Page 40

Chapter 40

Kat

My clothes arrive shortly before noon, and Mary immediately sets to unpacking the trunks. I join her, having nothing else to occupy my time, and she only gives a few words of resistance before she lets me help her.

“This works in our favor,” she declares, sorting through my collection of petticoats. “I am well overdue in sorting through your things. You’ve had some of these clothes since you were twelve years old.”

We spend the afternoon dividing the clothes into separate piles. Clothes that need adjustments made, clothes that are too small, clothes that both of us hate and should never have been purchased in the first place. Rahk comes once to retrieve his ollea . His eyes go wide at the sight of his room covered in gowns, lace, and enough trimmings to rig a ship.

“You might have to sleep in your study tonight,” I say absently as I toss aside well-worn undergarments that are due for retirement.

Mary shoots me a look.

“That is,” I add quickly, “we will be sure to have everything cleaned up before supper.”

One of his eyebrows twitches slightly. “Then do not let me distract you.”

He leaves and I’ve sorted through half of the pile on my lap before I look up and find Mary staring at me. “What?”

“Do you always talk to him that way?”

I hesitantly place the next undergarment in the proper pile. “What way?”

“So . . . casually and flippantly?”

“I have tried to be respectful and demure!” I shoot back. “My tongue just blurts things out and I have no control over it!”

“Don’t give me those excuses. You know as well as I that impulses can be restrained, but they won’t be if you won’t practice restraining them! You ought to be glad he seems to like it. No other master—and not many husbands , either, for that matter—would enjoy being talked to so.”

“He has been very good to me,” I admit. “Better than I deserve.”

Mary huffs as she closely inspects a petticoat. “For that, I am glad. I do not doubt you gave him more than ample opportunity to dismiss you.”

“I did often deserve dismissal,” I agree.

She gives me a look—a funny sort of look that I cannot interpret. It embarrasses me enough that I bend my head and focus on the task at hand.

By mid-afternoon, we realize we need to increase the pace of our work if we are to have any hope of finishing before supper. My back is sore by the time we finish, and I have no desire to switch into one of my own gowns, but Mary will not be put off.

“You cannot have supper with the master in your servant’s clothes. I will not allow it. And, tolerant of you as he is, he won’t be pleased. You know he won’t be pleased.”

I sigh. “ Fine .”

Mary helps me put on a proper dress—one that is cream trimmed in blue lace. She pulls out the false bun and secures it to my scalp with an ungodly amount of pins.

“He knows my hair is cut,” I protest.

“This isn’t about deception. This is about presentation. You will wear this bun until your hair has grown out, understood?”

I send a stream of air out through my nose, blowing the loose strands near my face that are too short to be pinned back. Mary curls these as a final touch, which will not last more than an hour at best. She fusses again over the tiny scars surrounding my temple and applies a little powder to conceal them.

“I’ve done what I can,” she says at last, stepping back.

I look at myself in the mirror, and it’s like looking at my old self before I ran away from home. “What if he doesn’t like me this way?” I mouth under my breath at my reflection.

Rahk is waiting for me in the dining room, standing behind his chair. He gives a bow of acknowledgement when I enter. The gesture strikes me as uncomfortably formal, especially with me in this gown. When he rises, his eyes quickly flick over me before returning to my face and giving not a single indication in his features of whether he is pleased or not by my appearance. He pulls my chair out for me and pushes it into the table after I’m seated. Then he nods at Mrs. Banks, who begins serving the meal. It is an exquisite spread of a roasted turkey, buttered rolls, deviled quail eggs, savory meat pies, and a medley of honey-glazed root vegetables. Charity must have worked so hard to make this meal special.

We eat in silence for several minutes before Rahk asks, “Have you and Mary successfully accomplished your redecoration of my room?”

“Indeed. We have repapered the walls with my petticoats,” I say.

A high-pitched sound comes from the back of Mrs. Banks’s throat as she brings out a leek and herb soup.

“What I meant to say,” I correct, sitting up straighter, “is yes, we finished, and your room is as it was before. Except your wardrobe door is harder to close now.”

Rahk’s spoon has paused halfway to his mouth, though his expression remains mild. He tips one eyebrow and replies, “You are in luck that I am very good at closing wardrobe doors. As for decorations, I have nothing but my tasteless male eye, so I shall leave any changes up to your discretion.”

