Page 19 of Blackheart

She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. “Blackheart women are beautiful. Weare beautiful. Don’t trick yourself intobelieving anything less.” While her tone was sharp, there was something else behind it, too. She wasn’t only trying to convince me, but herself as well.

The squeak of the door startled me out of the memory.

Sitting up, I listened closely, perfectly hidden behind the bar. Only one set of footsteps entered, quiet but heavy. Reaching for a low shelf, I carefully grabbed the paring knife. The floorboards creaked near the bar as my heart pounded. I was vulnerable, but I wasn’t entirely helpless. I jumped to my feet with my weapon ready, knowing I’d aim with the pointy end and hope for the best.

Lord Ansel lifted a brow. My back hit the wall, knocking over a glass. It shattered across the floor.

I scowled. “What are you doing here?”

It was late into the night, yet he was polished. He hadn’t bothered to wear his cloak. Instead, he stood in a black tunic and matching pants, no weapons in sight. Not that he needed them. He silently assessed me and the messhehad caused. Unamused by the knife in my hand, he snatched the blade and tossed it down the bar.

“Blackheart, explain why you’re here.”

I grabbed a broom. “I’m trying to sleep.” It was bizarre speaking so familiarly with a Witchlord, but he did notactlike the others.

“You prefer the floor over a perfectly fine bed?”

“It’s not perfectly fine,” I argued, shards clinking together on the ground.

He raised his chin. “Oh? It’s not? You never went into the room to know.”

“I don't need to see it to know it’s unacceptable. It’s in a Witchlord's home!”

I’d shouted,and loudly.

If he was angry, he didn’t show it. “Find somewherehospitableto sleep by tomorrow night, or you’ll find yourself where I put you,” he warned.

“You can’t tell me where to sle?—!”

A grey cloud surrounded him, then he was gone—like he’d evaporated.

I clenched my teeth, yanking the broom once more to finish sweeping up the glass.

After locking the door and placing a chair in front of it, I returned to the frigid floor.

His definition of hospitable and mine were entirely different. Anywhere I could lie down was hospitable enough—anywhere he was, was not.

I hummed, a trick that sometimes soothed me to sleep. I’d been doing it since I was a little girl. Other times, I gently scratched my arms, imagining it was someone else.

Since failing to lift the sword, I hadn’t dreamt of wielding or training anymore. In fact, I hadn’t dreamt at all. It was as if my own mind was disappointed and didn’t know what to say to me.

I was truly alone.

Chapter 7

A Posse of Imbeciles

“They must be punished. All of them!”

—Attributed to Queen Delaina Lyonaire, as overheard in the Council Chambers

I bangedon Trista’s door well before opening, asking for forgiveness as I hurried in.

She gathered a pitcher of water. “If Arielle killed someone close to you, add yourself to the list. I can’t be bothered to hear about it anymore.”

I shook my head. Arielle wouldn’t be receiving a solstice gift from me, but killing her was the least of my worries. “I’ve witnessed enough death this winter. I need your help with something.”

Trista wrapped herself in a brown blanket, her hair a frizzy mess and bags drooping under her eyes. Dawn was hours away, and usually I’d wait for the shop to open. But uncertainty haunted me. Even being allowed in provided a semblance of relief.