29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

C yril never wanted to hear the word lockmead again in her life.

She told herself that over, and over, and over in the hours she spent huddled on the cool tile of her bathroom floor, wrapped in a blanket and fucking miserable . She wasn’t sure exactly how much sleep she’d gotten after Mikael left—the reasons for which she wasn’t allowing herself to entertain—but it definitely hadn’t been enough when the waves of nausea hit and forced her out of bed.

She never made it back in.

Her throat was raw and her stomach ached something fierce from all the retching and purging. Anything more than a few sips of water refused to stay down—she’d learned that the hard way, multiple times—and it was safe to say she had at least a handful of regrets.

Aside from the painfully obvious one relating to how thoroughly she celebrated the solstice with foreign spirits, the other was how barren she’d let her medicine bag become.

Satchel of chewing tablets for nausea? Empty.

Tonics to ease every bit of a hangover? Nowhere to be found.

Pain tonics? She had a single vial left, and one smell of it sent her straight back on her knees in front of the toilet.

All she had left in any reasonable quantities were a dozen tincture packs bearing the stamp of Bright Apothecary that she’d brought to ease her cycle in the horrible event that it reared its ugly head while she was in Reykr. It hadn’t even been anywhere near six months since the last, but still—better safe than sorry, and—

Cyril was an idiot.

A complete and utter moron.

Her head rolled back against the cupboards with a sigh before she pulled herself up, slowly.

It had been hours since she looked at those packs and wrote them off as useless because she wasn’t cramped into a fetal position and bleeding. Hours, since she never considered that she didn’t have to be either of those things.

Draped in a blanket and wearing the dark tunic and shorts she got herself into between vomiting fits, Cyril braved the blistering morning light filling her room. She grabbed a cup from her desk and her canvas medicine bag.

She’d deal with the damn curtains after.

Her head throbbed an agonizing beat in time with each clatter and clank as she set everything on the bathroom counter and dumped a package of the crystalized powder into the cup. She filled it half full with cool water straight from the tap, gave it a rough stir with her finger, and braved a first, tiny sip.

That first taste of mint laced with clove and ginger wasn’t exactly…pleasant, but it didn’t come right back up, either.

Progress.

Cyril wet her lips with another cautious sip and the most minute wisp of relief rolled down her throat.

She could have sobbed.

Cradling that cup of gods-sent liquid in her hands, she headed straight for the sofa.

It was the first soft surface she’d set her body on since she hauled out of bed all those hours ago. Nothing had ever felt more inviting, and each sip of tincture went down easier than the last until the glass was empty.

At its base, the medicine’s compounds eased the debilitating cramping and bleeding that came with fae cycles. A fair price to pay, the mortal women always liked to remind them, for something that only came once or twice a year.

Cyril begged to differ.

But most apothecaries, like the one the Rhodea Estate ordered its tablets, tonics, and tinctures from, liked to add a few other niceties to the mix. Namely, just a touch of a mild sedative and a couple of choice plant extracts to ease pain-induced nausea before the rest of it kicked in.

Apparently, it also did one hells of a job easing lockmead-induced nausea, too.

Cyril hadn’t even realized she’d nodded off on the sofa until a persistent knock at the door startled her awake. She was still upright, the empty cup on its side in her lap. If the simple wooden clock on the mantle was to be trusted, it was eleven. She was certain it said eight the last she looked.

“ Lady Cyril, are you awake ?” came a soft, feminine voice from the other side of the door.

“Come in,” she called from the sofa, and gods , her voice. It was more of a raspy, broken croak than anything else.

The short, enviably curvy fae woman who pushed open her bedroom door offered Cyril a warm smile that spoke of nothing but empathy as she wheeled in a cart behind her stacked full of loaded trays. She recognized the woman right away from the long, golden brown braid that swept down to the backs of her thighs.

But her name ? Cyril didn’t have the faintest idea.

Marlie? Maisey? Mari?

“Thank you,” Cyril said, instead of fumbling out what assuredly would have been the wrong name.

“Oh, you’re very welcome.” The woman tossed her another smile before floating her finger over the trays, humming softly to herself. She crouched down and pulled one from the second shelf as she said, “Did you have a good solstice, Lady Cyril?”

“Too good, I think,” Cyril groaned.

The other woman chuckled as she sat a tray down on the cushion beside Cyril.

