Chapter 38

Ibathe in milk, honey, and fragrant oils for exactly one hour. I know because I watch every minute, every second, tick by on a clock above the mantle as a team of quiet servants scrub me, pluck me, shave me in places that make me want to scrunch into a ball and hide. Instead, I stuff every wisp of emotionally driven weakness beneath my field of tiny domes, then plaster another bigger, stronger dome atop the lot—a double layer of protection that instantly loosens my bones, my muscles, leaving me with nothing but stony determination that will hopefully carry me through the next few hours.

Nobody seems to blink an eye at the wound on my neck as I’m dried with a thick, warm towel. My hair is combed into a cascade of tumbling curls, my skin slathered in a lotion that smells like orchids—sweet and musky.

I’m swathed in a blue silk dressing gown and escorted from the bathing chamber. Six women bunch around me, and we move through the lofty corridors like a single unit; past guards who nod curtly and servants who bow or curtsey, as though my steps are now paved by the Gods.

It couldn’t be further from the truth.

Kolden opens the door to my suite, and we gush past, the door shutting behind us. Izel and another handmaiden are standing by my dresser that’s littered with stubby bottles, bowls of gray slop, and tins of cosmetics.

I glance out the open window, the gluttonous moon rising above the cityscape that glitters in the distance—bloated with heavy promises that don’t pack the same punch when I’m feeling …

Nothing.

Sounds of merriment spill across the bay: the thunder of drums, a chorus of voices, and more of those loud pops as seeds of light shoot up into the sky and explode into a myriad of falling stars.

Izel gestures for me to sit before my vanity, and a few fine braids are bound around the crown of my head, pinned in place and adorned with tiny blue flowers. My nails are painted with something that makes the tips look like they’ve been dipped in gold, the dark circles under my eyes dusted with a powder that matches my skin tone. My lashes are swept into dramatic curls with a liquid that tints their length, the ends embellished with golden dewdrops. Finally, my lips are stained blood red, each sweep of the brush making them tickle.

I’m escorted to where a heavy shard of silver light pours in through the open balcony doors, my robe slipped off my shoulders, baring my naked body that feels like it no longer belongs to me—a thought that skims the surface of my hardened mind rather than gnawing through its spongy flesh.

Someone lifts my hair and picks at the latch on my necklace. I whip around and snatch her wrist.

A hush falls upon the room as I shake my head. “This stays on.”

“But, Mistress,” the unfamiliar handmaiden sputters, big blue eyes nipping at Izel, “we must remove all jewelry except your cupla. It is tradition.”

“Then I will do it myself when I’m ready.”

There’s a moment of hesitancy before she dips her head in quiet submission, and I drop my hold on her.

I turn my attention back to the moon, sighing internally.

The servants each hold bowls of that gray slop that smells like sulfur, wielding delicate brushes. They get to work painting my body—adorning me in cold, tickling lines, swirls, and flicks that make me shiver all over.

I glance down, and my eyes widen when I realize what they’re doing. Painting me in scriptures I’ve seen before—scrawled across Rhordyn’s skin—tailoring to every dip, curve, and hardened peak of my body.

Enhancingme.

That big, internal dome rattles, like the ones beneath it popped off or shattered. I slather more light upon it and force myself to stare at the moon. Watch it rise in daunting increments. Focus on everything I must do and the steps I must take.

Simple. Empty.

Superficial.

A wild gust of wind whips past the curtains and glazes my skin, lifting the hairs on my arms like an electrical charge that seems to swathe me. As if leaning into it, my entire body sways—

A servant takes my arm, urging me to step into a garment puddled at my feet. The dress is lifted—a sheer, shimmery sheath that looks less hardy than tissue parchment … though I guess that’s the point.

Easy to shred.

Who needs proper clothes when all this night is really about is what’s between my legs?

Another thought that glides across the surface before I blow it away like the seeds of a dandelion.

They ease the gown over my painted breasts and settle it into place, its neckline cutting a straight line from one shoulder to the other. The back is low and draping, long sleeves the shape of bells. It’s opaque from the knees down, but through the rest I glimpse the scrawls of scripture tangled across my sun-kissed skin. The more intimate parts of my body are cleverly hidden beneath swirling trails of shimmering gauze.

Something I’m thankful for.

