Chapter 7

7

Her grand plan, however, never quite came together—especially when she ran out of food and her stomach began to rumble. Molly had managed to bring some sustenance with her, but a few apples, half a loaf of bread, and some nuts only went so far.

After a day of listening to her stomach complain and squeezing the last drops of water from her canteen, she decided it was finally time to brave outside her chamber. She was also growing desperate to figure out how the chamber pot was changed and cleaned and a bucket of fresh water brought in each morning before she woke. She never saw him, and she didn’t drink the water, of course, but she had to know how he did it.

And quiet her stomach. Molly had promised herself, as a ten-year-old newly orphaned and skeletal from hunger, that she’d never starve again.

That was first and foremost on her mind when she cracked the door of her bedchamber open, her head woozy and her stomach painfully empty.

She peered up and down the corridor to find it unoccupied. Squinting at the door he’d indicated was his that first night, Molly slowly stepped from her room. Only a layer of dust greeted her.

She stared down at that dust suspiciously. He’d been here at least once, and she suspected many more times than that. No boot prints had been left behind to prove it, though.

What, can he fly now, too?

She wouldn’t put it past the fae. What little she’d managed to learn about him was that he wasn’t human. She knew that already, of course, but glimpsing him work at his tasks tirelessly—literally, tirelessly, for days on end—only underscored his strangeness. He didn’t seem to rest. He could hammer at the roof all day. He’d practiced archery from dawn to dusk one day. Another, he hauled buckets all morning without signs of exhaustion.

Molly grew tired just watching him.

His strength and endurance were inhuman— superhuman .

Today, though, the house was quiet. No hammering, no whizzing arrows. Maybe he truly did need to rest eventually.

After a morning of listening to only the complaints of her stomach, she decided to try her luck—which had been abominable up to now, but she had to keep up hope it’d change soon.

Careful to keep her footfalls light and soundless, Molly eased down the corridor.

Although a little dusty, the corridor was nevertheless grander than any place she’d lived before. The walls had once had some sort of wallpaper but had been stripped and cleaned, though they still bore faint traces of hung paintings and paper glue. Scratches on the floor indicated where decorative tables had once stood and slightly darker areas where carpets had once lain.

To her right, the wall was lined with tall leaded windows that rose nearly to the corniced ceiling. Light streamed inside, and the wall of glass offered a stunning view of the forest beyond. In the daylight, it wasn’t so foreboding as that first night. Still, she didn’t think it was entirely her hunger that made her think the trees whispered to each other.

That was his forest. This was his house.

They were probably whispering to him, reporting back on everything. Including her.

A prickle of unease ran up Molly’s neck at the thought.

Much as she’d loved the tavern, it was her uncle’s, and he reminded her of that whenever he could. She’d felt Brom in every panel and floorboard. Always looking over her shoulder in what was supposed to be her home made existence exhausting, and she’d promised herself life would be different when she made a home of her own.

Food first, and then, with a full belly, she was sure a better plan than making a rope of bedsheets would come to her. That new life of hers was only a few days and one good plan away.

The corridor spilled out to a shallow set of steps that led down to a landing with four doors. Holding onto the banister, Molly took the stairs a step at a time, careful not to make the floorboards groan.

Still, a loud creak reverberated through the empty stairwell when her foot touched the landing. Cringing, Molly hurried to the first door and threw herself through the threshold.

The other side was far darker than the last corridor. Tattered curtains hung limply from grimy windows, and dust carpeted the chipped floor. A hideous wallpaper that’d once been robin’s egg blue peeled from the walls, and desiccated flowers just a breath from crumbling to nothing drooped in cracked porcelain vases.

It was an eerie space, a reminder of the family that had once lived here. Molly didn’t know much, just that whatever family had once owned Scarborough had lost it and then their lives in the bloody wars of succession that nearly tore Eirea apart. Although it’d been thirty years ago now, the scars were still present—and so were the ghosts of that time. Everyone knew Scarborough was haunted.

Holding her breath, Molly ventured deeper into the gloom to test the first door. The room inside was bright, and she couldn’t resist a closer look. The fae had obviously done work in here, and she could see why.

The first door led into a beautiful library. Rich bookcases of cherrywood were stuffed full of gilded tomes, their shelves sagging beneath the weight of the pages and bronze devices and dried up inkwells. The walls were lined in burgundy velvet wallpaper, and a plush carpet had been cleaned and laid before the stone fireplace. A set of leather armchairs had been recently oiled, the scent of it tickling her nose.

An expansive desk stood to one side, beneath a pool of light from the set of four windows on the east wall, a framed, faded map of Eirea laid out on its face. Molly peeked and found old borders still dotting through the landscape. A few books also sat on the desk, as well as abandoned papers, quills, and what looked to be a fresh crystal inkwell.

