I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Of course she did.” He said it as casually as he wiped his hair.
“But—why?”
“He servedthe previous queen. Rhiannon had always distrusted him, and then, on a visit to Highmark, he had a meeting alone with their historian—” Dorian drew a finger across his throat. “Terrible idea.”
I stared. Rhiannon had killed the historian for meeting alone with someone from another court.
A pretense. It was an obvious pretense.
Which meant she was paranoid. Deeply, viciously.
Now I understood Dorian’s position.
Back in the Dip, when our neighborhood’s pub changed hands the last time, the new owner had gotten rid of all the old employees. Not because they were bad, but because they weren’this.
Dorian didn’t belong to the last monarch. He belonged to Rhiannon. And she wasn’t a backward-looking queen.
I let out a breath. “How long has Rhiannon ruled?”
He tossed the towel aside. “Guess.”
“Ten years.”
A faint smile curled his lips. “That’s quaint.”
Longer, then.But how long could a woman as young as her have ruled? Then again, these were fae. Their lives might be long.
I turned back, fingers on the doorframe. The study smelled sweet and savory and book-musty all at once. And a scent filled these chambers which I knew by now to be unique in all of Sylvanwild. Dorian. Resin, smoke, and a faint trace of something that was his alone. It hit me low in the gut, unsettling. That scent would linger on my clothing.
Dorian appeared beside me. “Overwhelming, isn’t it?”
I half-startled, pulling in a breath. “Why would you say that?”
“You couldn’t begin to read even one of these books, and there are thousands.”
I raised my chin to him, heat rising up my neck. “Could you read one sentence in a book from my kingdom?”
“Yes.” His eyes were steady on me. “And many more.”
That pricked.
I approached the table. “The books aren’t overwhelming.”Even if you are.I set my fingertips to it, touched a vine of small red berries set amidst the plate of fruit. “But this is.”
“Eat your fill.” Dorian crossed to one wall, his eyes on a high bookshelf. “Eat, then we’ll begin.”
I sat into a chair at the table. “Aren’t you eating?”
He shook his head, his hand rising and touching one of the fatter books. He murmured to himself and his fingers danced over to another. I soon lost interest.
I poured myself a goblet of the red liquid and parceled out a portion of pink meat with warm bread. I intended to be slow, dignified—but that first bite of the meat undid me. Hunger drove me on, and I ate and drank in single-minded, efficient movements.
The crash of books hitting his desk snapped me out of my fugue state. He’d sat down and was watching me over the pile. I had never even unfolded my napkin.
I fumbled for it, brought the cloth to my mouth, wiped belatedly as he began sorting through the books. I hadn’t read a book in years. “Is all this really necessary?”
His eyes flicked up, flinty and dark. “Is beauty necessary for the sun to rise?”
