I could do it. Take my sister’s hand, flee through the kitchen, and pray the snow hides our tracks from the villagers who would be sent to bring Elora to justice.
“Places,” Miss Millie hisses, motioning for the women to take their seats at the table. Noise clangs in the air—shifting chairs and whispering cloth and the dreadedclop, clop, clop, closer and closer.
I’m halfway to Elora’s side when Miss Millie snags my arm. Her fingernails bite painfully. I can’t pry them loose. “Let me go.”
“It’s too late,” she breathes. Clumps of gray-streaked hair stick to her round, sweaty face. The lines bracketing her mouth deepen.
“There’s still time. Lend us your horse. I’ll take your daughter with us—”
Footsteps.
Miss Millie shoves me into a corner as the front door opens. Its hinges squeal like a mutilated animal. Around the table, the women flinch, shrinking back into their chairs as a gale bursts through the doorway, guttering half the lamps and plunging the room into near-darkness. I freeze against the back wall, mouth dry.
In steps a towering figure, etched black against the shadows. Cloaked, hooded, alone.
He stoops to enter the room, for the buildings are constructed with low slanted ceilings to conserve heat. When he straightens, the crown of his head brushes the rafters, darkness coiling inside his hood. Two pricks of brightness glow within.
Miss Millie, bless her heart, shuffles forward. Terror has bleached her face white. “My lord?”
He lifts a hand. Someone gasps.
But he only pushes back his hood, revealing a countenance of such agonizing beauty that I can only look at him for so long before I’m forced to turn away. And yet, only seconds pass before my attention returns, drawn by some unnamed compulsion to study him in greater detail.
His face appears to have been hewn from alabaster. Low lamplight illuminates the smooth plane of his forehead, the angled cheekbones and straight nose, that jaw of cut-glass. And his mouth… well. I’ve yet to see a more feminine mouth on a man. The coal shade of his hair drinks in the light, having been pulled into a short tail at the back of his neck. His eyes, the lambent blue of glacial ice, glow with unnerving intensity.
My hand clenches around one of the knives arranged on the table. I dare not breathe. I’m not sure I can, given the circumstances. The Frost King is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on, and the most wretched. It takes everything in me not to drive this blade into his heart. Assuming he has one.
He takes another step into the room, and the women scramble to their feet. The Frost King has yet to speak. There is no need. He has the women’s attention, and mine. We have prepared for this.
Judging by the cool disgust curling his upper lip, he is displeased by the lack of welcome. Tight black gloves encase his hands in smooth leather. Wide shoulders stretch the heavy material of his cloak, which he removes to reveal a pressed tunic the color of a rain cloud, silver buttons stamping a line toward the collar strangling his neck. Below, he wears fitted charcoal breeches and weathered boots. A dagger hangs from his waist.
My attention drifts to his right hand, which curves around the haft of a spear bearing a stone point. I’m positive he wasn’t holding that a moment ago. When it vanishes a heartbeat later, many of the women sigh in relief.
Releasing my grip on the knife, I let the utensil drop onto the ground. The clatter startles Miss Millie into action. She takes his cloak, hangs it on a peg beside the door, then pulls out a chair at the head of the table. Its legs scrape against the floor, and the Frost King sits.
The women sit as well.
“Welcome to Edgewood, my lord,” Miss Millie offers quietly. Her attention flits to the woman sitting on his immediate left—her daughter. The women drew sticks to determine which unlucky soulssat closest to him during the meal. Elora, thankfully, is seated at the far end of the table.
“We hope you enjoy the meal we’ve prepared for you.” The king scans the fare, unimpressed. “Unfortunately, our harvest has been lean in recent years.”
What she means isnonexistent.
“The soup is one of our specialties—”
He lifts a hand in silence, and Miss Millie’s voice peters out, her jowls wobbling as she swallows. And that, he seems to decide, is that.
It is the longest, most excruciating dinner in existence. Glass clinks as Miss Millie and I refill drinks, replace sullied napkins. No one speaks. The women I can understand; no one wishes to draw the king’s attention. Our guest has no excuse, however. Can’t he see we have gifted him what little food we can spare? And not even a word of acknowledgment?
Elora barely touches her food. She hunches over her plate in an attempt to make herself smaller—my recommendation—but she does not escape the Frost King’s notice. For that is where his gaze alights, time and again.
Slowly, my nerves fray to ruin. When the pressure in my chest threatens to squash my lungs, I retreat to the kitchen, fumble for the flask tucked into my waistband, and take a healthy swallow. My eyes sting from the burn that feels like deliverance, like salvation. We should have fled when we had the chance. It is too late now.
Taking a deep breath, I return to the dining hall. As the dinner crawls by, I pour the wine. The women guzzle it down, glass after glass, red droplets slicking their bloodless lips, cheeks deeply flushed. My throat begins to ache with violent craving. Halfway through the meal and my flask lies empty.
The Frost King barely touches his wine. It’s just as well. I have absolutely zero desire to serve him in any way, shape, or form, unless it’s to show him the door.
Unfortunately, Miss Millie doesn’t share the sentiment. “My lord, is the wine not to your liking?” Her show of concern makes me want tovomit. I’m sure she believes if she treats him kindly, he’ll pass over her daughter for another.
