Hilda pulled me into a hug. I squeezed my arms around her soft body asshe wept.
“I am so glad Riyan chose you,” she whispered. “He just needs someone who is not afraidof him.”
I bit my tongue. Anyone with sense would fear someone Riyan’s size who had seemingly limitless strength and a high capacity for bloodshed…but I did not think I could fear him any longer. All I could see when I thought of him was a sad child holding wilting flowers inhis hand.
Someone needed to not be afraid of the little child of magic, even if he hadgrown up.
I looked over Hilda’s shoulder, still snuggled in her warm embrace. Amongst the portraits I could recognize as the Bloodstone family, I noticed a painting of a strange red creature. The creature had horns like a goat and cloven hooves for feet, but the chest, arms, and face of a man. My eyes darted around the room and found painting after painting ofthe creature.
“Hilda,” I said quietly, my eyes fixed on one of the smudges of red that formed pointed horns. “Areallof these pictures fromAstrid’s memories?”
Hilda released me from the embrace as she sniffed away her tears. “Oh, did you findthe monster?”
She was too calm. “Is the red creaturethe monster?”
“Yes,” she replied with a brightness in her voice that I was not expecting. “He was there when Riyan was born. Nikkolas and I found him standing over Astrid outside the fortress with newly-born Riyan in his hands. The monster cut him outof her.”
Questions spun in my head but shock held my mouth closed. My eyes darted from Hilda to the picture of the monster and back. Hilda took note andlaughed softly.
“Giants are not the only monsters hiding in Nordingaard, Serafina,” she said sweetly. “Bloodstone is curious and wonderful…but we do have tall walls for a reason. Please just promise me you willbe careful.”
I nodded and shifted my weight so my blade scraped against mystocking again.
Maybe the Hyton dagger would taste the flesh of a monsterafter all.
The world was at peace when my needle was inmy hand.
The bright rays of noon sunlight kissed my bare shoulders. I sat at my writing desk in my undergarments, shortening the sleeves of my blouse to the proper length. I moved on to my skirt, humming a few tunes as I hemmed my skirt to skate around my calves. The sun had barely dipped in the sky when I had finishedand re-dressed.
I rolled my silver needle on the pads of my fingers, itching to sew more. I grabbed Riyan’s shirt from the top of my trunk and started stitching the torn edges of his sleeve together. His shirt sleeve was longer than my leg, but the tear only took me minutesto mend.
Hilda had created a pitiful portrait of Riyan after breakfast—a sad and lonely boy who was cast aside by his terrified mother and sent away by hiscold-eyed grandfather.
Riyan had mentioned on our first night together that he was sent to General Hyton’s military academy when he was only nine years old. Until I saw Astrid’s paintings of him, I had not even realized how young thatreally was.
The guards at Ashmore were disciplined enough to keep quiet around us, but I still picked up bits of information they dropped under their breath in the hallways. They always shuddered when they remembered their time underGeneral Hyton.
And Riyan was only nine when he had enduredit all.
My scissors snipped the thread when I finished. I ran my finger down the long white stitch—the bond was strong, but somehowfelt incomplete.
Maybe…I could do something nice. Maybe I could show the little blonde boy that he had at least one person who was not afraidof him.
I retrieved my embroidering hoop from my trunk and set up the sleeve to add extra detail. I pulled the first stitch of white thread through the linen, imagining one of the painted flowers onAstrid’s door.
My hands weaved my silver needle faster and with more precision than my silver tongue could weave lies. General Hyton had told me to give Riyan a chance, Mother had told me to surrender my body to him, and Derrick had told me to slit his throat. All of them whispered in the back of my mind, but as I pulled the needle and finished the first flower, their commands quietedinto silence.
My granite heart bore cracks, but still held strong. I was not so weak that I was falling for Riyan, but I at least pitied the scared and lonely child of magic. Besides, if I could get him to soften up like I did earlier in the courtyard, the next twenty-five nights might gomore smoothly.
The needle gleamed in the sunlight as it poked through the linen. I pictured a bouquet of spring blossoms in a large hand with the smooth knuckles of a young boy as I created the second flower. Riyan had given years and years of flowers with no response. Maybe once you tire of flower stems to pick, you pick up the wooden handle of anaxe instead.
I sighed as I started the third and final flower. Riyan Bloodstone was a drunk with a bad temper, but he was still no monster. He at least deserved a response tohis flowers.
And I was finally givinghim one.
The light of the golden afternoon filtered through my window as I finished the three flowers that completely covered the mended stitch. White thread on white linen made a subtle design to the eye, but a beautiful texture undermy fingertips.
I looked down at Riyan’s cape on the floor, which still reeked of wine. I gathered both the cape and Riyan’s mended shirt in my arms and walked down to the stream near thewestern wall.