“In that case, I shall make many changes and endeavor to horrify you with each one.”

He chokes on his spoonful of soup and coughs into his napkin. He collects himself, sipping from his wine. “And why, pray, should you endeavor to horrify me instead of please me?”

Bolstered by the subtle twinkle in his eye, I lean forward. “To prove your eye is not tasteless.”

“What a price I shall pay,” he replies dryly, “for a careless choice of words.”

I hide my smile by taking a bite. I want to think of something to say, something that will make him laugh outright. My mind turns blank. Several minutes pass, until the silence has stretched so long it would be strange to reply now.

The rest of the meal passes that way. I find that the warm pleasure inside my chest at his attention has turned to abject misery at his silence. I cannot think of a mildly clever remark or even a single question. Nothing worthy of his acknowledgement.

So I sit. I eat, and I taste nothing.

When dessert is brought out—a beautiful custard tart—I finally realize that his initial question was a way of asking about my day, and that I never asked about his.

“How was your day?” I ask, and the question comes out more painfully awkward than I could have even imagined.

“It was full,” he replies.

“A good sort of full? Or the bad sort?”

“Somewhere in between.”

“Ah.”

And that is the rest of our conversation over supper, save for a few, “Shall I pass the berry sauce?” or “Is this not delicious?”

It’s a relief when he leans back in his chair and sighs. “The first time I came to the human lands, I couldn’t decide if I liked your food or not. Now, I find it very interesting and enjoyable.”

“Oh?” I ask, hoping he’ll offer more information about his life before he came to Harbright.

“I especially like how you humans do dessert.” He pulls my chair out for me and offers me a hand. I don’t see it until it’s too late and kick myself for not looking his way faster. His stoic expression does not even flicker.

“Supper was delicious,” I say, as if he is the cook or the host of a party.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

He doesn’t move from where he stands. I realize he is waiting for me to leave first, though I do not know where he intends for me to go. I step into the hallway and then freeze, trying to decide if I ought to go read in the parlor—now that I’m not a servant—or if I should just go lock myself in my servant’s closet like last night.

I decide to get my Fool’s Circle book from my room and then return to the parlor. But once I’m halfway there, it becomes clear that Rahk isn’t going to his study as I expected, but following me to the bedroom.

It is confusion that first turns my mind blank, and then sudden panic. Is tonight to be our actual wedding night—since last night was so . . . last night ?

I do not know what that would be like. Would he kiss me then? The whole scenario feels impossible to imagine. He is by far the handsomest man I’ve ever known, and he has always treated me with kindness. I do not expect that would change. Even last night, in the heat of his anger, he sent that medicine for my wound. For those reasons, I do not think it would be a terrible experience.

It just feels like too large of a step when we cannot even sit comfortably together at supper. In many ways, it is like we are getting to know each other now for the first time.

I suppose that would be one way to get to know each other . . .

I rub my arm in discomfort. Also, he will kill me someday. That’s another complication.

I’ll just . . . follow his lead, I decide. If I become uncomfortable, I’ll tell him so. He will not touch me against my will. Of that, I am certain.

I enter the bedroom. It suddenly feels vastly confined when he steps inside behind me and shuts the door. I intended to get my book, but if I do so now, it’ll send the signal that I don’t want his attentions. Which . . . I think I do want. Maybe not all of his attentions at this very second, but some?

Not knowing what else to do, I turn around. Rahk's back is partially to me as he pulls something off the bookshelf. The rustle of my skirts catches his attention, and he looks my way.

I don’t know what my face looks like, but Rahk’s eyes visibly widen—first surprise, then confusion. It’s a relief to be able to read his emotions.

“Katherine?” he asks, his hands slowing.

My gaze trails to the object in his hand. His Fool’s Circle boardgame. I pause, my mouth slightly open, as I try to quickly recalibrate my brain from the sudden whiplash.

“Are we going to play?” My voice comes out slightly shrill.

His gaze flicks from my face to my hands, then beyond me to the bed. Understanding seems to dawn in his expression, which seems to soften infinitesimally. “If you would like to.”

I nod vigorously. My cheeks flame hot.

He sets the game on the low table. Then he comes to where I stand. He stops too close—the kind of close one stands when kissing happens. My instinctive reaction is to step back, but I don’t want him to think I’m afraid of him. I manage not to move, but my eyes shift away from his gaze, latching onto the evening sun pouring through the window and melting across the rug. When he doesn’t speak, I drag my eyes up to meet his.