A covered dish with something Cyril hoped was plain, a mug steaming with the scent of ginger, and a trio of tonic bottles served as the perfect distraction from letting her mind dwell on the events that made her solstice too good.

Namely, that it hadn’t even been twelve hours since she was tangled up with the prince in her bed and making a gods damned fool of—

“If I could offer a suggestion?”

Cyril blinked up at the woman and nodded.

“Take this before you eat.”

She slid one tonic bottle to the end of the tray closest to Cyril.

“Take this one afterward.”

The next bottle she slid to the middle, and then she tapped her finger on the one still left at the far side.

“And don’t take this until you are absolutely ready to sleep. It is potent .”

“Speaking from experience?” Cyril rasped, and there was a glimmer of amusement in the woman’s gray eyes as she sighed and nodded.

“I am, unfortunately.” She looked from Cyril to the tray, and back again. “Can I send for anything else for you?”

“No, thank you. I—” Cyril’s eyes caught on the small, tented piece of parchment on her tray with a neatly written C. R. —to keep track of where the trays were going, no doubt. It may have been a long shot, but…

“Actually, have you been to Mi— Prince Mikael’s room yet?”

The woman gave her a curious look and shook her head.

“No, not yet. Her Majesty prefers we take care of their guests before the family. Do you…need something from him?”

“No, but…” Cyril gritted her teeth. She couldn't possibly make any more of a fool of herself after the display she put on last night, right? “Can I give you something to bring to him? Just a note. I’ll even put it on his tray?”

Through her wariness, the woman looked a shade of empathetic. Like maybe she too had waded through regrets the morning after the solstice once or twice before.

“Alright.”

Cyril stumbled off the sofa and over to her desk before the other woman even finished getting her wary agreement out. She dug out a notecard and a glass pen from the drawer and started writing before she could change her mind.

Sorry about last night. - C

There were a dozen specifics she could have gone into about what exactly she was sorry about. But that would involve thinking about them each again, and she planned on pushing that off for as long as possible.

A blanket apology seemed sufficient.

Cyril folded the card up, carefully wrote Prince of Darkness on the outside, and walked over to the cart.

“I feel terrible, but I don’t remember your name,” she said as she looked through the trays, eyes searching for the M. K. marker. The least she could do was thank the woman properly now.

“It’s Hallie, but no need to feel bad. There are a lot of us to remember,” Hallie said, looking away from where Cyril now slipped the note half under the plate on Mikael’s tray. Out of sight, out of mind.

Cyril was just glad she asked and hadn’t fumbled out the first name that came to her mind.

“Well, thank you, Hallie, for the tray and the help.” Cyril mustered up a smile as the exhaustion of just standing seeped into her bones. She wobbled, and Hallie’s eyes went wide, but she waved her off and staggered right back to the sofa. “I’m going to sit and eat before you have to scrape me off the floor.”

Hallie waited until Cyril made it there and sat down before she nodded and said, “Get some rest, Lady Cyril.”

Oh, she intended on it.

Cyril took the first tonic—a watery, minty thing—and, when she was sure it wouldn’t come back up, she made cautious work of the plate of roast chicken and potatoes.

They may have very well been the best thing she’d ever eaten.

The second tonic didn’t go down as easily as the first. Its sickly sweet taste was obviously meant to cover up something unpalatable, but the last dregs of her ginger tea dealt with that.

After she’d made a half-assed attempt at cleaning up the dishes and tray, and blocked out every beam of bright, mid-morning light, Cyril knocked back the last tonic.

She barely made it into bed before it took her feet out from under her.

Cyril whined and pulled the blankets over her head. However long she’d been asleep for—hours, days maybe—had been nowhere near enough, and she wanted nothing to do with being awake.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It just wouldn’t stop. Three raps every few seconds. She was ready to scream, and tell whoever was on the other side of that door where to go and precisely how the fuck to get there.

Sixty seconds is what she’d give them, to move on and leave her the fuck alone.

Sixty. Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty—

“ Cyril ?” She blinked. “Are you alive?”

Was that…?

No. There was no way he’d come and—

“ If you are alive, I have a peace offering .”

Cyril groaned and tossed back the covers.

She breathed through the wave of dizziness that swept through her as she slid out of bed and stalked over to the door. The equal parts arrogant, intolerable, and handsome prince smiled down at her when she pulled it open.

