“Then be gone, Huntsman.” With that, she leaves the throne and returns to the hidden door she came from.
The same two guards as before enter to escort me out of the throne room. I ask them to take me to speak with the palace steward, and they silently lead the way.
My mind reels with every step I take. The meeting didn’t go how I expected at all. Despite the sliver of doubt I held regarding Tris’ part in her husband’s murder before today, I still felt mostly convinced everything was exactly as Astrid had said—that Tris was the one who had illegally compelled Marybeth. That she’d ordered the girl to poison Astrid’s pie. That she’d forced her to go to Irridae, steal my Chariot, and take Astrid back to the queen. I’d hoped to at least get a partial admission from her today, or some tangible proof to convince the Alpha Council to open an investigation against her. But our conversation led to nothing of the sort. She gave me not even the barest hint that she was involved. Could she be so skilled at deception? The only time she seemed even remotely like a cruel, calculated killer was when she made the threat regarding our bargain.
The queen is a cold woman indeed, and perhaps she is calculating. But is she guilty of killing her husband? Of compelling a human to do her bidding all to punish the girl who was her originally intended victim?
And if not…then who is?
26
ASTRID
Iwake to a scratchy tongue grating against my eyelid. Blinking my eyes open, I catch Grigg standing on my forehead. I lift the fluffy orange kitten from my face and cradle him to my chest. As I run my palm over his soft coat, I’m startled by how much sensation I feel in my hands. In fact, every inch of my body seems awake, humming with energy, with feeling. I breathe easier. I see clearer. My blankets feel impossibly soft. The warm glow of the setting sun streaming through the windows seems to sparkle with a beauty I’ve never witnessed before.
It’s been like this every time I’ve awoken the last two days. I’ve cycled through sleep and wakefulness more times than I can count, but each time I open my eyes from the dregs of slumber, I feel better than ever. As if each hour that passes, each hour that grows between my last dose of Crimson Malus, peels back another layer of a stifling cloak I hadn’t been aware I was wearing. This time is no different. Now I feel as if I’m thinking clearly for the first time in years.
The first few days after my emotional breakdown in the foyer were nothing like this. I hardly remember them at all. I recall agony. Grief. Nightmares. So many nightmares. And Torben. I remember Torben lying next to me in his bear form when I was at my lowest. Mopping my sweat-soaked brow with a cool cloth. Helping me drink. Eat. Adjusting my pillows. Bringing fresh blankets that didn’t smell of mold.
I roll onto my side—which sends Grigg scurrying away—and pull the blankets close to my chin. They smell of fresh clean cotton, which tells me Torben either purchased them new or dug them out of some well-preserved chest. Either way, it makes me realize just how much he fussed over me while I was recovering. Not to mention that memory I untangled.
The one of him.
The one he confirmed was real.
My heart does a strange flip in my chest, the feeling so wild and foreign I fear I’m having some sort of attack. But no, it is just a normal sensation. One I suppose I was never able to feel at such magnitude under the effects of my tincture.
I turn my gaze to the bedroom door, straining my ears for any sound of Torben, any sign that he’s returned from speaking with my stepmother. All I hear is silence and the purr of Mama Cat curled up at the foot of the bed. Disappointment has my stomach sinking while anxious anticipation bubbles in my chest. He said he’d be home tonight. Which means he could be back at any minute.
Panic laces through me, sending me bolting upright to assess the state of the room. I grimace at the discolored cloth hanging over the side of the ewer, the half-eaten plate of berries sitting on the nightstand, the white nightgown crumpled on the floor, stained with something that looks an awful lot like vomit. What a mess I’ve made. I can only imagine what I must look like. What I mustsmelllike.
That’s all it takes to have me springing from bed and rushing downstairs to find the stove to heat some water. It’s about time I had a bath.