He seems to be measuring my reaction to his closeness.

I swallow. His hand lifts and the pad of his thumb lightly brushes my shoulder. His voice is low and rumbly when he speaks softly. “Why don’t you get your Thief?”

He speaks of the variation piece from my game. I drag in a deep breath, nod, and then escape his presence. The moment I’m safely ensconced in my room, I find my game and fumble around for the special piece—all while I mouth a silent stream of curses.

Then I return, forcing a sunny smile and dropping the piece onto the half-set board. He sits on his cushions while I take my usual spot opposite him.

He might chop off my head in the future, but I’m determined to keep it screwed on properly in the meantime. He can try to unnerve me with his proximity all he wants. I am not undone by intense black eyes or muscular chests. Or, at least, I can make strides in that direction.

I cluck my tongue. “You can go first. I’m feeling especially lucky today and I think you need all the help you can get to beat me.”

Those black eyes of his flick up to mine for a brief second before he moves three of his pieces a single spot each. I spend all my moves on one piece.

We go back and forth in quiet, until he makes a specific move that has my finger flying out to point and the words bursting from my mouth: “I know that trick! I just read about it since the last time we played!”

His lips curve. “Do you remember the proper defense?”

“I’m sure I do not,” I confess.

A full, true smile bursts upon his face, followed by a low chuckle. “Shall I show you? Or will your luck carry you through?”

I shoot to my feet and all but run to my room to retrieve my strategy book. “I don’t trust anything you say once the game is going! You’ve got a conflict of interest. Now let me find the page . . .”

When I sit down, he lightly snatches the book from my grip. I immediately begin protesting and reaching for it, but almost as fast, he returns it to me, opened to the proper page.

“Unnecessary, but thank you anyway,” I reply, sticking out my tongue as I read. “See! This is why I didn’t remember it. It’s a five-step defense. It’ll take me two turns to properly recover.”

He watches me huff impatiently as I move my pieces. “The best defense to this move is to not create an opportunity for it. And to recognize when your opponent might be setting up for it.”

I glare at him. “Your turn.”

He makes his move. I make mine, finally recovering from his snotty little maneuver. He moves again.

“Nope!” I call at once, picking up the piece and returning it to its spot.

“What?” he replies, his eyes twinkling, though the rest of his face doesn’t betray anything. “Too clever of a move for you?”

“I know when you’re purposefully making stupid moves to throw the game. I’ve told you before—I’m going to beat you one of these days and it isn’t going to be from charity!”

Now he definitely fights a smile. “How is this a stupid move?”

I lean over the table so I can show him the moves for the next three turns. “See? You just gave up one of the spots surrounding the Fool. It is a stupid move, indeed, and you know it is.”

I glare up at him, only to find that he isn’t looking at the board. “It’s rude to call your husband stupid.”

My flush is hot enough to light a fire in the grate. “I didn’t call you stupid! I said your move was stupid. And I said you were doing it on purpose—that means I’m calling you the opposite of stupid. I’m saying that you’re being clever in a way that annoys me.”

He’s leaning over the gameboard now, bringing his face close to mine. “Why do you assume I did it to throw the game? Do you not think me capable of making mistakes in my Fool’s Circle strategy?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’ve been playing this game with you for weeks now. I’ve not observed a single mistake in that entire time.”

“You weren’t a strong player when we started. You could have missed plenty of mistakes.”

I give up trying to rationalize with him and only declare firmly: “You were throwing the game. Deny it.”

He gives me a very Nothril prince smirk. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Fine! Then I’ll make your move for you.” I put the pieces back the way they were before he made his stupid move, study the board carefully, and choose a move.

He shakes his head.

“What?” I demand.

“So it’s not fine if I throw the game, but it is if you do?”

My jaw drops open. “It’s a good move!”

He tilts his head back, loosing a full-bodied laugh. His silvery hair turns golden in the light of the setting sun.

I cross my arms across my chest and glare at him while he laughs. Then he reaches across the table and ruffles my hair, as he used to do. My hair isn’t very ruffle-able, carefully pinned as it is, and he seems to catch himself when he feels the difference. He pulls back at once.

It’s like the reality of our current situation becomes a shroud over our once-easy interactions. I bite my lip and try to pretend I didn’t enjoy him touching me.

