Page 77

I maneuvered him into a conversation, my tone flippant enough to go over his head, but nudging him in the right direction. I laid it on thick, playing up to his pride by asking more about his potions and the visitors he’d met, steering us toward the oh-so-innocent subject of fairytale hunters.

“I bet travelers have asked you for an alternative to the acorn, huh?” I inquired, leaning against the doorframe. “Like to mimic its effects? So desperate of people.”

Lyrik plugged the decanter’s opening with a stopper. “They’d be wasting their time.”

“You’re not that gifted or ambitious?”

“Can’t do what nature won’t let me. It lets us create what it lets us create. If it wants to bless or doom, it will. It’s not going to let any of us unearth thehowsorwhys. I can manipulate what it gives me to an extent, but to overthrow its power altogether or get under its skin? Jeez.” He shook his head. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“Maybe if you had the real thing, you could experiment. Of course, who cares right? No one’s found the last two acorns.”

“I wouldn’t mess around with those things if someone held a fucking hammer to my head. Don’t think my meager brews would make a difference anyhow. If they did, the acorns wouldn’t be that almighty, would they?”

Dammit. He had a point.

I’d hoped Lyrik might be ale to concoct a mixture with the final acorn, something to drink or eat, something that would break the nut down. It would be worth the price of spilling my crime to him.

But nature wasn’t foolish. A few bubbly liquids wouldn’t hack the mystery.

Later, Lyrik choose an indoor pit on the lowest level for supper, cushions littering the floor and surrounding the flames. I plopped my ass onto a cushion, taking refuge in the whiff of vegetable pie. Used to fending for himself, Lyrik had assumed the role of cook.

At one point during our first meal, I’d caught Aire handing the squatter a handful of coppers to pay for the food we ate. Lyrik had been about to snatch the lot, but after a quick look at Nicu, he shrugged off the coins. “Think I can’t feed you fuckers? Just stay out of my way, clean up after yourselves, and we’re even,” he’d grumbled.

I folded my legs under me. Aire had prepared cinnamon tea and sharpened my axes today, Nicu had been tending to the horses and mule, and Lyrik made yummies. I felt lazy, though I’d never had a problem with that before. As a compromise, I’d offer to refurbish furniture or do chores, something like that.

Nicu pranced into the room. The knight glided in behind him, embers fluttering in those irises, sparks of relief to find me in one piece. Wood chunks sizzled and fire writhed from the pit. Since the night I’d snuck into the castle, everything seemed to be happening too fast yet too slow. Like a goof, I saluted Aire, and he chuckled.

Neither of us exchanged words for the rest of our supper. We fixated on chewing and swallowing while Punk perched, Nicu chattered, and Lyrik frowned at the walls, listening or not listening—it was hard to tell with him.

I kept wondering the weirdest things. How long did Aire need to wake up in the morning? How freaking long would his teeth work those carrots before he gulped them down?

In a sneaky mood, I glanced between my crimped hair strands to see his mouth move while he ate.

I hadn’t planned on it. Maybe he hadn’t, either. But much later, after we’d all gone to bed, my feet carried me back to the swings, where I rocked and waited.

A few minutes passed, and then his silent shadow appeared.

I grinned at my swaying feet. “Hey.”

The swing next to me sighed under his weight. “Hello.”

That’s how the terrace became our night spot.

19

Fantasy

I’d negotiated for a month. One month.

After that, whether or not I found what I needed, we’d leave. He’d turn me in as a trespasser and Royal-runaway-accomplice, or I’d turn myself in, or it didn’t matter who raised their hand first. I had a month.

Aire would get his share of heat when we returned. How would they punish him? Would they demote him? Or worse?

The longer we stayed here, the longer the Crown suffered. The longer the Crown suffered, the greater the consequences.

He didn’t worry, seeming resigned to his choice. He’d chosen Nicu over the family. He’d chosen my plea over his duty. He’d chosen my lie.

I couldn’t recall a time when I’d felt this consistently guilty, but thoughts of Mother and her mallet kept the remorse to a minimum. Mostly.