Page 54 of The Fox Heir

He gives me a dark smile. “Just a temporary diversion on your path of ruin.”

The temple fades around us as heat unfurls low in my belly. His breathing is uneven now, mirroring mine. He shifts just enough that the distance between us narrows. Just enough that I can feel his warmth radiating through the chilled air. His gaze drops to my lips, then back up to my eyes.

Suddenly, the queen’s warning echoes in the back of my mind. This is a dangerous game we’re playing, and I can’t afford to get distracted. I jerk my wrist away. For one long moment, we stare at each other, daring one other to make a different choice. But we don’t.

I turn, pick up my cloak from the icy ground, and walk out of the temple as I try to gather the pieces of myself that have just come undone. Even so, I feel his presence behind me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t need to. The weight of what just passed between us follows me like a shadow, impossible to ignore.

I still don’t trust him. Not completely. But in this moment, I realize something far more dangerous.

I want to.

Chapter 18

A couple of weeks later, Gwyllion appears to transform overnight. The castle is more alive than I’ve ever seen it. Old men and women rush through the halls carrying beeswax tapers and armloads of firewood. Boughs of evergreens are hung in the main corridors, and holly is strung above archways. Wreaths of thorns and red berries sit at the center of every table in the great hall, candles lit in each one.

For the first time since I arrived, the castle feels warm. Like a tiny spark of life has ignited, however simple. Gwyllion has finally woken up. It’s brighter, louder. Alive.

In Caerwen Palace, these decorations would have been scoffed at for their simplicity. Nobles would say they’re just items found in the forest, strung up like trash in the royal halls. But here in Gwyllion, it feels beautiful in its simplicity. The halls smell of pine instead of cold stone, and the scent of stewed apples and cinnamon drifts out from the kitchens.

I follow my nose and linger near the kitchen door, languishing in the scent of cider drifting from a large pot on the hearth.

Elisandra notices me and nods toward a pile of tableware in the universal look of, “Make yourself busy.”

I pick up a linen rag and begin drying the freshly washed items. Then I sort them into piles of knives, forks, and spoons. Elisandra stands by one of the grand kitchen hearths as she gathers rolls of bread into a wide wooden bowl. The firelight casts a warm glow across her face. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, revealing pale forearms dusted with flour.

“This bread is special for the Midwinter Full Moon,” Elisandra says matter-of-factly when she catches me eyeing the cinnamon-sprinkled rolls.

I blink at her, fork in hand.

“Don’t tell me it’s not celebrated in the south,” she says, pausing long enough to give me a look of pure incredulity. A stray curl escapes from her braid, falling over her blinded eye.

I shake my head. “No. It isn’t.”

Then again, in Llwyn, we don’t suffer the extreme winters that they do here in Annwyn. Maybe prolonged suffering makes people eager to celebrate something in the middle of the harshest season.

She scowls, an unexpected expression on her usually composed face. A genuine laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. I like this feisty side of Elisandra.

“It isn’t funny,” she huffs, holding the bowl against her hip and fixing me with a mock-glare. “It’s a tradition older than this castle. I can’t believe you’ve never even heard of it.”

“Please enlighten me,” I say, stepping aside as she brushes past me. Her brown homespun skirt whispers against the door frame as she rushes out into the great hall. She turns and nods for me to follow. I gather the dried tableware and head after her.

“Technically, it isn’t exactly mid-winter,” she says. “But it’s the first full moon after we’ve passed the harshest part of the season. We still have weeks to go of cold, but the worst is over and we can look forward to spring.”

She weaves through the hall as she sets bread rolls on tin platters spread along the tables. Each seat is marked by a pewter goblet and a linen napkin. It’s a far cry from the usual bare-bones place settings. The Midwinter Full Moon must be an important occasion to warrant such a display.

I trail behind Elisandra and lay a knife and fork beside each plate.

“It’s the night we honor the Moon Goddess and her blessing of light in the darkness,” she explains, her voice softer now, though no less animated. “We feast, we drink, we make merry. It’s an evening to let down our hair and toss aside our inhibitions.”

My eyebrows lift at that. “Lowered inhibitions, you say?”

Elisandra glances over her shoulder and gives me a wicked grin. “I didn’t mean it in that way. Though some ...” Her smile turns sly, and the mischief in her eyes makes me laugh.

“Sounds like trouble.” I set another knife into place.

“The best sorts, usually.” Elisandra places the last roll on a platter with a flourish and straightens, brushing flour from her hands. “After nightfall, we gather down by the shore where we can see far out into the night sky. There will be music, and dancing, and all manner of merrymaking.”

“All manner?” I echo, feigning innocence.