Mikael’s brows climbed as he said, “Hi. You look…”

She leveled a flat, unimpressed stare at him.

“Do not say it.”

Gods, her voice still. She sounded like Dion after he spent a few too many nights in a row smoking in the lounge.

“Say what?” His lips quirked.

Cyril knew she had to look as wrung out as she felt that morning. She’d caught one glimpse of her gaunt face in the bathroom mirror, and that had been plenty enough. How the prince looked relatively fine, she did not know.

She leaned her forehead against the edge of the door and sighed, gesturing vaguely at herself. “That I look like I got into a fight with a badger, and the badger won. Or whatever snarky version of that you prefer.”

Every possible iteration of that came from her uncles at some point or another. She was certain she’d heard them all by now, but badgers and bushes seemed to always be their go-to.

“You look tired . Almost like you had a late night or something.”

Mikael’s eyes lit up with amusement and, if Cyril wasn’t so damn drained, she’d have shut the door in his face. But it was currently supporting the near dead weight of her body, and she didn’t feel like moving.

She snorted. “Imagine that.”

Mikael smiled.

“I come bearing tea, wine, and cake.” He tipped his head towards the entirely out-of-place wicker basket under his arm. “If some company and any combination of those interest you?”

Just the word wine made her stomach turn.

“Tea and cake. The company too, I guess,” Cyril said after a long, appraising moment, and relief flickered on the prince’s face. She pushed off the door and motioned him through. He didn’t need telling twice, thankfully, and headed right over to the sofa and table.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said.

Mikael waved her off, and she slipped into the bathroom, dealt with her painfully full bladder, and braved a glance in the mirror.

Just as bad as she thought.

Cyril wet a cloth with some balm and roughly scrubbed at the kohl smeared every which way around her eyes. Crying was something she had no recollection of doing the night before, but the tracks of black and gray running down her cheeks said otherwise.

Her face was far from perfect, but it was better. It took just a few seconds more to pass a comb through the limp, tangled lengths of her hair and brush the filmy feeling of sleep from her teeth.

By the time she’d made it back out, Mikael was in full domestic swing, adding logs to the hearth and stoking the flames. Laid out on the low table behind him were two lightly steaming mugs, a teapot tucked between them, and a single bowl with a heaping serving of cake. Sponge cake, specifically, with berries and cream, that had her stomach growling.

Those tonics did a remarkable job.

“Are we sharing, or did you bring all of that just for me?” Cyril asked, maybe a bit hopefully on the latter, as she wrapped up in a blanket and settled down on one end of the sofa.

“All for you, I already ate.” Mikael took the other end of the couch, leaving an entire cushion between them. Maybe for the best. “I thought you might be hungry since you missed dinner.”

Gods, was she ever.

Cyril wasted no time plucking the bowl and fork from the table and digging in. The berries were fresh and tart, the cream light and sweet, and Cyril was a happy woman.

The prince slid one amused glance her way as he preoccupied himself with his tea.

“Who told you that cake is my favorite?” she asked, halfway through inhaling the plate. Manners be damned, it was delicious. She could probably live off of some combination of this and those meat pastries from Brynnhold.

“Dion did. Well, not directly. That would involve interacting with me, and that he does not seem keen on doing.” Mikael laughed dryly and shook his head.

Not surprising to hear, given the less than lovely things Bron informed her that Dion said about Mikael, but still disappointing. She would’ve apologized on his behalf if she hadn’t just shoveled another piece of cake into her mouth.

“But I heard him tell my mother how pissed you’d be if you found out you missed it, and she said, ah…”

Mikael trailed off and occupied his mouth with his tea.

He wore a hint of a grimace when he looked over at her and a knot formed in her stomach. If there was something questionable about the damn food and he was waiting until now to tell her? Fucking hells.

Cyril looked down at her now empty bowl, setting it cautiously back on the table as she asked, “She said what ?”

“Ah, well, apparently it was your mother’s favorite as well? She was ecstatic about that. A little emotional too. But that might’ve been all the wine she drank with dinner.”

Oh .

Cyril wanted to laugh at his level of caution. Appreciated, but unnecessary.

“Well, your mother would know. I think they were quite good friends.” Cyril took a sip of her tea and cradled the mug in her hands. She smiled at Mikael as she said, “You don’t have to dance around the subject.”

