Though just as colorless as the rest of the palace, the room is far more luxuriously appointed than I’m accustomed to. Everything is crafted of shining obsidian, from the sprawling vanities to the paneled walls, down to the elaborate taps of an enormous tub sunk in the middle of the floor. Windows stretch from floor to ceiling, inlaid with geometrically patterned iron and delicately etched glass.
An ache unfurls in my chest as I study it, both an appreciation of the beauty and a sharp bitterness toward it. How unfair that the plague has drained all the beauty from my world, when someone as terrible as the Carrion King has the privilege of it in every aspect of his life, down to his bathrooms. As evidenced by his treatment of my flower, I doubt he’s ever cared to examine his privilege or taken the time to appreciate the art that exists all around him.
I shove down my anger, bathing and dressing quickly. A disgusted squawking noise sounds in the back of my throat when I unfold the clothes the girl gave me. A useless dress with flimsy silk slippers, and a matching set of embroidered, black gloves.
I curse the king for not only being a vile monster, but also a misogynist prick who thinks he can wrap me up like some sort of kidnapped damsel. The thought of proving him wrong burns in my chest like a signal fire, as I roughly tug on the garment.
The fabric is supple against my skin, and the long sleeves are far warmer than the what’s left of my flimsy night gown. While the skirts aren’t voluminous enough to be a hindrance, they’ll decently conceal a weapon if I can find one. With a furtive glance at the door, I begin to hunt through the bathroom.
Eventually the king will have to let me out of this room. And when he does, I plan to be prepared. I was caught off guard last night when his death shadows froze the gun in my hand, but I’m a quick learner. I won’t make the same mistake again. Quietly enough to keep the woman from barging in, I rifle through the vanity drawers, shoving aside lotions and tonics and hairbrushes until I finally find a metal nail file.
Small and flimsy, but it’ll do in a pinch. At least until I can get my hands on some silverware.
I shove it in the pocket of the dress and then brush through my hair so quickly, my eyes water. When I emerge, it’s to find the man from the night before, Sam, speaking in animated tones to the servant girl. He’s sprawled out on one of the velvet chairs, two booted feet propped up on the serving table in front of him.
While he’s not dressed nearly as flamboyantly as the king, his appearance still carries far more flourish than I’m used to. A white ruffled shirt hangs open at his chest, revealing a myriad of tattoos inked over his brown skin. The shirt is tucked carelessly into a thick pair of leather pants that hug his overly muscled legs so tightly, they leave little to the imagination. Assorted sizes ofsilver and gold chains drape his neck and one of his ears is lined all the way up with hooped piercings. His black hair is braided in intricate cornrows, all of which he’s pulled into a long ponytail that hangs nearly to his waist. He tosses a few of the braids carelessly over his shoulder as he regales the girl with a story.
And indeed, if the woman is being held hostage by the King of Carrion, she appears entirely at ease with Sam. She sits cross-legged in the opposite chair, her skirts tucked around her legs and her hands moving in quick response to him. Sam throws his head back with a booming laugh, and it’s clear they’re both fluent in sign. I’ve never had a complete grasp on the language, but I’ve picked up enough over the years that a few of the signs should at least be recognizable. But as her hands continue to move, I find none that are familiar.
When they notice my presence, an awkward silence descends over the room, before Sam clears his throat and stands up. He dips his head respectfully, before his mouth breaks into a warm smile.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”
I’ve frozen in the bathroom doorway, eyeing Sam with increasing alarm. He’s been nothing but polite since we met, even going so far as to let me attack him when he clearly outmatches me in weight and strength, but anyone with an ounce of sanity can see the world outside the palace is as dark as midnight.
Following my gaze to the night sky outside the window, Sam’s smile softens, the white of his teeth glinting in the dim room. As my silence stretches on, he shifts on his feet in discomfort.
“I see you’ve met Marina,” he says awkwardly. “She’s here to help with anything you should need during your stay.”
I grip the file in my pocket, the flimsy metal digging into the soft flesh of my palm. “I don’t want to stay at all,” I bite out. “AndI certainly don’t want to be waited on by another helpless victim of your cruel king.”
Marina begins gesturing furiously, at me or Sam, I’m not sure. Corrosive rage pulsates through me at whatever’s been done to her in this awful place. The scar on her throat tells me enough; Marina wasn’t born mute.
It takes me a full minute to remember rampaging through the palace to murder some man crazy enough to call himself a king is not on my agenda. Doing whatever it takes to wake up from this plague-induced nightmare—that is the only thing that matters.
I rein in my anger with brutal efficiency, having become practiced long ago at allowing injustices to slide off my skin like oil. I let Zenni go without a fight and she was my friend. I can let Marina go, too.
Sam places a calm hand on Marina’s forearm, and as something passes between them, she relaxes, though not before shooting me a withering glare.
When Sam looks back to me, his gaze is oddly pitying. “As the king said, no one is holding you hostage, if you are so inclined to leave.”
“Are there peopleuninclinedto leave the weird castle of a child-murdering madman with the power to rot them from the inside out?” I blurt out incredulously. “If I knew how in the hell I got here, trust me…I’d already be gone.” Blood rushes past my ears as I stomp to the door, motioning wildly. “There aren’t even any doorknobs!”
Sam chuckles, a warm, deep sound. I tense, wrapping my fingers around the file in my pocket as he walks up behind me, but he only leans over my head and presses a palm to the carved panel. Like smoke, the entire thing dissipates before my eyes.
“No knobs needed,” he explains, as I blink dumbly at the door and then dumbly up at him, my breathing ratcheting higher and higher. “And you fell.”
“What?”
“That’s how you got here. You fell.”
I peer up into his handsome face for a prolonged moment. How can he possibly know about the dream? Because that’s what it had to be—no one survives falling from a fifteen-story building, and if they do, they aren’t in any condition to speak, let alone gallivant around a gothic castle.
“I fell,” I repeat dubiously, the words sounding oddly light in the space of the room.
Sam nods. “Yes, miss.”
“Willa,” I reply without thought. “Call me Willa.”