He uses this.

Pulse picking up, she hurried from the room via the nearest door. It was a small one tucked into the back of the library, leading into the adjoining room.

What she found was an empty room, dark save a single shaft of light streaming in from the drooping corner of the heavy curtains. It’d been a solar, perhaps, somewhere to meet and chat with guests. The walls had been stripped, the floors cleaned, but the emptiness of it tugged at her, filling her with dread.

The door out to the corridor opened.

Molly gasped, jumping back, and watched as…

The door opened, but—no one stood on the other side of it.

The wind, she told herself, even though she felt no breeze and nothing disturbed the curtains.

Breath caught in her throat, Molly crossed the empty space to use the other door, tucked into the back of the room. She found another chamber just like the last, although this one still had its wallpaper.

Her heart beat fast as she hurried across this room, a headache pounding behind her hairline and her head itself swirling with wooziness. That’s all this is, I’m just—

The door at the back of the room opened before she could reach it. Again, no one was there.

She couldn’t help it—Molly yelped in alarm and jumped back.

The door she’d been about to open slammed shut only to open again, again, again, the sound pounding against her already throbbing head.

Molly raced to the other door, throwing it open and herself into the corridor beyond.

Which way did I come?

She didn’t remember.

The doors on each side of her rattled and creaked, their old hinges scraping as the doors shut and slammed closed in a macabre harmony.

Molly turned and ran.

The doors chattered at her, then the curtains began to rustle and the decorative tables to shudder. A moldering curtain flapped, trying to get in her way.

Molly batted it away, feet pounding.

Get me out, get me out, get out!

Panic numbed her fingers, and her ears rang with the litany of doors. Tables crashed to the floor in her way, and the curtains reached for her like arms. Molly threw her hands up to protect her face and jumped over the shards of wood and porcelain.

The doors—so many doors—they just kept going and going and—

There—there was one that didn’t slam and laugh at her. That one had to be right. That one—

Wouldn’t open.

Molly screeched and threw her weight into the door, forcing it open. The latch gave with a scream, and her momentum carried her over the threshold—

And right into a gaping maw of darkness.

No floor waited for her foot, the floorboards completely gone.

The scream caught in Molly’s throat as she began to fall.

Her breath punched out of her lungs when something hard and unforgiving wrapped around her middle. An indelicate noise wrenched from her throat as her momentum suddenly stopped. Even as her limbs went flailing in front of her, something pulled her back, away from the hole that fell three floors.

Wheeling her legs, Molly stumbled backwards and clutched at whatever pulled her away.

Her fingers dug into a fine brocade sleeve.

She was pulled back, away from the danger, and into a hard wall of—chest. Heart hammering, it was a moment before she realized her nose filled with the scent of man and magic, spicy and deep like cloves and pepper and leather oil.

Allarion.

The tip of a sharp nose parted her hair to run behind her ear and down her neck. Molly trembled to feel his skin against hers.

“This is why I warned you not to come to this wing of the house,” he rumbled, voice richer than the brocade she clutched.

A puff of disbelief was what came out of her.

With utmost gentleness, he ushered her further back into the corridor. The door to the floorless room closed on its own, while all the other doors opened slowly.

She wasn’t too proud to admit a little whimper escaped her.

“What’s happening? ” Her voice sounded screechy even to her own ears.

“Please don’t be afraid, sweetling. It’s only the house.”

Molly turned her incredulous gaze on him. “ What? ”

Allarion pulled her even closer and rested his other hand on her hip, as if she was a spooked horse in need of soothing.

“You must forgive me, Molly. I haven’t had the chance to explain. I am bonding with this estate—the land and the house both. My magic is having…interesting effects on the house. It’s growing sentient.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, nothing intelligible making it up her throat.

He took the chance to turn her to face him, and in her shock, she was more amenable. His hands ghosted down her arms to hold them out as he ran a quick, assessing look over her. Whatever he saw, he nodded once and, so fluidly she didn’t think to stop it, turned them down the corridor to begin walking. He kept stride with her as he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, as if they were some fancy folk on a stroll.

Molly blinked at him, at her hand caught in the folds of his sleeve, at his hand coming to cover hers with its finely tapered fingers. How…had he managed all this so smoothly?

They were passing the library again when she finally found her tongue.

“You mean this house is alive? ”

“Indeed. I find that most homes have a life to them, but the magic imbuing it now has given this house a greater sentience. A consciousness.”

“It… knows we’re here?”

“I should hope so,” he said with a chuckle. “We are living inside it.”

