His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he'd felt it too. But then he stepped back, composed again.
"As I was saying. The forest sees all. Knows all. Your attempt at gaining allies, for instance." He plucked a rose from the pillar, careful of its thorns. "Did you think I wouldn't hear about your conversation with the kitchen maid?"
Briar's blood chilled. "I didn't—"
"Ask her name? But you wanted to. Perhaps even wondered if she might help you, given time." He studied the rose, then held it out to her. "Take it."
"Why?"
"Because I told you to."
She reached for it carefully, but the moment her fingers touched the stem, more thorns erupted. They pierced her palm and fingertips, drawing blood that the rose drank greedily.
She tried to drop it, but her hand wouldn't open.
"Lesson two," Eliam said calmly. "Everything here has a price. Even gifts.Especiallygifts."
When the rose finally released her, it was fat with her blood. Her hand throbbed, the puncture wounds already swelling.
"You're insane."
"No. I'm fae." He took her injured hand, examining the wounds with clinical interest. "And you're human. Oh so fragile and breakable. So easily damaged by things that wouldn't even scratch my kind."
"Then why give it to me?"
"Because you need to understand." His thumb pressed against one puncture, and she hissed at the pain. "This is not your world. Your rules don't apply. Your assumptions will get you killed. Pain is as adequate a motivator as any."
"I thought you wanted me alive."
"I want you mine." The distinction hung between them, heavy with implication. "There's a difference."
He released her hand, and she cradled it against her chest. Blood spotted the perfect dress, but he didn't seem to care.
"Come. The library next."
"My hand."
"Will heal. Or it won't. Either way, we continue."
She followed him from the conservatory, leaving drops of blood in a trail on the floor. Behind them, tiny flowers sprouted from each drop, red as rubies.
The library defied physics more than any room yet. Shelves curved up walls and across ceilings, connected by bridges that might or might not support weight. Booksflew between sections. Some volumes were chained to desks, growling when approached.
"Can you read?" he asked, guiding her to a section that seemed marginally less hostile.
"Of course I can read."
"Can you read this?"
He pulled a volume from the shelf, opened it to a random page. The symbols swam before her eyes, almost familiar but not quite.
"It's... I don't know what this is."
"Old tongue. The language of contracts. Of binding." He set the book on a podium that grew from the floor to meet it. "You'll learn. Every marked human must understand the exact words of their bondage."
"Why?"
"So you can appreciate the completeness of it." He opened another book, this one filled with illustrations that moved. "So you understand there is no loophole. No escape clause. No clever interpretation that sets you free."
