“Come,” my father says, with the weighty intonation of one king speaking to another. “There’re food and refreshments for you this way. And I imagine you’ll want some rest before tonight’s…presentation.”
That last word hitches in his throat. He masks the wobble well enough that Amriel won’t catch it, but I know the tell: deep rage festers at the thought of this fae brute legally kidnapping one of Aethrolia’s royal daughters.
“Refreshments?” the fae king says. “Truth be told, I never turn down an offer of wine.”
The offhand remark pulls a gasp up my throat. Did he just insult us on purpose, or by accident? Because we don’t drink wine here in Aethrolia. No follower of Ishanna does.
A heavy silence falls in the hall, which Amriel eventually breaks with a chuckle. “Oh, but that’s right. You don’t partake in that particular pleasure, do you, Edmond? Or any pleasure at all, really.”
Air floods my lungs. On purpose. Definitely on purpose.
“I don’t partake in wickedness,” my father grits out. “So I can offer you tea. Or juice. Or any number of things that don’t separate a man from his good sense.”
Another chuckle from the fae king, and Ishanna help me, the sound is so arrogant I can practically feel its bite, like frozen metal pressed against my skin. “Good sense?” he drawls. “And what would I need a thing like that for?”
The casual doubling-down on his blasphemy sends me reeling. Here in Aethrolia, we strive to always control ourselves. Ishanna teaches us to retain our faculties at all times.
The fae, though—they worship no gods but themselves. And now,as I huddle in the darkness and clutch at Ishanna’s symbol, every whispered rumor, every tale swapped around our kitchen hearth, comes rushing into my head. It’s said the fae exist for their own enjoyment, eating to excess, drinking to forgetfulness, doing it all over again the next day. I’ve heard that sometimes, they even chase each other. Catch each other. Then they couple in public, or under the open sky, or in any place at all, really. Whatever strikes their fancy.
I shudder.
“Look,” my father says, and I don’t have to witness the clench of his jaw or the throb at his temple to know the reserves of his diplomacy have already been exhausted. “Why don’t we just get this over with?”
Another mocking laugh from the fae king. “Why not? Maybe, if we’re quick, I can get home in time to drink myself into a stupor.”
I slap a hand across my mouth as some brand-new emotion splits me down the middle. I’ve never heard anyone talk to my father this way. I doubt anyone ever has.
Out in the hall, leather creaks. Boots shuffle. When my father finally responds, he sounds as though he’s pushing words through gritted teeth. “Very well. I can’t pretend I’ll regret seeing you off tonight.”
“No, you can’t.” Amusement drips from Amriel’s tone. “So lead the way to these refreshments, why don’t you?”
My father grunts his agreement. The fae delegation mobilizes with a chorus of murmurs and shuffling. In the midst of the ruckus, someone raps their knuckles against the armoire door, so lightly it might be an accident.
Instinct sends me scuttling back all over again. But when our visitors’ footsteps trail away, a pent-up breath seeps from my chest. I scoot to the door and press my eye to the slats. My father strides briskly down the hall, his spine stiff with indignation.
But the fae king…he glances back at my hiding place, a knowing grin stamped across his mouth.
Chapter 2
After escaping the armoire, I take the stairs two at a time, trying to outrun the erratic thud of my heart.
It doesn’t work. The disordered rhythm chases me all the way up to Evelyn’s bedroom, where I waste no time hurling myself through the door. All three of my sisters stop and stare as I lean against the wood with one hand mashed to my chest.
Goddess, what just happened down there? Did the fae king…scent me out?
Evelyn surveys me from her vanity, her nose wrinkling. “Sariah. Why in Ishanna’s name haven’t you gotten ready yet?”
My throat works around a dozen possible responses. I want to say there’s no need, that I refuse to attend tonight’s presentation, but that’s a lie. Not only do the terms of the treaty demand my presence, but I’ve longed to put this day behind me all my life. Once the fae king officially passes me over, my future becomes my own. I’ll face the Claiming and walk away, and then nothing will stand between me and my dreams of joining the priestesshood.
Which means tomorrow, at sunrise prayers, I’ll kneel before our High Priestess and ask to take the robes. I’ll start as a dedicant, then someday, years from now, become a full-fledged priestess. I’ll floatthrough the temple hallways, my white robes rippling, my hair so long it brushes the backs of my knees. I’ll even have earned my magic by then, like my sisters have already. I’ll have made my family proud. I’llbelong.
Finally.
The thought girds me, enough that I push away from the door. But the fae king’s glance still lingers, like a cold shadow cast across the back of my neck. “I have time,” I manage.
“Barely.” Evelyn huffs. “The Claiming starts at sunset. That’s in less than half an hour.”
A protest gathers on my lips, but she’s right—outside the window, the sun burns low, flooding the horizon with creams and oranges and pinks.