The servants who scrubbed me in the bathing chamber back away, heads bowed, their murmured words crawling across my skin like ants: “We serve as one. We serve as one. We serve as one—”

They exit through the door with the unfamiliar handmaiden, leaving only Izel, who caps the cosmetics on my vanity. Her motions are loud and disruptive now that the others have gone, snapping lids down and clanking things into place. “I’ll leave you to your pre-ceremonial prayers,” she says, glancing at me through the mirror, her expression guarded. Perhaps she’s pissed that I didn’t drink her poison tea or eat her poison cake. “I’ll be back with the fertility tonic.”

Her words hit like a punch to my dome as she turns on her heel and leaves.

All I can do is stare at the closed door, struggling to remember what it is I have to do. The next step I have to take.

Nobody said anything about a fertility tonic …

I shake off a full-body shudder, slather another layer of light upon my trembling dome, and snap into action—unlatching my necklace. My fake skin barely gets the chance to peel down before I loop the chain around my ankle twice and resecure the clasp, thankful the opaque hem of my gown conceals the contraband.

I uncap the lip lacquer, then open my vanity drawer, pull out my cloak, and retrieve the small vial I stashed behind it. My heart drops when I see the cork—no longer a tawny tone but stained black, soaked with the liquid it was meant to stopper.

Shit.

I cut a glance at the door behind me, then dig my hand into the drawer and grab the vial of leftover bane bush berries from Izel’s suspected assassination attempts. I tip them across the bench and pick the ripest ones, retrieve my pestle and mortar from the other drawer, sprinkle the tiny berries into the hollow with a few drops of water, and grind them into a slurry.

The liquid is thick and gray at first, before finally turning loose and dark as ink.

I lift the mortar and tip the liquid bane toward the pottle of red lip stain.

One drip.

Two—

Enough to kill a dinner party worth of people if it were dispersed within a jug of water.

I frown.

Maybe I’ll try to squeeze out a little more? Cainon’s half Unseelie, and I need to knock him out for a good long while. At the very least, I need him asleep until the High Septum cracks open our coupling chamber at sunrise, hunting for evidence of my freshly stripped virtue—or so I’ve been told.

Another drip.

Another—

The door clicks shut.

My attention snaps to the mirror before me. In it, I see Izel near the entrance, paused, a small bottle of grass-colored liquid in her hand. Her shrewd gaze shifts over the mortar. The berries sprinkled on the table. The pottle of red lip lacquer.

Finally, she looks at me.

In her big, blue eyes is the deep seed of knowing. Vile, poignant, accusatory knowing—which only confirms my suspicions.

She spiked my meals with the berries to begin with.

Tension cuts the air, andI settle the mortar on the table, swallowing, brutally aware of just how fragile this situation has become. Burn-me-at-the-stake-rather-than-couple-with-me fragile.

“Izel, please don—”

She spins toward the door, the fertility tonic thudding against the rug.

My vision smears as I move too fast and all at once, chewing the space between us in a few strides, making me feel as if I left my skin over by the vanity. Swallowing a violent, rocking surge of displacement, I bind her with my arm and smack my hand upon her mouth.

She bucks and twists and tries to wrestle free, but my bones are hardened by the alloy of my desperation.

“Stop, Izel. Please. You have to listen.”

She continues to twist and grunt, teeth grazing my palm, trying to sink into my flesh.

I press my lips close to her ear, my whisper sharp and urgent. “He’s a very bad, very twisted man. Just stop trying to bite my hand and give me a second to explain.”

She goes completely slack and still, and I breathe a sigh of relief, closing my eyes.

“He’sUnseelie,” I whisper, tainting the air with the haunting admission. “He’s got men, women … children entombed in a feeding burrow beneath an island in the bay.”

I wait for any reaction at all.

Nothing.

Just the sound of her breathing hard and fast through her nose.

“I— I have a plan to rescue them. Their lives depend on it.”

I give that information time to settle, feeling each second tick by faster than the last while I stare at the door. Expecting someone to burst in at any moment to hail me for the ceremony.

We can’t stand here all night …

I draw a tight breath. “I’m going to let you speak now. Please don’t do anything stupid.”

The second I lift my palm, she screams.

I slam the heel of my hand into the side of her head, and she crumples. Fists assault the door as Izel’s limp body thuds to the floor at my feet.

“Orlaith?”

Fuck.