He wins the game, as usual, but it involves a long siege against my successful capture of two of the spots surrounding the Fool. We pack up the game and I take my Thief in my palm to return it to my own game.

The sun has disappeared below the horizon, though I don’t notice how dark it has become until the game is over. My eyes strain against the dimness as Rahk returns the game to the shelf. The piece is sharp in my palm. He goes to the mantle. I don’t see a matchbox there, but a second later, the three candles there are lit. They cast a dancing array of light and shadow across the quilted bedspread.

“I will call Mary to help you ready for bed, if you like,” he says as he turns to leave. The way he says it, the tone coloring his voice, indicates he doesn’t intend to stay with me tonight either.

I rub my sleeve with my knuckles. “Yes, thank you.”

He opens the door, then pauses when he’s halfway through it. He does not look at me, his mouth a thin, firm line. It’s only a moment before he speaks, but it feels much longer. “I think I ought to state clearly, Katherine, that I had no objection to marrying you.”

My mouth goes as dry as paper.

“It was the means that troubled me and . . . frustrated me. I did not like feeling like my hands were tied and the only option to pull us out of that disaster was sudden, rushed matrimony with no consideration for the prudence of it.”

I mean to nod, but the muscles of my neck lock up.

He still doesn’t look at me. “There were many objections I had to the marriage, but I think you should know that you were not one of them.”

My heart stutters to a halt. I blink several times.

He moves to shut the door, but I must offer something in return, despite the way his confession has upended my world. “Please call me Kat.”

He pauses in the doorway once more. His gaze flicks to mine and holds it.

“Agatha is the only person who calls me Katherine,” I blather, as if my request is anywhere as near as vulnerable as his confession was.

There’s that subtle shift in his features—a shift I cannot describe because it is so subtle. It’s like his expression remains exactly as it was a moment ago, but it now has a different feeling to it. A softer aura that eludes my efforts to place it in the lines of his mouth or an alteration of the jaw, a refraction of candlelight in his irises.

His voice is low. “Goodnight, Kat.”

I stare at the door long after it shuts. I stare until I hear Mary’s footsteps and remember to move before she catches me like this.

She helps me ready for bed, frowning when she takes down my hair. “Were you messing with your hair? It’s frizzy.”

“Yes,” I reply, not wanting to admit the truth.

She makes me sit down and show her the healing wound on my leg. She applies the special salve from Rahk. I watch her work, marveling at how quickly the wound is scarring over. The pain is very manageable now—enough that I can ignore it most of the day.

When I’m ready for bed, she watches me slip inside my own room and frowns. “You shouldn’t sleep there,” she says gently, almost apologetically.

I cast her a look of desperate pleading.

She doesn’t relent, even though she seems sorry for it. “You’re the lady of this house and the master’s wife. You have to act like it.”

With a heaving sigh, I plop down on the bed. Rahk’s bed.

Mary lowers her voice. “Edvear caught the master sleeping at his desk early this morning and he’s already shut himself in there again. I think you’re safe for tonight.”

She blows out the candles before she leaves. I slide under the quilt. Rahk’s scent rises from the cool bedclothes to wrap around me—a scent of clear creeks, wind and sky, and that tickle of magic like autumn spices.

I feel small in this dark room by myself, alone with the magnitude of a future I cannot untangle. Up until now, I haven’t been willing to admit it to myself, but now I see that I cannot keep running raids into Faerieland. When I had the privacy of my own room, it was possible. But now? Rahk can come into this room whenever he pleases. Because it’s his room and his saints-cursed bed.

The thought of not continuing my work brings such an overwhelming panic it nearly cuts off my ability to breathe. My heart demands with every beat that I must continue, even if it costs me my life.

Despite having known for some time that Rahk will one day kill me, it occurs to me for the first time that he may not want to do such a thing. That killing me might cost him dearly.

A storm of such conflict brews in my breast. Half of me demands that this isn’t my fault—it’s Agatha’s, for forcing my hand and making me resort to the drastic measures that led me to Rahk’s doorstep. The other half, however, berates myself mercilessly for what this will inevitably do to him.

There is no more hiding from the truth: Rahk, despite being a fae from the Nothril Court, is the best man I know. He is good and kind, strong and protective, earnest and straightforward, gentle and considerate. And he will suffer because of me.

“What have I done?” I whisper to myself in the darkness.