The spider-minded one smiled. “I’m not a visitor. I’m your wife.” She held out the champagne glass, and the bubbles popped, tickling the wind as it dove into the glass and swirled the liquid. “Here. Drink this.”
The trickster’s mouth hardened, lines forming at the edges. “No, thank you.”
“You’re being stubborn. Don’t then. It’s from Mari—she said it’ll heal you. Not that I’d trust her, but . . . you look like you might not make it until morning. So . . .” She shrugged. “Your choice.”
The trickster took the glass and sniffed the contents, swirling the champagne. Then, with a shrug, he tipped back the glass and swallowed the liquid in one gulp.
He coughed. Took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. The wind rode over his chest. His struggling heartbeat steadied, and his skin flushed warm. It could hear the steady whoosh of his blood flowing through his veins. It could taste the liquid working through the trickster’s body, calling new blood cells to form and bones and skin to knit together.
The trickster shuddered and made a wincing groan. “Thank you,” he finally said, his voice a raw, winded scrape.
The spider-minded one shrugged and took the glass from him, setting it on a nearby table. “What are you doing on the floor?” she asked.
The trickster turned back to the mirror. “Looking at?—”
He broke off. The lucky one was gone. It was only the trickster in the mirror now. He stared at his reflection as if he’d been betrayed. His brow wrinkled, and he shook his head.
“This mirror.”
The spider-minded one’s mouth curled in contempt, but she hid her expression behind the fall of her black hair. She reached out and plucked the card from the mirror.
“It’s from the Ward,” she said, reading it. “It says, ‘Congratulations. May you see each other as you truly are.’” She scoffed and tossed the card to the floor. Then she held her hand out to the trickster. “Come. I’ll take you to bed.”
He stared at her hand. The wind could taste the revulsion in the tilt of his mouth. Finally, he clasped her hand and stifled a groan as he stood. She put her arm around his waist before he could protest and led him to the satiny king-size mattress.
The trickster collapsed to the bed, and the wind rode on the sharp gust of air. The bed smelled like him: tricky, tingly, somersaultingly fun. He closed his eyes, the lines around his mouth turning white.
“Are you in pain?” She reached out and smoothed her hand across his forehead.
The wind shrieked when the trickster’s hand snapped up and shackled the spider-minded one’s wrist.
“Don’t.” His voice reverberated over the wind, a jackaltooth threat.
“I only want to help,” she whispered.
“Don’t,” he said again, thrusting her hand away.
She ignored him, bending down to brush her mouth over his bruised cheek.
At the cold invasion, he opened his eyes and braced himself on his elbows, struggling upright. “I told you,” he said in a hard, cutting voice. “We won’t be intimate.”
“Is it because I’m not pretty enough for you? If I were pretty, would you want me?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want you no matter what you looked like.”
She blinked, her eyes glowing. At first, the wind thought they were shining with tears, but they weren’t. It was something else. “Is that true? No matter what I looked like?”
“I swear it,” the trickster said, his voice slurring. “Leave.” He sank back to the mattress, his body moving heavily, his head lolling to the side.
The door closed quietly after the spider-minded one, and the trickster sighed. He stared at the ceiling, moving his hand in front of his face, touching his nose and extending his hand toward the ceiling. His eyes crossed, and his pupils dilated.
“Mari,” he slurred, “what did you give me? I feel like . . .” A mirth-filled chuckle escaped his lips, and then he hiccupped. “Dang. Did you give me Dainty Drink? I’m drunker than Ragnor after winning the—” He tried to sit up but rolled off the bed. He hit the floor, made an incoherent noise, and climbed back onto the mattress.
The cricket chirped, and the trickster glanced at the nightstand. “Back in your cage?” He hiccupped again and laughed. “Some wedding, wasn’t it? Lucky we didn’t die. If you hadn’t bit me, I wouldn’t’ve jerked, and then that spear would’ve gone right through my heart. Couple inches. That’s it.” He snorted, and the wind shoved him so he didn’t fall off the bed again. “Saved by a cricket. Idiot. Not you. Me. I can barely . . .” He stared at his hands. “Are these still attached? Can’t feel ’em anymore. I hate Dainty Drink. Makes me feel . . . happy. Stupid happy. Here—I’ll lock you in. Keep you safe. That what you want?”
He dropped the latch, locking the cricket in its cage. The cricket made a slow whistling sound.
The trickster tilted his head, listening to the note.
