Page 31

Chapter 31

Kat

Rahk takes his meal in his room and asks me to stay and play Fool’s Circle with him. I gladly oblige and bring both his game and mine to the table. We’ve been playing with the variation he gave me every now and then, to the point that I cannot decide which I enjoy more.

It’s Rahk’s move when he says casually, “Since you have grown older since our last discussion on the topic, do you ever think about marriage now?”

Just like in our prior conversation, I drop the piece I’m holding. I look up to find him studying me intently. Swallowing, I make my move and try to feign nonchalance. “No.”

“Ah.”

“But I take it that you do?”

“Indeed, I have been.”

“None of these human women will marry you,” I say.

He snorts, but I didn’t mean to tell a joke. I was merely stating a fact. He doesn’t know how terrified they all are of him. Surely, he noticed the wide berth they gave him at the queen’s luncheon!

“There is one who, rumor has it, will marry me if I ask.”

“Is there?” I ask, trying to withhold my dubious chortle. I cannot think of a single young lady—except maybe Bridget, if she felt like the only alternative was spinsterhood—who would willingly marry a fae.

“I haven’t met her yet,” says Rahk thoughtfully. “I’ve tried on multiple occasions, but she has always been out. Her family was willing to accept my proposal on her behalf, however.”

I scoff. It reminds me at once of Agatha and how hard she has worked to make me marry Lord Boreham, which still strikes me as vastly strange.

“Why do you find that amusing?” he asks.

I pull my face back under my control. “Nothing. I just wouldn’t want to marry someone I’d never seen before.”

He smiles, looking slightly conspiratorial as he leans closer to the board. “Would you think me incredibly shallow to hope I like how she looks?”

I scowl. “I would, my lord.”

He laughs outright at that, a warm twinkle in his eyes that I cannot make sense of.

“Shouldn’t you think more of the girl?” I ask, chewing on my lips and frowning. “What if she is scared to marry someone she hasn’t met? Or someone she doesn’t know if she can even tolerate? Or someone she finds disgusting ? What if she doesn’t want the marriage, but her family is only forcing her into it? After all, as the man, you have most of the power in the situation.”

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.” I place my move, then look up. He’s still studying me. Why does he look at me with that focused expression like he’s testing me? “I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but here . . . marriage can be a vulnerable thing for a woman.”

“You are very sensitive to this subject for a twelve-year-old lad.”

I try to keep my wince internal. “I listen to Mary complain, is all.”

He thoughtfully considers the board, then places his piece. He seems to take more time with each placement, as though I give him more challenge than I did at first. “You are right, Nat. I shouldn’t think of myself in this potential marriage. My concern ought to be for her, whether she is comfortable, respected, cared for, and amenable to the marriage itself.”

It’s better I keep my mouth shut and not betray myself any more than I already have.

“Your sister . . . She is not married, correct?” Rahk asks.

I shoot a playful glare up at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He laughs. I bask in the satisfaction of that moment, but a very unpleasant emotion niggles at the back of my mind as I make my move. If he marries, he won’t play Fool’s Circle with me. He’ll take his supper privately with his wife, probably.

His wife .

I want to shake out of my skin at the discomfort of that thought. It feels so ironic that Lord Oliver warned me so thoroughly against the infamous fae coming to town and how he might want me as a bride. Now here I am, the most suitable of wives for him, and yet wholly unable to claim that privilege.

Did I just think of it as a . . . privilege?

Saints, I’ve let myself forget my own head. I don’t have to survive as Rahk’s servant for much longer. I only have two and a half weeks before I turn twenty-one. Soon I’ll be able to go back to my life, with my fortune, and I’ll be free of Agatha’s influence.

It doesn’t matter if Rahk marries. I will probably be gone before he does anyway. I will miss him—a thought that feels like a betrayal of all the human slaves still imprisoned in Faerieland—but it will be good to put distance between us. He shows me so much overt favoritism, and aside from Mary and the staff back at Vandermore Manor, it’s been so long since someone cared for me without regard for my money. I’ve let it matter more than it should.

“Mary hasn’t enough influence or money to tempt someone like you,” I say, trying to fill the silence between us. “Though she has better character than anyone you’ll meet at those fancy balls.”

He sighs. “I’m afraid I cannot marry for character, and certainly not for love. Influence is what I need, if I am to be accepted by the queen.”

“You’ll not get influence if you cannot properly count the rhythm of a waltz.”

