But her tone suggests she is neither cowed nor planning to become more circumspect in her behavior.
For the first time since ascending the Blood Throne, I find myself unsure of what to do with one of my subjects.
On one hand, disrespect cannot be abided. It is a killing offense, worthy of moving her sacrifice forward.
On the other hand… I have no desire to do such a thing.
Perhaps because I am finding the duty of spending time with the Eryx Oblation not nearly as tedious as my father led me to believe.
Despite her audaciousness.
We arrive in the great hall, where most of the Door Gravels have resumed their posts, awaiting command from nobles who tend to sleep in until after moonsrise. Yilara is, hopefully, appeased.
But despite the return to order, many of the Door Gravels call out compliments across the hall toward my chambers:
“I love the cosmogolds!”
“Your bushes of nature jewelry are so pretty!”
“I keep sneaking outside to look at them!”
“I can’t wait to see tomorrow’s luntunias. What color will they be?”
The Eryx Oblation responds to them all with a casual cheer that does not match the punishment about to be visited upon her:
“Thank you, Doornessia!”
“So glad you enjoyed them, Doorkathian!”
“What a compliment, Doorvarkenth. Thank you so much for visiting them. Also know, they do love to be talked to.”
And to the one who asked about color: “Oh, my moons, Doorpeth, they’re the prettiest—I mean the absoluteprettiest—light purple with a crown of yellow. I can’t wait for you to see them.”
How does she know all of their names?
I can only assume she must have been beloved by this princess people.
Her earlier cowardice and duplicity aside, she moves among the door staff with such ease, as if she considers them peers… or even friends.
It is… strangely charming.
And beside the point, I remind myself as we approach the arched doors of my chambers.
There will be no gardening tomorrow. I grind my teeth and make plans to lock her up by both wrists tonight.
“Question for you,” she says as we step into my sleeping quarters, now lit with several torches to accommodate her weak eyes. “What happened to?—”
Whatever she was about to say vanishes when she sees the metal basin I had my Door Gravel prepare for her torture.
But instead of reacting as my father assured me she would when he advised me in the art of quelling the oft-defiant Aralyssean princesses, her entire face lights up.
“Oh, my moons, is that abath?”
I squint at her. “Yes.”
“Oh, wow. You big, beautiful king,” she breathes. “I can’t believe you ordered me a bath. It’s exactly what I need after a long day of gardening under the hot suns.” She looks around. “Wait. Where’s my punishment?”
And I find myself experiencing a most unfamiliar feeling as I inform her, “Thisis your punishment. I was told your kind does not like baths.”
