Afilled tub awaits me in Lore’s bathing chamber. It heaves with curls of steam that snatch an eager whimper from my lips. I haven’t bathed since the day of my unbinding. The memory dampens my enthusiasm.
How I wish I could wipe the last month from my mind. Forget that I was kidnapped and bound to a monster. Omit the memory of killing a good man while failing to murder a bad one. But the mind, alas, doesn’t function like that.
One cannot select to keep some memories and discard others. Good and bad remain, existing alongside one another like different castes.
I try to reason that, even though my mind is no kingdom, Luce filled with only pointy-eared Faeries would be a terribly dull place to live. It’s diversity that makes our world extraordinary. There is beauty even in the darkest pockets of humanity, the same way there are precious memories in the gutter of my nightmares. It’s up to me to pluck them out of the filth and carry them to the light.
As Lore shapes an iron talon that he glides down my ruined slip, as the salt-hardened silk falls away from my bruised body, I pluck out the few beams that lit up my obsidian darkness: meeting my Shabbin grandmother, coming into my powers, getting to know Justus Rossi, the citrus segments Cato slipped me in spite of being ordered to starve me, learning that my mother still exists. I give these memories, however few, space to grow, polishing them until they outshine the ones I care to forget.
Lore strips me quietly and slowly, shearing through the laces of my brassiere before rolling my underwear down my legs, his cool smoke gliding down my skin like fragranced oil.
Fully nude, the tension seeps out of my bones as though he’s rid me of a suit of armor instead of a skimpy slip. I feel freer and lighter, like a sail teeming with wind, like a ship carving through placid waters.
In the bath you go, Little Ship,Lore murmurs into my mind, one shadowy hand twining through mine, tugging me toward the enormous, round, steaming tub.
I cock up an eyebrow.Little Ship?
Little Serpent?
I smile.I’ve a preference for Behach Éan.I climb the four steps that lead into the tall stone tub, then moan as I slip one foot in.But I am curious, how does one say serpent in Crow?
Sífair.
“Sea fair.” I sound the word out loud because speaking it helps me commit it to memory. “Want to know something extremely neat?” I ask as I sink into the bath.
Neat?
Nifty.
I want to know all theneatthings,he says as his shadows disperse, becoming one with the steam.
The moment I was in Meriam’s presence, before she even unbound my magic, the knowledge of Shabbin came to me.
Lore’s golden eyes reappear before mine. I expect awe, but that isn’t the emotion rolling off the Crow King.
What?I close my eyes and recline my head until all of me, save for my nose, mouth, and eyes, is submerged.
Before she unbound your magic?
Yes. I walked into the vault and bam, I understood her. I wasn’t even aware that she was speaking Shabbin.He doesn’t speak for so long that I reel my lids up and straighten my neck.I thought it may shock you but in a good way . . . not in—I shrug—in a sullen way.
I’m thrilled for you, Fallon.
You don’t sound thrilled.
He rubs a bar of creamy soap between his shadow-hands until suds appear, pearlescent against his darkness. He sets down the soap and runs his fingers through my wet hair, kneading my scalp. I’d almost forgotten how divine his touch could be.
After washing my locks, he eases my head back into the warm water and rubs my scalp, drawing more moans from my lips.Forgive my lack of excitement, Behach Éan, but I cannot help but wonder why you’re suddenly fluent in Shabbin but not in Crow.
That does away with the joy coursing through my veins at his scalp massage. I sit up, knees gathered against my chest, hands clasping my shins, and stare into his churning irises.
“Because my Crow side is still bound?” I say, even though I realize how silly my theory is considering Shabbin came to me before my blood magic was unbound.
Though the bath is warm, a chill envelops me.I am Crow, right?
You are. You’re your father’s daughter, and Cathal is very much a Crow.
Then . . .why?Gone is my awe. In its place is a heap of dread.