“I have mended the error of my ways. I shall never count it so stilted again.”

I snicker, searching the board for any alternative to losing yet again. “You should find a proper teacher. You’ve got lots of money.”

The crinkle of the skin near his temples turns his gaze sly. “Why should I? You make an excellent womanly partner.”

The comment strikes me so hard I blush furiously, more from fear of discovery than anything else. He sounds like he’s goading me, and if I didn’t know better . . .

No, he cannot know I am a woman. He would say something. He would probably yell at me, enraged at being deceived. No, he cannot know. He’s only trying to goad me by poking my boyish pride.

I scowl and hope he doesn’t notice the color of my skin. I decide to change the subject back on him. “So if you are thinking of marrying, does that mean you plan to stay in the human lands indefinitely?”

Rahk moves his pieces. “I do not know. That is, I will go back to Nothril. I must go back.”

There is something about the way he says it that makes me pause. “You are not sure if you want to.”

He freezes. It is only for one moment, but that moment tells me a wealth of information. His black eyes flick up to mine—as if to check if I caught his slip. “I must go back,” he repeats. “This time, here in Harbright, has been a reprieve. Perhaps to you that seems strange, considering the assassins’ recent attack, but truly, I . . . I have enjoyed these three weeks.”

“What takes you back?” I ask.

He chews on his lip. “My youngest sister needs my protection.”

“Is someone trying to hurt her?” I do not expect him to answer my question. It is none of my business. But I get the sense he wishes to have a confidant. I wonder if he has ever had one before.

“My parents will probably kill her, eventually,” Rahk replies.

His honesty shocks me. “What? Why?”

“She does not conform to Nothril’s standards. She is not vicious or cold. She is sweet, adventurous, and a little stupid. If she does not learn to behave, they will cut her down. I do what I can to protect her, but I often fear it will not be enough.”

I often fear it will not be enough. The sentiment rings in my ears, reminding me of the inevitable end of my work as the Ivy Mask. The work Rahk will end himself. I don’t know how I can leave it behind, knowing so many others haven’t been saved.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It strikes me then, just how much I assume about the fae—that they are cruel to their core—when here is a brother giving up a chance at freedom for the sake of a sister who is too good for the world she was born into. I have seen many, many wicked fae. But maybe some of them aren’t. Maybe some of them are just trapped in a life they cannot hope to escape.

“It is the reality of Faerieland, I’m afraid.” Rahk places his pieces. I didn’t even pay attention to where I moved mine. “You get used to it. Pavi is not the only thing that calls me back. I have a friend who is like a brother to me. I would miss him greatly if I didn’t return. Then there is my throne to consider.”

I snort.

“What?” he demands, his gaze finding mine in genuine confusion.

I shrug. “You said it so casually. Oh yes—the throne, too! ”

His mouth tips very slightly. “I do not think of it often. It will be centuries before I ascend. I have plenty of time until then to lose all sense of morality and become a jaded tyrant.”

He says it as though he jests, but the Rahk before me has, for whatever reason, decided not to mask his expressions for me. It makes me want to comfort him somehow, with words or touch. As Nat, however, I have little I can offer—a fact that burns me with frustration.

“I don’t think you should worry about that,” I say.

He lifts one brow, a slight brightness coming into his expression. He expects me to say something ridiculous, doesn’t he? Something that will amuse him.

“I think you should only be concerned if several millennia go by before you get your throne. A few centuries won’t do much.”

His smile spreads. I’ve succeeded in cheering him up. “Do you speak this from experience?”

“Have I not told you I am twenty thousand years old?” I reply. “I have seen many kingdoms rise and fall. I also saw the invention of the pocket watch. No one was on time before that.”

He doesn’t laugh, which is good, since my comments didn’t deserve one. Instead, he smiles at me. That smile pins me to the spot and makes me forget every thought in my mind. It is soft and liquid, warm and sweet, and what I want in that moment is the chance to be closer to him.

“I am glad you came to work for me,” Rahk rumbles quietly. “You do my soul good.”

His words bring a flush climbing up my neck to my cheeks. I cannot handle the intensity of his attention, so I shift away again to a question I’ve been needing an answer to. Clearing my throat, I drag my Fool’s Circle book closer and flip it open after I take my turn. “Master? May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” He peers around the board to watch me page through the book.

I find the page, turn the book around, and push it toward Rahk. I point at the page. “What is the Star City?”

