Page 25

Chapter 25

Kat

The queen’s luncheon is not in Ashbourne, but in Bellmast, a city on the coast a day’s journey away by carriage.

Mama and Father took me to the coast a few times when I was a child, and while I wait to hear if I will accompany the prince on his journey, I am a bundle of desperation to go and desperation not to go. What if it’s nothing like I remembered, and that piece of my parents is gone? What if it’s everything I remembered, and I will be flooded with how much I miss them? What if the prince sees through my attempts to hide my emotions? Is it feasible that Nat’s parents would have taken him? Or will I have to make something else up?

My complex tangle of emotions isn’t unraveled when I overhear the prince telling Edvear: “I plan to leave the boy here. I wouldn’t want to take him away from his sister.” That night, I am tempted to silently cry my disappointment into my pillow, but I roll around the Fool from my Fool’s Circle set in my fingers instead, letting the sharpened parts of it—its cap, its long nose, its pointy shoes—bring pain to my palm when I squeeze it.

The next morning, when I serve the prince’s breakfast, he asks, “Would you like to come to Bellmast with us?”

I nearly drop the tray I’m holding. “Come with you? But—but I thought . . . Well, I overheard you speaking to Edvear, and you said you were going to leave me here!”

He lifts his brows. “An honest eavesdropper you are, Nat. Yes, I was planning on it. Upon further consideration, I realized it would be better if I had a human servant with me. Someone who knows more of the culture than Edvear or I do. I will let you decide what you’d like.”

All this time, I thought I didn’t know which I preferred. The second he gives me a choice, however, the words are pouring out of me. “I want to go with you, Master!”

He smiles, pleased. “Then you shall. Pack your things and help Edvear pack mine. I’ll be out the rest of the day. We will leave at dawn tomorrow.”

The question—of where he is going—is on the tip of my tongue. But I’ve learned to be a good servant, so I swallow it back.

The other servants and I work until well after dark to prepare for the journey. It is almost midnight when I finally fall into bed, utterly spent. Hours later, I’m woken by the shuffle of boots in the prince’s room.

He was hunting for me again.

Despite my shiver, my mouth twists upward. He will catch me one day, but that day is not today. A dangerous sort of thrill shoots through my blood—thrill that, if left unchained, will get me killed, and yet I cannot fully suppress it. He lives with me, and yet he still doesn’t know it’s me. I roll over and pull my blankets over my head and let my warm breath fill the cavernous space until it’s almost impossible to breathe.

The next morning, I come out in my normal clothes, packed and ready, only for Edvear to order me back to change.

“I have the nicer clothes in my bag!” I say, holding it up. “I don’t want to get them messed up while traveling!”

Edvear holds up a firm finger pointed back at my room. “You are representing the staff of your master. This is why you have two sets of your nicer uniform. Change.”

I swallow my grumbles and obey. When I reemerge, dressed in starched black breeches, a crisp white tunic, a black overcoat that scratches, and silly shoes with buckles, I feel more uncomfortable and self-conscious than ever. The pants are tighter, and I’m constantly afraid someone will look at my legs and hips and decide they’re a little too feminine. My chest binding feels especially oppressive. I want to readjust and wiggle it around, so it doesn’t dig into my ribs so much.

I march into the kitchen, hating Edvear’s insistence of my wardrobe, and grab a freshly baked cranberry scone, two patties of sausage, and a glass of milk for my breakfast.

“You look quite dashing today,” teases Clifford while scraping mud off his boots at the door under the watchful eye of Mrs. Banks.

I scowl at him, and everyone—save Mrs. Banks—laughs. I intend to eat quickly and then run out to ensure everything is properly loaded into the carriage. If only I could ride Bartholomew instead of sitting in a stuffy carriage all day!

A hand gently tracing my arm makes me nearly drop and break my glass of milk.

It’s Becky, come to sit on the bar stool next to me. She almost never leaves her seat against the wall with her basket of mending. “This stitching is very fine,” she says, running her fingers up to inspect my shoulder. Her cheeks are pink, and she is decidedly not looking at me.

If I were actually a boy, I would think nothing of it except irritation. But I am very much not a boy, and I know flirting when I see it. I cast a helpless glance at Charity, who rolls her eyes and bangs her wooden spoon on the edge of the pot.

