Lyra sighs. “Ignore him. What he means is that the vines respond to fear.”
“Moving on!” Marb chirps. We’re happy to obey.
We reach an enormous set of double doors of onyx carved with thorned roses. As we glance inside, I stop breathing. Books—shelves upon shelves of them—spiral higher than I can see,their spines gleaming in every shade of leather and jewel-toned dye. Ladders on rails arch between floors, and floating orbs of light drift lazily through the air. There’s something sacred here, a stillness settling deep in my bones.
“And this is the ballroom,” Marb says proudly, gesturing grandly at the enormous, open floor.
Some of the shelves are half-rotted, yet not a single book seems to bear a trace of dust. The air carries the scent of ink, cedar, and faint smoke, like parchment rescued from fire. Amid the disrepair, it’s almost too clean, as though the stories themselves refused to decay. My fingers ache to reach for them.
A hallway of paintings follows, each portrait stranger than the last. I swear I see one’s eye twitch. Elena huffs and flips her hair. Seraphina glides ahead as if she already owns the place.
Cassian stops before a painting of a woman with silver eyes and a crown of ash. “She was the first bride, you know,” he says, voice dropping low.
“Did she survive?” I ask.
He smiles faintly. “Define ‘survive.’ ”
I shiver and look away.
Eventually, we reach an open archway. Warm air and the scent of roasted herbs drift out.
“The kitchens,” Marb announces. “Best keep your hands to yourselves here. The last girl who stole a tart grew whiskers for a week.”
Cassian chuckles. “A small price for good pastry.”
Lyra rolls her eyes as a few of the fairies giggle. “You would say that.”
I hang back, my pulse quickening.
“Feel free to have anything already plated for you, though,” Cassy’s fairy companion says.
“Yes, have something to eat,” Marb echoes. “After that, you’re free to explore on your own until dusk. Try not to break anything—or yourselves.”
As the others move toward the hearth, I drift toward a side table where a tray of still-warm bread, fruit, and something golden and flaky awaits. I fill a small plate, tucking a few pieces into a cloth napkin, and glance toward a narrow archway off to the side of the kitchen.
I peer through the vine-wrapped entrance into a quiet garden path beyond. I glance around, but no one’s watching. Perfect.
Plate in hand, I slip outside and step into the sun.
Chapter 10
The Gardener
The air is warmer than I expected, nothing like the cold, eerie mist of last night. This part of the keep is sun-drenched and strangely quiet, lined with vine-laced pillars that lead into yet another overgrown garden.
I pick my way along the flagstone path, balancing the plate and my dignity. My heels click unevenly across the cobblestone, the gown tugging at my hips with every step—beautiful and suffocating all at once. The moment I find a patch of grass, I exhale with relief and step off the stones.
“These shoes were made by a sadist,” I mutter.
The garden curls inward like a hidden alcove, quiet and still. A breeze stirs the leaves, carrying the scent of rosemary androsehips. I spot a stone bench wrapped in ivy and carefully make my way toward it.
My heel catches on a root.
“Stars!” I pitch forward, my plate flying from my hands as my arms flail out to brace myself—
But I don’t hit the ground.
Strong hands catch me mid-fall, one at my waist, the other braced behind my shoulder. My chest flushes against firm muscles.