He reads the section I pointed at. “I didn’t know this book was recent enough to have a mention of the Star City. It is a city separate from the Courts, which is very unusual in Faerie. I do not know how long it will remain independent.”

“Have you seen it?” I press. “What does it look like? Is it full of stars like the name suggests?”

“I have seen it. Recently, in fact. It is not named for an abundance of stars unique to the place, but for the tall spires that reach toward them. It is a beautiful city.”

Tall spires.

That is what I need for my raid. I smile and drag my book back. “It sounds beautiful.”

Rahk nods as he places his piece in the final spot surrounding the Fool, claiming his win.

“One of these days, I will beat you within an inch of your life.” I vow.

He grins at me.

The next morning, Rahk is gone early and does not return until after sunup. It’s not a guarantee that he was trying to track me down, but I cannot imagine what else he could have been doing. If my life was not on the line, I might be smug about his unsuccessful trip.

He strides inside, his hair wild, a twig sticking out above his pointed ear. I serve him his breakfast in his room as usual. His breakfast tray grows heavier each day as Charity tries to calibrate her serving proportions to his appetite. Every time, I return the tray empty, and every time she throws up her hands and vows that the next time, she will finally serve him too much food.

“You’ve been trying not to smirk at me this entire meal,” Rahk says mildly as I clear his empty tray. “To what do I owe this honor?”

That twig sticks out of his hair, one remaining leaf stuck to it like a flag. “I am not smirking at you, my lord,” I lie outright for the fun of it.

He tilts his head to one side. Then he gets up and marches to the mirror. “Ah, you mock my organic decorations.”

My laugh spills out of me. His gaze snaps to me at once, surprised. Have I . . . have I never laughed in front of him before? He is looking at me like I’m a different person. At first, I fear his disapproval, but he pulls out the chair from the vanity he’s never sat in, and when he sits, his mouth curls upward.

“If you disapprove, then come fix the mess yourself,” he orders, gesturing to his hair. “This should be part of your job, anyway.”

“Fix the mess?” I repeat, not taking a single step toward the vanity. “You want me to tend to your hair?”

“I do.”

I retreat slightly. “I am not skilled in hair.” It is a very honest truth. Mary has always done my hair.

He waves one hand impatiently, gesturing to his head. “Then practice. I’ve got an errand to run today and you’re coming with me, so you need to get started.”

My reply is a grumbling, “As you wish, my lord.”

I find a brush in the vanity and position myself behind Rahk. Is there a way to do this without touching him? He watches me in the mirror, his black eyes following the way I hesitate to bring the brush to his scalp.

“You could start by removing the debris,” he says.

My cheeks heat. That would, in fact, be the first step. I pluck the twig and its leaf out of his hair. Then, before I can doubt myself, I stick the bristles into his hair and pull. A muscle in Rahk’s face twitches.

“That was too rough, wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t reply, but I force myself to lay a hand against the back of his head and start brushing from the ends of his hair like Mary always said to. His hair is soft and silky, which is entirely unfair. Why is it that someone like Rahk, who probably cares little for beauty, must have all of it, while the rest of us who actually want it are left with nothing?

I work my way up closer to his scalp. When one lock is shiny and free of tangles, I move on to the next, until his whole head of hair is almost luminescent in its perfection.

Now, what to do with it? He usually wears it tied back in some fashion. He probably hates having it get in his face. I use my fingernails to pull back the hair above his ears and gather it at the back. He blinks fast every time I comb back more.

“Give me your hand,” I order. He does, and I take it to the gather of hair at the back of his head. “Hold this. I need to find a cord.”

He obeys. I shuffle through the drawers until I find a few thin leather cords. I scoop one up and bring it to his hair. I’m about to start tying when I suddenly can take it no longer, and the question bursts from my mouth: “Why are you staring at me like that?”

His black gaze, which has remained unmoved from my reflection in the mirror this entire time, flees mine for all of one second before it returns. “You are making a lot of different faces while you work. I am playing a game with myself to decipher their meanings.”

My eyes widen.

“For example, the face you made just now says you are afraid I will have noticed something incriminating in your previous expressions, which begs the question: What are you afraid I will discover on your features?”

“That I have no idea what I’m doing,” I growl as I tie off his hair and step back. “It’s a little crooked, but it should stay out of your face.”

He regards his hair in the mirror. “Excellent. Prepare to leave for our errand.”