Page 49

Chapter 49

Kat

“It’s hard to keep track of you while you’re wearing those glass slippers,” Rahk tells me many hours later. I am catching up with a few acquaintances in a quieter room when he comes up behind me and almost startles me.

I’m so glad to see him after he’s been busy doing exactly what I suggested—dancing with the ladies of the court. I’m exhausted after this long night, but a renewed rush of energy fills me at the sight of him. “What do you mean?”

My friends make their excuses and leave, making space for Rahk to sit down beside me on the settee. The room is quiet, now just the two of us and curtains drawn over half a dozen enormous windows.

Rahk rarely looks tired, but he does now. “Those slippers don’t leave a scent behind like regular shoes. I had to search several rooms before I found you.”

My mind immediately latches onto that statement. I’m glad my bracelet disintegrated now, for fear it would have given me away in this moment. I hold up my empty wrist for him. “Your gift is gone.”

“You must have not liked that fellow. Only very strong hatred can destroy the spellcraft holding Faerie trinkets together.”

“I have good reason,” I say, before explaining the incident.

He listens quietly, nodding along. When I’m finished, he remains silent for a few minutes. Then, he says, “I ought to have made sure he cracked his head when he fell.”

He says it so mildly I burst out in laughter and can barely stop. Sleepless delirium approaches the closer we get to dawn. I wipe tears from my eyes and lean back against the settee. The back of my head hits the polished wooden trim. It’s not comfortable. I glance at my husband. He also leans back, his legs spread wide, one hand planted on his thigh as he surveys the room. I note every perfect line of his profile. Then I note just how comfortable his broad, strong shoulder looks.

Apparently, it has been one too many hours without sleep. I scoot over, lay my head against his shoulder, and close my eyes. He startles very slightly, and I can feel from the way he shifts that he is looking down at me. He settles back in his seat, deeper than before. His smell surrounds me, so comforting I might just fall asleep right here.

I yawn. “How did you do . . . whatever you did to him?”

“It wasn’t much. I glamoured a little drop in the floor. He had poor balance—otherwise it would have been easy enough to right himself.” His voice is close to the top of my head, and I enjoy the way his low voice vibrates through his chest and into me.

I chuckle softly. “He left right after that. He couldn’t handle the humiliation of a wine-stained waistcoat and a sore backside.”

“Good.” He moves, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me against his chest. I melt against him, too tired to resist. Too warm in his arms. Too soothed by his scent.

“You know what news I’ve just received?” I ask sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“Somehow rumor got out about what Lord Boreham and Lady Agatha were plotting. He went at once to his home in Commington and everyone says the embarrassment is so great he will never return to court.”

Rahk’s rumbled reply is deeply pleased. “Good.”

I smile and let my eyes drift closed. We stay like this long enough for me to doze. A nearby door closing wakes me up. Rahk’s hand on my waist slides up and down in gentle caresses. “Would you like to go home?”

I nod with a yawn.

“Shall I carry you out to the carriage?”

I blink against my blurry vision and the candles fighting for their last inch of life. I push myself upright, only to find that Rahk supports my forearm, lending me balance. “I must walk out myself. To be carried out of a ball is a great shame. At least, I’ve always thought so.”

Rahk chuckles and helps me to my feet. He turns his attention to the skirt of my gown, bending down to straighten the wrinkles, and then to my hair—which has become slightly mussed. He reaches around me to the fake bun pinned to my scalp, a furrow appearing between his brows, and uses his long fingers to adjust the pins. His motions are slow and deliberate, almost too gentle. I chew on my lip as he moves to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I watch him, my body turning warm, and when his gaze returns to mine, I think of kissing him. I wish he would kiss me like he kissed me before.

The saints know I wouldn’t resist it.

He stands so close to me. The muscles in his throat constrict as he runs his gaze over my face.

Then he looks toward the door, ducking his chin briefly, and loops his arm through mine. My stomach drops in disappointment—even though I know rationally that kissing Rahk is the last thing I should be doing. I still want it.

I’m in a sleepy fog when we visit the queen and pay our respects once more before we leave. Her son is nowhere to be seen.