He raised a brow at her and playfully said, “But you know firsthand now just how good I am at dancing .”

Cyril did not miss a beat.

“Mediocre, at best. You stepped on my toes twice.”

A flicker of surprise lit up his eyes and a warm rumble of laughter left him. It was a sound she was enjoying more and more. Among a couple of others that he made the night before that she was cursing her brain for surfacing.

Her cheeks warmed, and she forced words out of her mouth.

“Did everyone else make it to dinner?”

“My parents and Dion, all in pretty rough shape. Astor and Reyna are gone again though.”

Cyril blinked.

“Were they at the party?”

She couldn’t remember seeing the crown prince or princess at any point during the festivities, but much of the evening had a lockmead-induced haze hanging over it.

Mikael shook his head and sighed.

“No, they left a day or two before. Apparently, all the shit in the city spooked Reyna again.”

“Do they—” Cyril chewed her lip. “It’s probably not my place to ask…”

“Are they usually gone this much?”

Cyril nodded. It was like Mikael plucked the thought right from her head.

In all the weeks she’d been in Reykr, it felt like they’d been away more than home. Not like she fully understood what the roles of a crown prince and his wife entailed, but it struck her as odd. Surely they had obligations at the palace.

“Honestly? No, not at all. Every couple of months, maybe. And even then, Astor doesn’t always go with her.” Mikael sighed and sunk back into the sofa. “He told my parents it’s because of all this bullshit with the murders. Reyna feels safer back with her people, and I get that, but…”

Royal family drama wasn't on the list of things Cyril thought she'd be in for today—or ever, really. It didn’t help that her pleasantly full belly was just whining at her to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.

“But?” she asked.

Mikael was quiet for a long, burgeoning moment, rapping his fingers along the sides of his mug.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Reyna might be sick.”

“Sick?” Cyril blinked. “But why would she be leaving then?”

“Reyna’s village is apparently renowned for their healers, and their practice with old medicine. Or at least that’s what she’s always said. And I’ll admit, I’ve never been exactly…close with her or my brother.” There was a subtle bitterness in Mikael’s huff of a laugh that spoke volumes to the depth of that statement. “But something feels weird about it.”

“You haven’t asked your brother?” Cyril asked, because she was too far out of her element to offer anything helpful.

Mikael sighed. “No. He’s never alone while he’s here. And I’m not about to corner him coming out of a council meeting.”

“…Could you ask Reyna?”

To that, Mikael laughed.

“Have you tried asking her anything? It’s like talking to a damn wall.”

Cyril grimaced and drained the last dregs of her tea.

During her time in Reykr so far, her interactions with the soft-spoken woman were few and far between. They exchanged some quiet greetings and friendly smiles at a handful of dinners, and the princess even asked Cyril how she was enjoying her stay during a passing encounter in the archives. Cyril just thought her to be reserved and a bit shy, especially after she found out about the whole second language business.

But she could see where Mikael was coming from.

“Well, I hope she’s alright.”

Cyril couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be ill and have a murderer terrorizing your home.

“Gods, you and I both. If anything happens to her…” Mikael groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Astor will be a fucking mess, and I’ll be stuck covering his duties.”

Cyril said nothing.

It was clear Astor and Reyna were enamored with each other, as she supposed a husband and wife should be. But Cyril knew firsthand just how irrationally love like that could make people act.

“You know,” Mikael added, “I came here to give you a hard time, not to wallow in my impending doom.”

“Give me a hard time?” Cyril pulled the blanket around her shoulders taut and sunk back further into the corner of the sofa. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Why?”

“ Why ?” He laughed. Better than his groan of misery, she supposed. “Because you surprised me last night, Cyril. You hadn’t struck me as a virgin .”

She caught one look at the total amusement in his eyes and Cyril wondered if the sofa would be kind enough to swallow her whole.

“You don’t need to tease me about it…” she grumbled, and Mikael’s brows climbed.

“Oh, no, not teasing at all. Just surprised. You had a lot of bark for someone who’s never been…bitten?” The prince looked as uncertain as he sounded when those last few words came out of his mouth.