* * *
An hour later,I can safely say I no longer smell like someone who’s been bedridden for nearly a week. I’ve scrubbed myself clean, soaked my hair, done all that I could with boiled water and a washbasin. I’d have preferred a full bath in one of the many dusty tubs the manor has, but I don’t know how plumbing works in homes that are supposed to be unoccupied. Same goes for electricity. I haven’t dared touch a single light switch in case any usage of Faerwyvae’s magic-infused utilities alert someone that Davenport Estate has been breached. Instead, I used only the well, the coal stove in the kitchen, and the oil lamp Torben left for me.
Now I stand naked in my room, letting the air dry my skin in the absence of anything appropriate to use as a towel. I frantically gather every discarded piece of clothing, searching for a nightgown that isn’t dirty. It seems I went through every one Torben had packed for me, and left them all smelling of sweat and bile.
I shove aside my dirty clothing and sift through the items in the suitcase instead. Most are things I recognize—my lightweight skirts and blouses that I wore day to day at the hotel—which tells me Torben must have retrieved them from my room before we left Irridae. But there are also several new items. A lace blouse, a wool skirt, a tartan day dress. Clothing better suited to the cooler climate of the Spring Court, all as close to my size as an untailored article can be. They look brand new, which is oddly touching. It was one thing for him to buy me clothes after mine were ruined during the ogre fight, but to purchase me fine things like this…
My heart does another flip in my chest.
I gently fold my clothing and tuck it back into the suitcase. I’m about to simply wrap a sheet around myself in place of a nightdress when something catches my eye at the foot of the bed. I crouch down near one of the broken legs of the bedframe—courtesy of Torben lying on the bed in his bear form—and retrieve something made from rosy pink silk. It’s a robe, the inside lined with plush velvet. I blink at it, wondering where it came from, only to recall having put it on the night I tried to sneak out in search of Crimson Malus. I’d hardly given it more than a cursory glance before I wrapped it around myself and snuck downstairs. Now that I’m in a proper frame of mind, I have the good sense to acknowledge how luxurious the robe is. Guilt pinches my chest at having found it crumpled on the floor.
Gingerly, I bring the robe to my nose and give it a hesitant sniff. Thankfully, it seems it was left in a tolerable state. I don the robe, shuddering as the velvet lining caresses my naked skin. It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt. Or does everything have the potential to feel like this? Have I been unwittingly numbed by my tincture? I tie the belt loosely around my waist, then run my fingers through my hair, combing my damp strands as well as I can. Halfway through, I find my eyelids fluttering shut. The feel of my fingertips against my scalp is highly soothing, sending shivers down my spine. I close my eyes and continue to massage my scalp. Flashes of feverish memories dance before my eyelids—of someone else’s gentle touch. I see Torben using his strong, firm hands to gently smooth my brow, my cheek. I can almost feel him running his fingertips down the column of my neck—
My eyelids fly open, and I pause, the pads of my fingers hovering over the base of my throat.
That last part wasn’t a memory, it was…more like a fantasy. Why was I imagining that? Imagining…him? I do recall him comforting me during my convalescence, but his touch then had been practical. Clinical. Not a sensual featherlight pressure, running along my collarbone, then back up my neck only to trail down the curve of my shoulder—
My breath catches in my throat as I find my imagination has taken over yet again and my hands have moved with it. Hands I was fantasizing werehis. I pause, my robe askew where I’ve bared my shoulder. A warm heat builds low in my belly, making my breaths turn sharp. My knees tremble so hard, I drop to the bed, sitting at the edge while I struggle to catch my breath. My skin tingles everywhere, eager for touch, to be brushed against, to be explored. No matter how hard I try to keep Torben’s face at bay, I find my eyes closing again, imagining him standing before me, touching me, running one hand down between my breasts while his other skates up my leg from my knee to my inner thigh—
A whoosh of sound has me jumping to my feet. I open my eyes just in time to see Torben standing frozen in the doorway, one hand on the door handle, the other clenched to the frame as if he was in the middle of charging inside. His eyes are wide, shifting from panic to…
His gaze slides to my bare shoulder, my robe now hazardously low, exposing the upper curve of my breast.
“Sorry,” he rushes to say as he looks hastily away. “I—I just got home. I thought you were in trouble. Your…your scent…” He clears his throat and takes a step back, his moves so uneven he stumbles.
