Page 7 of How to Marry a Winged King

“Why are you called Cinders? That’s not a traditional Bloodthorn name,” he asked.

We spun in silence as I debated how to answer. He’d bothered to find out my use-name? “My mother was a scullery maid, apparently. It’s not my actual name.”

“Apparently?”

“I never met her.”

Tāwhiri blinked dark eyes. “What is your true name, then?”

It was a rude question for a fae. I remembered that he was a king, which I’d been in danger of forgetting for a moment there, with the laugh and the warm hands and the intensity of his gaze.

“I don’t know. Lord Bloodthorn didn’t bother to ask when he took me, and he never gave me a thorn-name himself.” It came out more bitter than I’d intended.

His eyes bore into mine, and I felt uncomfortably seen. Tāwhiri canted his head. “Why did he take you, if he did not mean to treasure you?”

I sucked in a breath. It’s not pleasant to have a stranger voice your deepest insecurity after less than a minute of conversation. “What were you planning to do if I didn’t rescue you this morning?”

He said nothing, only looked a little ashamed.

Realisation hit me, followed swiftly by mortification. “Oh. You didn’t need rescuing, did you?”

Of course he hadn’t truly been caught in our bloodthorn tree. He was a king. He probably had enough magic to blow the entire manor to smithereens. He hadn’t needed saving, and I’d driven myself half-mad with pain this morning for nothing but his entertainment. I was just a toy to him, a human puzzle that had briefly intrigued him with its novelty. He’d invited me to his ball to see if I’d dance to his tune, and I had.

My anger roared up again, and the words were out before I could stop them. “All right, you’ve done your bit, dazzled the stupid mortal girl, thumbed your nose at your court. Go dance with your real bride prospects and leave me alone.”

I wrenched myself out of his arms, leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor with wide eyes and his arms still half-raised. Gasps rippled out from the assembled watchers. I held my head high and glared at them, these beautiful and terrible sidhe, and relished their attention. I might never be good enough for them, but right now, I was the one with the power to reject a king in his own palace.

Then I left.

There must have been a jolly good intention-sensing spell on the stag-drawn carriage, because it pulled up just as I stomped out the door. I almost ignored it in a fit of angry principle, but the pragmatic part of me pointed out that while principle was all well and good, it wouldn’t be Tāwhiri suffering the long walk home on tired feet.

That thought damped the heat of my anger enough for me to climb grudgingly into the carriage. I tried to fan it back to its earlier white-hot outrage on the ride back, re-playing the satisfying look of shock on Tāwhiri’s face when I’d refused to play his game, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t recapture it. Instead, a kind of hurt tiredness curled my stomach into knots, and I had a humiliating urge to cry.

The manor was dark and quiet when we reached it. I stood for a moment gazing up at it as the carriage pulled away, leaving me small and sad and alone. The ball would go for hours yet. If I hadn’t lost my temper, if I’d just swallowed my tongue and flattered Tāwhiri’s ego, I could have still been there. Why had I ruined everything? Couldn’t I have played the grateful over-awed human for a single dance? He’d have lost interest in his mortal toy if I’d just given him that, and I could have spent the rest of the night enjoying myself. Why had I let him get to me?

I gathered up my skirts and made my way into the house. Fortunately, I knew all the places to step to avoid creaks, and the gargoyles merely eyed me sleepily as I came in.

It was because he’d made me feel seen, just for a moment, I decided. Seen as no one else ever had. It had been a lie, but the fleeting illusion of it had struck deep, gotten beneath all my usual sensible armour.

My attic felt even drabber than usual, with my memory still ringing with nymph song. I hid the beautiful dress, mask, and shoes under my bed and told myself I’d be glad when things were back to normal tomorrow.

THINGS DO NOT RETURN TO NORMAL

DAWN FOUND ME back at the meadow. I hadn’t slept well. With the memory of yesterday’s pain fresh, I stayed inside the bounds to watch the sun rise. The days were growing shorter at this time of year, and I was glad of my coat where I sat on the old stump.

The distinctive slicing sound of tūī wings made me turn. I narrowed my eyes when the bird landed on the stump next to me and transformed into a man—a fae. It was the first time I’d seen his whole face, unmasked, and he was as sickeningly beautiful as I’d suspected. He stood looking down at me, impossibly regal with his long silver-tipped black hair pulled back from the strong lines of his face. The dawnlight was doing its best to highlight his features in the most flattering way possible, not that that was difficult. The light caught in his dark feathers, turning them to a blue-green metallic. His antlers were covered in fine velvet, a detail I hadn’t noticed last night. Did he shed them each year like a deer?

I got to my feet, refusing to be loomed over. Although, since he was quite a bit taller than me, it didn’t reduce the looming as much as I’d hoped.

We stared at each other. I crossed my arms.

“Can we try this again?” he said after a moment. “I handled things badly last night.”

I continued to cross my arms, with more emphasis.

My silence flustered him. I suppose kings aren’t used to having to explain themselves.

“I didn’t invite you last night in order to mock you,” he said hastily. “I owe you a debt worth more than a feather and a song. I offered you your freedom in exchange for saving my life.”