. The Frost King may be an absolute bastard, but he has impeccable taste. An overcoat of slate gray encases his wide shoulders and chest, bright silver buttons nestled like stars. The fire tosses wells of light and shade over his cheekbones, that sharp-edged jawline. His hair is damp, pulled into a low tail, suggesting he has recently bathed.
His eyes pick me apart slowly—my filthy attire, oily hair, the gravy smeared on my chin—before lingering on the wineglass clamped between my fingers. When his attention shifts to the roaring fire, his frown deepens.
I continue digging into my meal as if I’m not bothered by his presence in the slightest.
Eventually, he asks, “Did Orla bring you the dress?”
“Yes.”
He stares at me as though I’m a simpleton. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”
Offering him my sweetest smile, I reply, “I didn’t want to.”
The tic of his jaw reveals enough. He is not pleased. He expected my cooperation. And the fire… His gaze returns to the devouring flames. Another surprise.
“You smell atrocious.”
My mouth twitches. I manage to swallow down the absurd laughter brought on by the bubbling, effervescent sensation warming my body. “And you wear the blood of innocents on your hands. What of it? Do not act like some noble lord when we both know there is nothing noble or lordly about you.”
The Frost King makes a sound of pure derision. “You are no lady.”
I smile nastily. “If you wanted a lady, you should have married my sister.”
“That was my intention.”
With that, he sits, unfolds a napkin onto his lap, and begins filling his plate.