Molly looked around in wonder, only to realize they were back at the landing.

“It’s fortunate the house has a mind of its own—it warned me of your little adventure.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. “The doors…that was the house?” She stared at the walls as if they would suddenly grow faces. “That scared me nearly to death!”

A mournful creak echoed down the stairwell.

“I assure you, the house means you no harm. I suspect it was trying to lead you away from danger, not towards it.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue, the cadence of the slamming doors still rattling her bones, but then…she remembered how the last door didn’t want to open.

Allarion patted her hand. “Be at ease, sweetling. The house likes you very much. It’s curious about you. For months now, it’s only been me and Bellarand, and before that, there was no one for many years. It wants people living within its walls.”

The thought should have scared her—and it did. Sort of. But through her deflating terror, Molly also couldn’t help being a little…charmed. She supposed it made sense; a home would want to have people.

With a little effort, Molly caught her breath and calmed her nerves. Focusing on the prospect of a sentient house seemed less daunting than acknowledging the strange man standing beside her, whose hand on hers sent a little thrill down her spine.

“I didn’t mean to go jumping through floors—I was just looking for the kitchen.”

A sudden smile broke across the fae’s face. “Marvelous. I was hoping to give you a tour. Luncheon first, though, I think.”

And easy as that, hand still tucked into his elbow, Allarion led her down through the house to the kitchen. He pointed out salient places along the way, his pride in the home practically oozing from him.

There was the front solar, which got the best light. And here was the sitting room, just waiting for a set of plush furniture. Here was the grand atrium, the wooden staircase with its ornate banister and curved steps oiled to a high shine. Every place they stopped on their way, the doors opened on their own, as if the house too was proud to show off.

Molly followed along, struck a bit dumb with the grandeur of it. To be sure, there was so much work to be done; most of the rooms were stripped and completely empty. But there were so many rooms, and the craftsmanship of the home spoke to its builder’s wealth. It was in the cornices and doorknobs, the arching banisters and parquet floors. The faint outlines and stains of former furniture and decoration were a ghostly reminder of just how opulent this house had once been.

Even dusty, sun-bleached, and moldering, Molly still felt the place was far too fancy for her.

The kitchen, though. The kitchen she took to immediately. Lined in stone, it was noticeably warmer and cozier. A fire already burned in the large oven, and fragrant herb fronds hung from the rafters to dry. It too was sparsely furnished, just a few utensils and pots, but they were things she recognized. It was probably the nicest kitchen she’d ever been in, but there was a familiarity to it that put her a little more at ease.

Enough that, when Allarion finally released her to fetch some food from the cold box, she was brave enough to ask more questions.

“Did you mean what you said to the lord consort?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but when he returned to set a block of cheese, a loaf of bread, apples, carrots, and other vegetables on the block before her, his expression was gentle and open.

“I did,” he said.

“So you mean to go through with this handfasting?”

“My intentions are to take a wife, yes. I very much want her to be you, Molly Dunne.”

“And what if it’s not? What if I don’t like it here?”

That gentleness faded from his face, but while Molly tensed, awaiting anger or frustration, instead it was a profound sadness that darkened his brow.

“Do you not like your chamber? I had hoped…”

Molly shrugged. “It’s a lot better than being kept in the cellar, I suppose. The room’s nice. But that’s not really what I’m asking.”

His frown grew troubled, and for a moment, it looked as though he was trying to parse out meaning from her words. What he didn’t understand she didn’t know, but she wasn’t going to thank him for not keeping her tied up somewhere dark and dank after buying her .

Finally, slowly, he said, “You aren’t my prisoner here, Molly. I wish to woo you, to court you.” He came around the butcher block, his movements deliberate.

Molly held her ground, watching him come, as graceful and silent as a predator. When he stood before her, he loomed tall, making her crane her neck to keep his gaze. One purple-gray hand rose to gently touch her cheek with his fingertips.

“I wish to show you what it is to be a fae’s mate. We cherish our females, you see. You would be the air I breathe. The ground I walk upon. Nothing would please me more than giving you everything you deserve, azai. ”

Molly’s mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. What I deserve, huh?

She’d heard flowery words before. Sure, his made her belly flutter with excitement, and she couldn’t ignore how she suddenly ached between her thighs. Something about the way he looked at her, those amethyst eyes set in darkness, promised her everything he’d said and much more. A life of comfort and luxury, and nights of softness and passion.

His back bowed slightly, as if to curl himself around her, and she knew without a single word, he’d kiss her.

Instead, Molly turned to the butcher block to start sorting through the vegetables. A stew was in order— that’s what she deserved.

“We’ll see,” she told him, because fairy tales and fae promises weren’t for barmaids.