“That’s an awful analogy.” Cyril’s nose wrinkled, and Mikael just shrugged at her. “And it’s…it’s not for a lack of want, or trying, okay? It’s just difficult…”

“Difficult to find a man willing to take you to bed?” He scoffed as he sat back, draping his arm across the sofa back. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“You’ve met Dion, yes?” she said flatly.

Mikael looked off-put at the fact that these roads were converging. Like her uncle having anything to do with her intimate encounters—or lack thereof—threw him entirely off course.

“Back home, I’m not allowed to go anywhere or do anything on my own that isn’t riding, reading, training, or my chores, and Dion makes sure of that. I’m also certain he threatens every living body at the estate with death if they even think about coming near me. So yes, Mikael, it’s been difficult to find a willing partner.”

This was the sort of conversation Cyril wanted nothing to do with, but the contemplative look on Mikael’s face had her inclined to believe it wouldn’t be over soon.

She should have sent him packing with his damn tea and cake.

“I hadn’t thought about that…” he said, with a bit more humility than his previous statements. It lasted all of about three seconds, though, until his jaw went slack and he turned to her. “Cyril…was I your first kiss?”

He sounded so fucking smug at the possibility.

She snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.” He tossed her a wry smile, and Cyril shook her head. “Well, may that poor bastard’s soul rest easy. I’m sure Dion made quick work of him.”

Cyril swallowed. “Her.”

“ Her ?”

“May her soul rest easy.”

“I… What?” Mikael blinked at her in disbelief. “Shit, I wasn’t being serious, I—”

Cyril wasn’t sure what driving force had her feeling compelled to share any of this with him, but every fiber of her being wanted it out .

The words just started tumbling.

“It was one of our farmer’s daughters, Keelie. We, uh…enjoyed each other’s company a bit.” Cyril smiled sheepishly, and Mikael still looked stunned. “No one really batted an eyelash when she and I would disappear together, especially at parties. But she…well, she got sick a few summers ago. Caught something in her lungs, and it killed her.”

It wasn’t often that Cyril let herself think about that raucous, hazel-eyed woman who had darted in and out of her life for all of, what, two years? But she felt oddly at ease telling Mikael, even if it still stung.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Mikael looked wholly uncomfortable. That helped to lessen the sting in the strangest way. “She was fae, or…?”

Cyril shook her head.

“Mortal.”

And honestly? That was part of the reason she found Keelie so fascinating. She lived with the sort of intensity and curiosity that didn’t come naturally for many fae, not with the centuries they had to wade through life. Not the case for mortals, though, and especially not the case for Keelie.

For a long while, Mikael said nothing, and Cyril appreciated the silence that he let her sit in. Only two other people knew the finer details about Keelie, and Cyril wasn’t well practiced in talking about it. She was okay if it stayed that way, too.

Knees drawn tight to her chest, Cyril pressed her cheek to the back of the sofa and let her eyes fall shut. Feelings were fucking draining, and it wasn’t like she’d gone into this with an abundance of energy either.

Mikael noticed.

“I can go if you want,” he said, far softer than he had any right to. “You look exhausted.”

“You could stay too.” Cyril cracked open an eye to see the surprise that graced his features. “I’m just not long for this world.”

She pressed her face back into the sofa and he chuckled, “That’s alright.”

Cyril wasn’t sure if he said anything else after that.

The next time she opened her eyes, the fire was low and, at some point, she had stretched her bare legs right across Mikael’s lap. The warm strength of his hands was wrapped around her calves, and the man looked blissfully peaceful. His chest moved with the slow, steady rise and fall of sleep, his head tipped back against the sofa.

Cyril smiled and let sleep take her again.

When she woke for the second time, filtered beams of morning light were forcing themselves through the gaps in her curtains, and Mikael was gone.

He’d been busy before he left though.

The fire in the hearth was freshly tended to and roaring.

Every trace of cake and tea, and their late-night conversation, cleared away.

All that remained was a small, cream-colored envelope she recognized from the stationery set on her desk. A neat, but hurried Wrath Incarnate was written on the outside.

Her cheeks flushed, and she wasn’t sure if the second blanket he’d piled on her or the fire was to blame. There was a third option there too, but she tossed that aside with her blankets.

She tugged the card out with care and opened it up.

Come see me at the barracks before dinner. -M.

After letting her eyes dart over it three or four times, Cyril tucked the card back in its envelope with shaky hands and went to find somewhere in her wardrobe to hide it.

A grin never left her face.