Adrian’s gaze flies to mine and then bounces between Graylen and me.
“We’re going to tell him that the plan he made with you to get me back worked.” My fists clench tighter as the words leave my mouth. “Think you can manage that for a few days?”
Something flashes across Adrian’s face, but he nods slowly.
It doesn’t exactly set me at ease, but it’ll do for now.
Forty-Four
Malachite
The one thingthe three of us are able to agree on is that we need to prepare ourselves to fit the roles we’re going to play when we get to the castle. And that means splitting up to get new clothes.
Lunaria went separately to her own store, while I’m stuck with a near-trembling Adrian stumbling through his “cover.” And a shitty job he’s doing at that.
“I’ve been a farmer since I was old enough to hold a plow,” Adrian says with an exaggerated drawn accent and a large grin.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. You can’tholda plow. Idiot.
The shopkeeper’s brows scrunch together as he eyes Adrian.
“We’ll be needing a few things quickly,” I jump in, dropping gold coins on the worn wooden counter separating us from the gray-haired owner. “We will compensate you for your extra work.”
Rule number one of getting what you what: tell, don’t ask.
Adrian mutters beneath his breath beside me, but I ignore him. It sounds suspiciously likeasshole,but the shopkeeper grins a toothless smile and snatches the coin off the counter.
“It’ll be simple styles only, of course,” he rasps. “I’d stick to as close to your size as possible. Won’t have time for big alterations.”
I give him a nod and slip to the far-left side of the room—straight to the black and navy colored material.
The shop is organized by color, with the brightest hues at the front displayed near the cracked windows and the darkest out to the sides and into the back. For a Crean men’s shop, there certainly is a lot of dandelion yellow and blush pink.
In Penyth, it would be welcomed—especially among the Undine and Woodland. But Crea is stiff in their mindsets and stubborn in their judgement. What I wouldn’t pay to see a traditional Crean man be stuck in the middle of the Bitter Root on a rowdy full moon night.
The thought almost makes me smile. Almost.
I thumb through the materials of black, keeping to my usual color—or lack thereof. The fabric ranges from a bale of hay level of scratchy to a burlap sack scratchy.
“Any silk?” Adrian asks from somewhere across the store. I roll my eyes, yanking two burlap-level scratchy shirts from where they hang. “Or soft cotton?”
The question is followed up by a muted huff, which is more than I expected given that Adrian is asking a farm and trading down for fine clothing.
Without looking too closely, I add a few pairs of dark trousers to the pile slung over my arm. I push a particularly uncomfortable looking one-piece garment to the side and freeze. The next piece has a chains embroidered on the wrists.
In any store, this would be considered odd. There are several embroidered items I’ve passed on, but none like this. The string of the chains is a pale blue—like ice.
My stomach knots and sweat collects at the nape of myneck. I can’t make my arms move to go on to the next shirt. It’s the same color as the chains of ice Vidaris locked me in. The very same location that took over a week for the burn marks to fade—far longer than the timeframe a fae typically heals in.
I’m transported back to the blood-coated wasteland of the Vale and Vidaris’ sickening smile. A slight tremble begins in my fingers. The pain of each memory begins to slowly suffocate me, closing my airway until I’m gasping for breath.
Chains are suddenly snaking around my wrists again, their icy bite stinging as the clamp tighter. My breath stalls in my chest as the panic rises. The faint echo of a high-pitched wicked laugh tinkles in my ear, causing the hair on my neck to stand.
“You don’t have anything flashier?” The whiny timber of Adrian’s voice slices through my frantic heartbeat, snapping me out of my memory.
My muscles tense in my arms, and I shove the chain-embroidered tunic aside. There’s still a lingering chill winding around my arms, but I flex my wrists to chase it away.
I have to get the fuck out of here—have to getair.Now.