Becky yanks her hand back but persists. “When you are finished wearing them, may I borrow your clothes? To study the stitching better?”

That’s enough. I down my glass of milk and stuff my mouth with the rest of my scone and sausage and shove to my feet.

“Becky, help me carry this to the sink,” says Charity.

I turn to leave and nearly spit all my food back out.

The prince stands in the doorway of the kitchen, smirking at me and Becky. “Master,” I garble around scone. I clamp a hand over my mouth so no food escapes, bow, and run outside before anyone can stop me.

The prince only follows me and once I’ve swallowed the rest of my breakfast, says blandly, “I was coming to see if you were ready, only to find you dashing in your uniform.” When I make no reply, furiously red-cheeked, he adds, “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Or are girls still unappealing at your age?”

In lieu of an answer, I whack him with my bag. Immediately, I yank it back, horrified as I blurt, “I shouldn’t have done that! I am thoughtless and foolish, Master!”

But the prince is laughing as he climbs into the carriage, his dark eyes sparkling and his white hair catching the earliest glints of sunrise.

The road is long and boring. The carriage rattles so much we cannot play Fool’s Circle, and any attempts at conversation soon fizzle out. I’m sore and bored out of my wits by the time we finally arrive at an inn in Bellmast for the night.

The sun hangs low in the sky when we arrive. As the prince’s only attendant, I spring into action with the footman, wrestling his trunk off the back of the carriage. It lands harder on the ground than I intended. I cringe, feeling Rahk’s eyes on me, and hoist it up.

But he is at my side the next minute, grabbing the trunk in one hand.

“My lord!” I cry, attempting to wrestle the trunk out of his grip. “I must take this for you! You must let me serve you!”

“I do not like things being grabbed from me,” Rahk says.

I let go at once and step back. “Forgive me, Master, I—” I trail off when I find him smirking down at me. I slam my mouth shut.

Rahk’s smirk isn’t like Sir Alsbee’s: devious and with a hint of cruelty. Neither is it like Lord Oliver’s, which is just shy of a grin. Rahk’s is subtle, and it is easy to miss. One half of his mouth remains in that unreadable flat line, but the very corner of the other side lifts slightly. There is a dry-humored amusement in that lift.

I turn my back on that amusement and gather the rest of the load before following him inside the inn. I give one forlorn glance toward the shoreline I can see between buildings—it’s so close!—with the sun sinking into the horizon, and force myself to be satisfied with the salty air playing with my hair. It smells like happiness. I miss running on the beach and throwing myself into the waves despite Mama’s anxiety that I’d be dragged away in a riptide.

The inn is lovely, with a pristine emerald carpet leading to a wide, grand staircase. The rooms are on the second floor, gold-inlaid doors visible behind the balcony rails. It occurs to me as I walk in that I should be the one getting the key from the innkeeper—but Rahk has already obtained it, and strides toward the staircase.

I’m such a terrible servant, I think shamelessly, as I consider how glad I am to not have to carry Rahk’s trunk up an entire flight of stairs.

“The innkeeper said there is a door on the other side of the room that leads to the servants’ staircase and kitchens,” Rahk tells me as we reach the line of doors. He pulls the brass key from his pocket. “You can fetch us supper that way.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He unlocks the door and pushes it open.

It suddenly occurs to me that this room might not have a small adjoining room for me. It’s a large space, with its color scheme of sea green and sky blue, canopied bed, separate bathing chamber, and living area with chairs around a table. There is one door at the far side of the room. I bolt toward it in desperate hope, only to open it and find an outside staircase that leads to another door on the ground floor.

It is confirmed: there is no separate room for me.

How on earth am I supposed to keep my gender hidden when I have not a shred of privacy?

The prince shows no sign of thinking anything of the arrangement. He deposits his trunk beside the wardrobe, pulls a small book out of his breast pocket and settles himself at the table to read. A moment later, he pulls a small blue vial out of a different pocket. Ollea. He swipes a drop under his nose and the line between his brows eases away.

I dump my own bag in the bathing chamber to keep it out of Rahk’s way.

There isn’t even a servant’s cot. Am I expected to sleep in the copper tub in the bathing chamber?

Well, I am not going to bring attention to the problem and ask about it.

There is one window, facing east, so none of the dying sunlight makes its way into the room. I light the candles above the fireplace and beside the bed. Maybe if I keep myself busy, I won’t have time to work myself into a tizzy about this arrangement.

