I did not trust my voice, and bid them a silent farewell. Once the door was closed, I scrambled for the trunk. My night shifts, day gowns, a few formal silks. Nothing was missing, and a bite of shame tugged at my heart.
Alver folk had dreary affinities, they did not seem altogether honest, but no one had mistreated me. They’d all been kind enough. Even my nightmare prince.
Brine coated my skin from the journey. I took to washing in the bedchamber, using a small wooden basin and soft linen until my skin pinked from the scrubbing.
Jonas vowed I could have the night to settle, undisturbed. As promised, the room was quiet, the only hint someone had entered as I washed was a tray of pale cheeses and brown rolls with honey, and placed on one of the chairs was a parchment wrapped box, my name printed on the side.
Inside was a small wooden box engraved in stars and moons of Natthaven. Perhaps a gift from the vows? I opened the lid and lost my grip at once.
The box clattered to the floor. My stomach cinched. Who would send such a thing?
Vicious pins stabbed the wings, the head, the middle, and every thin leg of a gentle sun wing. The creatures were unthreatening, they offered guidance in the wood if their trust was earned. As a child, facing the wilds of Natthaven alone, sun wings protected me.
This was a small, unassuming act to some, but to me, this was a betrayal of their trust. I would never display such a cruelty.
My fingers trembled when I plucked a rolled piece of parchment that had spilled from the box. A simple message, but it raised the hair on my neck.
A small token of home, so you never forget where you belong.
Chapter 15
The Mist Thief
Dew drops gleamedlike crystals on silken black leaves. The blooms were strange, a vibrant lavender on dark stems.
Fae foliage was the same as elven, yet a world all its own. Roses and lilies were there, but rows of gnarled, stubby trees were mingled with hedges of fiery leaves and branches.
I pulled back the woolen hood of my cloak and leaned forward to smell the center. It smelled like smooth honey, a scent that lingered in the back of my throat until I tasted it.
After the disturbing gift, sleep abandoned me shortly before dawn.
My rooms remained askew, and my thoughts would not stop racing through the events of last night. I reasoned the sun wing was a misplaced attempt by someone on Natthaven to keep me connected to elven culture. I burned the box in the fire of the inglenook in the great hall before leaving for the gardens.
It was peaceful here, and there was a bit of heady relief knowing my new lands were not so horrid.
In truth, it seemed even my new husband was not the fiend I imagined.
His words last night would not bleeding leave me.Just you. A softplea to be myself, the woman I kept locked in my heart, hidden beneath pious indifference and regal air.
Jonas spoke like he wanted to know me and I couldn’t understand it. What the prince didn’t know was the Skadi he wanted me to show was a ridiculously hopeful and romantic woman to the core.
I blamed my fluttering heart on the tales I’d read since childhood, books I still had not managed to locate since arriving. Romantic stories of long quests for love, desperate acts to save the beloved from danger.
Deep in the secret corners of my heart, there was always a piece that dreamed I’d look down from a tower window to see my good, honorable prince storming the gates to reach me.
A man who risked body and soul because of his unyielding love and devotion.
I abandoned the flower vines and continued strolling through the gardens. There was a reason such tales were kept between parchment pages. They were not real.
Dorsan had waited for me outside my chamber before the sunrise. My guard did not press on the contents of the box I’d burned in the flame, and now kept a healthy distance as I turned down stone pathways, admiring and gawking at strange trees and blooms.
By now, morning mists had lifted and the sunlight chased away the last drops of dew on the gardens. Still lovely, but not as quiet.
More than one servant—staff—had taken to pruning and yanking noxious thistles before the heat of the day grew too fierce. I sat atop a stone bench and observed the bustle inside the open doors of the cooking wing.
A sharp looking woman barked orders. Her hair was tied back with a blue kerchief and one hand kept hold of a knobby walking stick.
Men, women, girls, and boys raced about. Some stacked wooden crates, tossing out roots and garden spoils. Others carried thick wooden trays of unbaked breads.
