My chin tilts up, faking whatever confidence I can. “I’m not going to change sides. I’malwaysgoing to choose him.”
Rip tsks, a rueful, disappointed click of his venomous tongue. “Oh, Goldfinch. For your sake, I hope that’s not true.”
He walks out of the tent, his retreat making all my adrenaline flee, leaving me tired and weak.
For a moment, all I can do is stare.
Then I pick up the snowpack from the ground where I dropped it, and strip out of my dress, socks, and gloves. I take the broken peonies and slip them beneath the furs at my head, then lay my heavy body down on the pallet.
Rip’s words repeat cruelly in my head while I envision Mist’s stomach growing, Midas’s cracked reflection, my ribbons hurting Hojat.
I hold the cold cloth over my eyes and tell myself that the wetness there is from the melting snow, that the ache in my head is worse than the ache in my heart.
I guess the commander is right. I should be better at lying, because I don’t believe myself at all.
Chapter 21
AUREN
I look around the formal dining room, at the tapestries hanging over windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, the paneled walls adorned with ornamental embellishments. A chandelier hangs like icicles above us, its crystals glittering like the sparkle of a lover’s eye.
Even after months of being here, I’m still not over all the lavishness, the sheer size of the palace. It’s all incredibly elaborate, making me feel so out of place, so small.
The amount of wealth in Highbell Castle is enough to make my head spin, and that was even before Midas decided he wanted everything to be turned gold.
“You alright, Precious?”
At Midas’s query,I glance over, a smile already turning up my lips. “Yes,” I reply. “It looks good like this, don’t you think?”
We both stand alone in the room, and it’s still strange to think that this is where we live now. I haven’t gotten used to it. I also haven’t gotten used tous, either. Midas used to wear cheaply made trousers and scuffed boots. Now, he’s always in silk tunics and perfectly tailored pants. The strangest of all is when a crown rests on his copper-blond head.
Even so, it fits him. It’s like he was made for it—all of this finery doesn’t leave him feeling awkward or make him seem out of place. If anything, he’s flourished in Highbell despite having to take up the mantle of king so quickly.
I’m proud of him. So proud of the way he hasn’t faltered, hasn’t backed down. For a man who was raised on a farm with no family left, he’s taken on the role of king with ease.
His eyes, the color reminding me of the pod on a carob tree, look over the room with meticulous assessment.
I’ve been all over the castle with him today, parts of it transforming before our eyes. A windowsill here, a rug there, teacups and chair cushions, wall sconces and doorknobs.
Night fell a few minutes ago, taking away the last of the day’s watery light. Servants have already come in to feed the fireplace, the flames a hungry, wakeful beast that growls and spits, casting the room in its orange glow.
Dozens of candles adorn the dining table, place settings waiting perfectly arranged over the newly shimmering surface. I can still see the grains of the wood, but the polished timber is now remade—gold, to match the rug and curtains and dishes.
“It does look good,” Midas hums, his eyes catching on the spots that haven’t been turned yet—the white marble floors, the paneled walls, the ceiling, and the backs of the chairs. “But it will look even better when it’sallgolden in here,” he finishes with a smile in my direction. “You must be hungry. Let’s eat.”
With a hand on my back, he leads me toward the table, two servants already there with our chairs pulled out. Before I’ve even finished sitting down, my ears prickle with the noise of a door opening, of heels clicking against the floor.
I freeze, unable to help the servant to push in my seat. I shoot Midas a wide-eyed look, but he’s looking at the doorway whereshejust walked in.His wife, his queen.
I hear her skirts swish against the floor as she comes closer. She rounds the table, sitting at Midas’s right, directly across from me.
The dining room is filled with sudden tension, and Queen Malina knows it. A gentle nudge behind me unsticks my hesitation, and I murmur a thanks to the servant as they finish pushing in my chair.
“Wife, you’ve joined me for dinner,” Midas says, the cool blanket of his tone covering up whatever other emotions he might be feeling.
The queen never dines with him for supper unless they have guests. They share breakfast or sometimes tea, but not dinner.
Dinner is supposed to bemine.