“Shall I fetch your supper, Master?” I ask.

He looks up from his book. Swiftly, his eyes drop from my face to the hands I didn’t know I was wringing, before moving upward again. “Is something the matter?”

I shove my hands behind my back. “Not at all! I simply wanted to know if you were hungry, or if you’d rather I waited. . .?”

He glances around the room, as though in search of what is causing my anxiety. His face clears suddenly. “They did not leave a cot in here for you, did they?”

“I am very comfortable sleeping on the floor,” I lie quickly.

He frowns, then waves his hand. “Sleep in the bed. I did not plan to rest tonight.”

“Me? Sleep in the bed? But Master, I’m your servant! I dare not—”

“You dare not do what I say?” Rahk replies, that subtle smirk of his returning.

I bow quickly. “I will do whatever you say, Master.”

“Then I order you to sleep in the bed and to get good rest. I won’t have you being useless tomorrow because you weren’t able to sleep.”

“But won’t you be useless tomorrow, my lord?” I say, and then realizing how it sounds, quickly add: “If you don’t sleep.”

“Hopefully not entirely useless,” Rahk replies dryly, shutting his book with a snap and leaning forward. “Why don’t you go fetch supper instead of arguing with me?”

“Because you didn’t tell me whether you wanted it or not,” I answer. “I will gladly go get it now.”

His warm chuckle echoes in my ears as I scamper out the door in search of his meal.

The kitchen is livelier than expected, with inn staff preparing exquisite trays of food with gleaming silverware and embroidered napkins. I let out a grunt when I pick it up. That is one heavy tray. I pray to all the saints as I heft it up that I will not drop it on the way back to the room.

Just outside the kitchen are three servant boys, sitting on an empty staircase. I wouldn’t think anything of them, except they stare at me as I walk past them. One of them is a freckled redhead, while the other two could be brothers with how similar they look. The three of them wear uniforms similar to mine, except their suspenders hang loose to their knees and the redhead has his shirt tails untucked.

They have a mischievous, no-good twinkle in their eyes as I pass them. They seem to all be around thirteen years of age and despite their youth, are taller than me. I keep my eyes fixed ahead and find the staircase to Rahk’s room. Surely these boys cannot tell that I am a woman, right? Young boys are not supposed to be perceptive, yet they stare at me like I am their prey.

I make it safely to Rahk’s room and serve him his meal. He regards the tray, a brief frown flickering over his features. “Where is your food?”

They didn’t have trays for servant suppers, and I highly doubted I was supposed to take one of the fancy ones for myself.

I open my mouth to respond, but before the words leave, he takes one of the side dishes of two pillowy-soft rolls and sets one aside. Then he fills the plate from his own, giving me the chicken leg quarter, one of the rolls, a generous serving of steaming, spiced yams, and the entire plate of cherry tart.

“My lord!” I cry when he sets the plate before me. “This is more than half of your meal!”

Rahk only lifts one brow. “Sit and eat.”

If I protest, he will ask me why I do not obey him. Restraining my frustrated whimper that he is treating me far better than he ought, I plop into the chair across from him and begin eating. The food is delicious, and I didn’t even realize how hungry I’d grown. My consternation sweeps away as though with a wind. I devour the meal with zeal.

“Excellent job,” Rahk says with a smirk when I clean my plate. “You have pleased your master greatly.”

I glare at him—a mistake—but I earn a chuckle, not a reprimand. I get up to take the empty dishes back to the kitchen. The air is colder now with how dark it has grown, and I shiver in my uncomfortable shirt and breeches. Will the prince sense that anything is amiss if I use the bathing chamber to change? And why does he keep being so sacrificially kind to me in a way that feels out of place and disconcerting? In some ways, his kindness is more confusing than his capriciousness. What sort of a fae prince offers his food and his bed to his servant without expecting anything else in return?

And a Nothril prince, for that matter?

“Hey! Psst!”

I startle out of my thoughts as I leave the kitchen empty-handed. It’s the three boys from earlier. They aren’t on the staircase anymore, but hang around the corner of the kitchen, away from the servants’ entrance.

“Come on!” one of the brunette boys calls, waving his hand for me to follow them.

“I have to return to my master,” I say, immediately on-guard.

“Is he going to beat you?”

“No.”

