He doesn’t demand an explanation. He simply selects a dandy brush from the bucket as he joins me in grooming Phaethon, the stable doors open to welcome the night sounds.
“Why do you brush Phaethon if he is in spirit form?” I ask. “He hasn’t any hair.”
“He is a horse no longer, but he still enjoys the process.”
“Will he always remain a darkwalker?”
I sense his caution despite there being no outward sign of it. “I’m not sure. The first few decades, he remained in horse form, but over time, his soul grew corrupt. I assume, unless he returns to the City of Gods, that he will remain a darkwalker. Thankfully, the bond we established prior to his transformation remains intact. He is the only darkwalker that accepts my authority.” Boreas stares at me, taking in my glassy eyes, the brush forgotten. “He likes you.”
“What’s not to like?”
His eyebrows hitch upward, as if conceding that point. He tosses his dandy brush into the bucket and says, “I want to show you something.”
My intention was to return to my rooms, but I’m no closer to sleep than I was hours ago. Whatever it is he wishes to show me, it will help divert my attention from Elora. “All right.”
As it turns out, there are a few places I overlooked in my investigation of the grounds, because the Frost King stops at a door tucked into a corridor I had failed to notice. “I could have sworn this door wasn’t here before.”
“You’re correct,” he says, pushing it open. “It’s visible only to a select few.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I follow him down a set of damp stone steps that spiral deeper into a subterranean warren. At the bottom, a tunnel leads to a second set of stairs, which we ascend, winding around a fat stone pillar. At the top, we reach another door. The Frost King pushes it open, and my gasp shatters the quiet.
Green.
The color is so painfully vivid I shy away from the sight. It smells of the earth, like damp moss and loam, and the chill in my bones begins to thaw in the blessed warmth.
It’s a greenhouse.
A glass chamber encapsulates an area twice the size of Edgewood’s town square. Moonlight pours through the geometric panes, dousing the area in shades of white and silver. There are trees—beautiful, sweeping, towering trees—and thick vines, and flowering plants tucked into pots, carpeting various tables and shelves, spilling across the ground. Everything clambers for space, leaving only the narrowest path squeezing through the lush green beyond.
In awe, I move toward a rose bush in full bloom. The flowers, fat as my palm, release a sugary scent. Red, pink, yellow, white. I’m experiencing tints and hues I have never before seen.
My feet wander the moonlit path, and before long, the door disappears behind the density of interlocking leaves.
“Lilies,” I say, dumbstruck. Pretty white flowers shaped like trumpets, which I have seen only in books. A shallow creek winks playfully to my right as it flows parallel to the trail. Ferns congregate on the banks, unfurling their long crenated tongues to catch the moonlight that drips like candlewax.
“Are these…?”
“Blackberries,” the king says from behind.
Imagine that. Lightly, I trace the dark, bumpy skin of the fruit. It’s not real. It can’t be real. The land is naught but brittle, frozen wood, yet here lies a glass-encased heart, warm and beating and green.
“How is this possible?” I ask breathlessly.
Reaching over my shoulder, Boreas picks one of the berries and offers it to me. The juice stains his fingertips violet.
My eyes lift to his. A new intensity enters his gaze. An offering. But will I accept the gift?
This means nothing, I tell myself, even as I pluck the berry from his grasp and slip it between my lips. Sweetness explodes across my tongue, and my throat tightens. It tastes like all the good things I’ve never had a chance to experience.
The Frost King grabs a small metal can and begins watering the plants. “My power works in two ways. I can call down winter and the winds, or I can banish them. I’ve set limits so they cannot cross into this space.”
Two heartbeats later, the berry turns flavorless in my mouth. I know the face the king wears. I know his heart, or lack of it. I know he cares for no one. Power is his comfort. Power is his shield. Power is his obsession.
The greenhouse did well enough to lure me into a feeling of false security, but now I see what the glass walls truly are: a prison.
“You are angry.” He sounds puzzled.
“And you continually state the obvious.”
