“It’s done,” Vale says. “Daughter, your only task now is to survive the next few days, until the fever of the Gloaming breaks.” His eyes shift to Basten, the corner of his mouth curling with disdain. “Keep her alive—then, we’ll see how long you can manage to keep yourself out of the grave, too.”
Gods, that word clings to me like sweat.
Thegrave.
For the next week, I hardly leave my bed—not because I’m sick or weak, but the opposite. My new body is intimidatingly strong—every step I take ripples in outward quakes. If I so much as stand, pinecones clatter against the windows in sudden volleys. Shutters burst open, curtains billowing. This is no peaceful partnership with nature—it’s a battle raging between me and the elements.
And myhunger.
Servants can’t bring trays of honeycakes fast enough to satisfy my roaring belly—I drain the wine goblets, lick the plates, and still crave more. Priests cart in overflowing baskets of offerings from my devotees, anxious to win my favor. I roll every string of rosewood beads between my fingers, breathe in every bundle of rosemary, rub every silk scarf over my shoulders, mythighs, my breasts. I want to devour every texture, every taste, every scent.
Each time I touch an offering, the chaos inside me eases. The punishing wind down the chimney fades into a breeze. For a moment, I can breathe.
And sex. Gods, thesex.
Basten and I hardly come up for air. It’s been a constant tangle of limbs, stroking and squeezing, a collision of hips only broken to throw a reindeer pelt blanket over our naked bodies when the blushing maid brings in our breakfast trays. Deep claw marks run down every inch of his back. His neck is bruised from my kissing.
His wrist is marred by my teeth marks.
It…gnaws at me. My father’s warning that acolytes don’t live longer than a few months. I try not to drink from Basten, and push for sex or prayer instead, but every little flash of his tanned skin only makes me more ravenous. Here and there, I can’t help but take a few deep sips.
He begs me to use him and swears I won’t hurt him—but he’s human, and I know his strength is no match for the hunger inside me. Yet still, he offers himself. Again and again. Until I’m terrified I’ll break him.
Somehow, night after night, he proves even stronger than I knew.
And that gives me hope that wewilldefy the odds.
Over the days, something shifts. Each night, the Gloaming fever burns a little less. The frenzied wind loses its edge. The floorboards no longer quake with every step. I begin to feel…not myself, exactly. But as though the clouds have lifted.
And then one morning, I blink awake with Basten’s slumbering arm thrown over me, and for the first time, I’m not famished. No restless wind whips the trees outside. The hawks circle smoothly.
With this new stillness, a strange power raps at my pulse.
Basten snores in my ear, worn out from last night’s exertions. I rub my bleary eyes and get out of bed, then slide on a robe and open the door.
I step into the hall for the first time in days.
To my surprise, overflowing piles of offerings fill the hallway. There are flower bouquets. Brown loaves of bread by the dozen. Fragrant bundles of fresh-cut lavender.
The heavyset, grizzly-bearded captain posted outside my door straightens in surprise before quickly dropping to one knee.
He lowers his head to me in a rush. “Lady Solene.”
I stare, blinking a few times before I realize he’s speaking tome.
It’s…going to take a while before I get used to that name.
And all the bowing.
And the offerings.
“I—wanted some fresh air,” I say, my throat raspy and unused. “I thought I’d go for a short walk. Just in the gardens.”
Without lifting his head, his eyes shift nervously to the left, and before I can ask what the problem is, voices rise from around the corner.
“Lady Solene? Is she awake?”
“Is that her?”
