“What in the unholy Abyss is this?” Bertie pauses, and it takes her a moment to realize what he has uncovered in her armoire.
“Oh my Goddess, there’s a note, too.” Bertie is aghast, and suddenly, reality sets over Avina.
“Bertie!” She squeals, running to his side. She is too late as he is staring at the Salt Prince’s most recent gift and corresponding letter.
“What the actual shit is this, Avina?” He shrieks again, so loud that she is sure all of the North Tower heard him.
Goddess, I am in trouble if he referred to me by my given name rather than my nickname.
“‘Once I take Scarwood, I will use this to lock you down.’” Bertie throws the leather collar at her, and the tiny metal tag jingles around the ring.
Her fingers trace the rough engravings of the runes. Heat burns her cheeks and neck like she has never known before.
“Explain.”
“Lord Commander Thordsson sent-”
Bertie holds up a hand to stop her. “Let’s acknowledge I know the rumors about your sick gift exchange with that Beast. I want to know why you kept that item specifically.”
She shifts her weight, focusing her gaze on the collar. The craftsmanship is lovely, with delicate Salt runes engraved along the brown leather. Her research said they represent protection and ownership.
“I keep all of his gifts.” Her voice is barely audible.
“Your Majesty.” A guard leans into the room with a bow. “The Council is ready for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She returns the collar to her armoire, much to Bertie’s apparent chagrin. “I don’t need your judgment. Although I can use help selecting a new dress to confront the Council.”
“Cousin, if you want to wear a collar for someone? I support you. But if you want to wear a collar for Sigvid bloody Thordsson.” He shakes his head, hands on hips with that disapproving glower. “No, ma’am. That's like a pig walking into a slaughterhouse begging the butcher to turn him into pork cutlets. That beast–I refuse to call him a man–cannot get his own throne in Salt and has settled on yours. Wearing his handmade collar is beyond insane. There, that’s all I have to say.”
Avina imagines what the mysterious Salt Prince would look like, buckling the collar around her neck.
No one has intentionally maintained communication with Avina. She never yearned for physical things, but something about his letters and, at least, thought-out presents made her feel unique—someone special.
Perhaps she is still naive. However, the tone in every letter, sometimes a detailed account of Sigvid’s day, felt intensely private—as if she were the only person receiving his attention.
Bertie helps her find a new forest green gown with matching emerald accessories. Once she dresses again, they descend to the Timber Council chamber.
She steels herself, inhaling and exhaling what little confidence she can muster.
I do find championing others easier than myself.This should go well.
“You got this.” Bertie opens the door for her and follows her inside.
If only she has his faith.
“I am doing my job.” The Hound Master’s oily voice greets her. He stands with his back to her in black leather overalls and a matching apron.
Like any other person born of a woman, he has a name. But monsters don’t deserve their names uttered in polite company.
When she enters, he turns his wispy head from the fence to glower at her as if she is the source of everything amiss in the province.
“Your job is to train the hounds.” Avina sweeps inside to stand beside him, meeting the Council. Her breath is stuck in her throat as she prepares to counter the monster whose scathing attacks have shaken her over the last few weeks.
Bertie keeps to the back by the door. His silent support means everything to Avina.
“Nothing in your job description states you are entitled to torture cats, Hound Master.” She settles behind the other pulpit, preparing to counter anything the horrible man sought to throw her way.
“Scarwood’s cat problem is significant, as I have told Your Highness through a dozen correspondences. My solution keeps the hounds fed at no cost to our citizens.”