“Then come on! We’ve got a game, and we need a fourth player!”

The mention of a game perks my interest. I quickly shove it away and keep walking. A second later, all three boys block my path. I try to step around them, and they move to block me again.

“Let me past,” I growl.

The redhead—the tallest of the group—folds his arms across his chest. “We need a fourth player.”

“It’ll be fast,” one of the others says. “Your master will not realize you’ve been gone.”

“I shouldn’t—” I start to say.

“Aw, come on.” One throws his arm around my neck, making me flinch, and forcibly pulls me toward the corner of the building. He’s surprisingly strong. “We just need a fourth player. We’ve been waiting for hours to find one.”

“Where are your masters?” I ask, changing my tactics. “Don’t they miss you?”

“Nah, they’re old and they go to bed before the sun goes down. We’ve got hours to kill tonight.”

“Fine,” I say, when they clearly won’t take no for an answer. “But just one game. Then I must leave.”

The boys holler in triumph and all but drag me to the base of a tree where they sit in a circle and beckon me to follow suit. I sit in the dirt and spare a thought for how Edvear will rebuke me for getting my nice breeches dusty.

“That is Jack,” says one of the boys, gesturing to the redhead who shuffles a deck of cards. “I’m Finn, and that’s my brother Arthur. What’s your name?”

“Nat.”

Arthur pulls something from behind a raised tree root as Jack deals the cards between us. My eyes bug when I see what it is. “Is that—”

“Whiskey?” Arthur says. “Yes. Don’t you dare tell anyone. We worked very hard to get this, and you’re not going to ruin it.”

“If you do,” says Jack, finishing his dealing and sitting back on his haunches. “We’ll steal your clothes, and your master will be furious.”

Steal my clothes? They don’t even know how dire of a threat that is. I shut my lips tight, suddenly afraid that if I try to leave, they’ll dogpile me and do exactly what they’ve threatened. My voice comes out a little shrill as I ask, “What are we playing?”

“Crowns,” Finn replies.

“I’m terrible at this game!” I cry.

“That should work in your favor,” laughs Arthur. “Whenever you win a trick, you have to take a swig of the whiskey.”

I get up. “I did not agree to a—”

Arthur and Finn lean forward and grab the edges of my trousers and yank. I barely grab the waistband and hold on tight before disaster ensues.

“Fine! Fine!” I growl, sitting back down. “I’ll play your stupid drinking game! And I won’t tell our masters and I will lose every trick on purpose!”

“I told you we should have gotten Count Buchard’s servant boy instead,” says Finn under his breath. “Even he would be better than this stick in the mud!”

“He is a tattle,” says Jack. “But Nat here isn’t a tattle. Right?”

I huff irritably and pick up my cards. One game—that was the deal. I’ll play this game, lose it on purpose, and then get out of here.

As we begin, it quickly becomes apparent that I’m not good enough at Crowns to lose every trick. I waste all my low cards at the beginning, and before I know it, I have nothing but high cards for several rounds.

“Your trick,” says Jack with a toothy grin, sliding the pile of cards my way.

“Drink up!” says Finn, shoving the bottle of whiskey into my hands.

“I really shouldn’t drink,” I whine. “And I don’t like whiskey.”

“Stop being a blubbering girl and drink!”

I’m acting like a girl, am I? Fine . I grab the bottle, uncork the top, brace myself, and take a swig. It is like drinking liquid fire, which burns all the way down. I cough and sputter as Finn pulls it away, laughing hysterically.

“He drinks like a girl!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I demand furiously, blinking against the fire that has somehow made its way up to my eyes.

“You act like it’s going to bite you!” laughs Finn.

“You’ve got to be the whiskey’s master, not let it be master over you,” says Jack.

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “I’m just letting it think it has mastered me before I destroy it. You’ve got to let the whiskey put its guard down. Don’t you know anything about drinking?”

The three of them stare at me in surprise, then seem to silently contemplate if this might be a valid approach to alcohol. I would smack them upside the head if I thought I could get away with it.

Then it’s my turn. I look at my hand and curse violently. The boys laugh and shove the bottle of whiskey back to me.

“Drink it! Drink it!” they chant, and then nearly roll around on the ground in their laughter at the way I cough and sputter the drink down. “Make it put its guard down!”

We lay out our cards for the next round. I win the trick yet again.