I leap over Izel and dash to the door, pulling it open just enough for me to peek through the gap up into Kolden’s daunted expression. “Can you keep everyone out for a moment?”

He looks past me, eyes widening. “Is she—”

“Going to have a very bad headache when she wakes up?” I mutter, and a sharp curse batters me.

“How?”

“She saw me mixing liquid bane with my lip lacquer.”

All the color drops from his face, and he tries to shove the door.

I frown, pushing my weight against it. “What are you doing? Stop that.”

“Step aside,” he growls. “I’ll make it quick. She won’t feel a thing.”

Holy petunia—he means to kill her.

“That is not happening!” I whisper-hiss. “She doesn’t need to die. Just … watch the door so I can stuff her somewhere.”

The muscle in his jaw pops, but the sound of booted steps has him glancing over his shoulder. “The guards are coming to collect you. I can buy you another two minutes—tops.”

The door snips shut.

I draw a deep, shuddered breath, surveying the room, trying to work out where to stash my unconscious handmaiden so I won’t be worried about her waking midceremony and busting … everything.

I can’t tie her up and gag her. What if nobody finds her and she perishes? That doesn’t sit well, even with my emotions lumped beneath a stab-proof barrier.

My gaze hones on my dressing room, an idea flaring to life like a lantern’s flame …

I’ll smuggle her down the stairwell and lean a chair against the door. When she wakes, she can leave through the hidden exit that will spit her out amid the jungle—far enough away that I’ll hopefully be long gone by the time she tattles.

Good plan.

I boot the fertility tonic away, wrap my hands around her wrists, and drag her backward, huffing and puffing, straining against her weight. “This is all … for nothing,” I mutter, as if she can hear me. “I’m about … ninety-four percent certain it can’t even kill him. He’ll just have a … nice, big, hopefully really long nap. Not that you can talk. Your … moral compass doesn’t exactly point … true north. What were you even going to say? ‘I found the High Master’s … promised using the berries I tried to … poison her with?’ Come now. You’re smarter … than that, Izel.”

I lug the secret door open, heave her partway down the stairs, set a lantern beside her so she has protection against the Irilak should she venture into the night, then lean back with my hands on my hips while I catch my breath. “Try not to roll down the stairs in your sleep,” I say on a sigh, then move into the dressing room, close the secret door-mirror behind me, and shove one of the heavy, ornate dressing chairs in front of it.

There.

I dash into my suite, catching sight of a dark shadow perched atop my dining table. My heart leaps up my throat, and I still, the sound of my rushing pulse a roar in my ears.

A massive black krah cocks its head to the side, watching me through inky eyes that seem to reel me in.

Perhaps it’s come to shit on me and stake my death in the soil?

“Not now,” I hiss, striding forward with a flick of my hands. “I’ve got too much to do. Shoo!”

It flaps into the air, swooping leathery-winged circles about the ceiling, then lands atop the pole connecting two of my bedposts, scampering into a sitting position. Staring down on me from its lofty perch with a strange imperial bearing that would put me on edge if I wasn’t so busy staying off the edge.

It turns, curls its lanky tail around the bar, then plummets backward—hanging upside down as it shuffles its wings until they’re tucked around its body like a sooty cocoon. I think it’s settling in for a nap, except it doesn’t close its eyes.

Just continues to watch me.

I sigh, sit on my stool, and use the long brush to blend the liquid bane through the red lip lacquer. “Don’t judge me,” I mutter, glancing at the krah in the mirror before painting my lips with careful strokes that smother the bloody tone, replacing it with a rich, deadly color.

A loud knock almost has me jumping out of my skin, and I fumble with the lacquer, tucking it in my drawer. “Coming!”

I delve my hands into the cramped flush of wildflowers, like splitting a book down the center, revealing the big, white bud sitting an inch above the soil atop a thick stem, all bound up with its secrets tucked away.

I blow on it.

Five petals uncurl, cupping a clutch of milky filaments capped with tiny beads of light, each petal the size and shape of the pad of my thumb.

A smile fills my cheeks, and I draw on the rich, spicy fragrance that makes the back of my nose itch.

“Aren’t you clever,” I whisper, then pluck two petals and tuck them beneath the crown of braids wrapped around my head.

I peek up at the krah again, setting my finger against my poisonous lips as it blinks at me.

“Shh …”