This morning, he is gone.
25
By the time night falls, Castle Frostwyn no longer feels like mine and Luceran’s.
It belongs to them.
The kitchens are a frenzy of motion and sound, heat and sharp voices ricocheting off stone. Fae staff sweep through the space like they own it, because tonight, they do. They bark orders without looking at the humans they command, their mouths curled in faint, perpetual displeasure, as if the presence of mortal hands near their silver platters offends them. I watch a female wrinkle her nose as a human brushes past, her expression one she might reserve for vermin scuttling across the floor.
Yet I notice something else.
The humans do not protest. They do not glare back. They work quickly, eagerly, their shoulders loose, their faces lit with a quiet, stubborn relief. This is hard labor, yes, but for one night, they are out of the mines.
When the first trays of food are carried into the dining hall and the Fae in the kitchens turn to preparing the next course, the humans descend a darkened staircase behind the pantry, slipping away from chandeliers and crystal and gold.
Down where the real rats live.
The basement beneath the kitchens is low and windowless, its stone walls damp with moisture that drips steadily from somewhere unseen, pooling along the uneven floor. The air smells of old earth, mildew, and something faintly sour that clings to the back of my throat. Yet a fire burns in a shallow hearth, its flames weak but stubborn, refusing to go out.
Someone has dragged out a battered fiddle, its strings worn thin, its tune closer to a strangled goose than music. Still boots stomp in time. Bodies sway, spin, collide, all while laughter bounces off the stone.
I stand among them, stunned, as joy blooms in a place that should not be able to hold it. A woman presses a cup into my hand, something warm and spiced and mixed with far too much homemade gin. I only have to smell it to know that much. Then she twirls past me, skirts lifted, her smile far too bright to belong down here as a song erupts, one I half-recognize from my childhood.
This is what humans do in the Sundered Kingdoms.
We carve silver from darkness.We pull light from rot and suffering and dare it to bloom, anyway.
Still, I see the way some of them look at me. Word is spreading about the time I spend with Luceran. About how he does not sleep in his chambers. How he comes to mine instead. This banquet has drawn more bodies, more eyes to Castle Frostwyn, and the whispers run rampant among human and Fae alike.
We can only hope they do not take root.
The Fae in the kitchens shout down at us, impatient, demanding servers to collect the platters and carry out the next course. A groan ripples through the room. None of us are eager to leave the warmth and noise, to trade it for smug glances and thinly veiled remarks above.
It is Pax who rallies us.
He looks charming tonight, his long black hair slicked back, his sharp features softened by candlelight. Atilia has clearly dressed him. He wears a tight-fitting suit with an absurd number of ruffles at his neck and wrists, the sort of fashion the Fae seem to adore. They may be artisans and visionaries, but I am not convinced they know anything at all about clothing.
Pax heads for the stairs with a handful of workers in tow, then pauses when he notices me falling into step behind him, his brow furrowing.
“I thought you were hiding down here?”
I frown. “I’m not hiding. I just prefer it down here.”
He snorts softly. “It’s far from pleasant up there,” he warns. “If you’re going to help serve, you’d better have a thick skin.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I grin at him. “My skin’s so thick a blade would shatter against it.”
Pax chuckles, his teeth dragging briefly over his lower lip, and I won’t lie, it does something to my ego, knowing that if I wanted him, I probably could have him. In another place, at another time, maybe I would.
But not here. Not now.
There is only one creature in this world I yearn for, even if I cannot have him openly.
“Well, come on then,” Pax says, leaning in. “If you manage to sneak a few of those little chocolate truffles into your pockets, make sure you save some for me.”
I smile and follow him up the stairs, my nerves racing along with me.
It isn’t the work I fear. It is what serving means. That I might see him. Luceran was gone from my bed when I woke this morning, and I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t gone looking either. I know what tonight signifies.