“Lord Rahk,” the queen says sharply after we bow.

“Yes, Majesty?” asks Rahk, straightening.

She lifts her nose into the air and arranges her features into lofty disinterest. “I will go to the troll. You will not accompany me, however. I will take my own men.”

I barely restrain my gasp and the bright grin I want to turn up to Rahk. It worked!

He keeps a much calmer composure, but I can read the spark in his eyes. “Thank you.”

I wait until we are outside before I grab Rahk’s elbow in both of my hands and loud whisper to him, “You did it! We did it!”

A small, satisfied smile twinges at the corner of his mouth. “It is a relief.”

The air is chilled, the moon a fat crescent above us, and I press closer to him for warmth. He places a warm hand on the back of my neck. It’s as though he wraps me up in a cozy blanket with that one touch.

He hands me into the carriage before him. I arrange my skirts as Rahk slides onto the cushion next to me, the faint creak of leather mingling with the swish of fabric. He orders Clifford to drive, and draws the curtains shut.

Then he turns to me. His eyes seem to shine brighter in the darkness, his silver hair gleaming in long waves. This carriage feels simultaneously too small and yet vastly too large. Acting on impulse, I lean forward and touch his hair. I am reminded again just how soft it is. He sits quietly, holding still while I run my fingers through a silver lock, testing its silkiness against my thumb.

“You have beautiful hair,” I say.

His fingers land on my cheek, sliding until they wrap around to the nape of my neck. He pulls me to him, his mouth pressing firmly against mine. My sigh escapes me even before my eyes flutter shut. His grip on my neck tightens in response. I fall into his kiss. It wraps around me like a cocoon, making me forget everything outside this carriage.

My limbs turn to warm wax as I melt against him. His mouth is soft, but it is not gentle. He tilts my head and deepens the kiss. My head explodes with lightness. His other hand lands on my shoulder, his fingers stroking along the column of my neck, tracing the line of my collarbone, dipping to the sensitive skin of my upper back. Everything is so warm—every inch of my body, his mouth, his touch. I open my eyes just long enough to see the deep furrow in his brow as he holds my face and molds my lips to his.

His whole body shifts closer to mine, his mouth moving to my cheek, my jaw. My hand reaches out for support and winds up gripping his knee. Breathing fast, he kisses my mouth again, wrapping an arm fully around my waist and pulling me against his chest. His hand slides into my hair, messing up Mary’s careful pinning of the fake bun.

I should exercise restraint. I should pull away. I should not let this continue.

Instead, I wrap both my arms around Rahk’s neck and close all distance between us. I kiss him hard, with the hope that my gusto and enthusiasm cover my lack of skill. He responds immediately, both of his hands wrapping against my ribs and holding me close to him as he chuckles.

He kisses me again, very deeply, very slowly, until I forget everything until the carriage grinds to a halt.

His gaze lifts from me, sharpening, as the footman’s steps come toward the door. I reach up to touch my hair, my face, finding the fake bun hanging by a single pin. My gown is wrinkled and mussed. Rahk surveys me quickly, registering just how disheveled I look. His mouth twists in a wickedly satisfied smirk.

“Mary is going to know,” I hiss.

He cocks one very Nothril eyebrow. “And why is that bad?”

Mary would kill me if she knew I was kissing Rahk—because I shouldn’t be kissing Rahk. It’s like cold water splashes over me from head to toe, dousing the warmth brought about by fatigue and darkness.

What have I done? I never should have—

Rahk seems to note my sudden distress. He catches my face suddenly between his hands. I am so startled, so suddenly torn between leaning into him or pulling away, that I turn to a statue in his hands. But he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he presses his forehead against mine, swiftly closing his eyes. My eyes remain open, so I catch the way his face contorts, either from strain or pain. Just as suddenly as he grabbed me, he releases me.

My head feels different. I reach up to touch, only to find my hair back perfectly in place. My dress, too, is perfectly smooth as it was at the beginning of the night. I open my mouth just as the carriage door swings wide.

“Glamour,” Rahk mouths to me as the footman hands me out of the carriage.

I send him a grateful look over my shoulder. The heat hasn’t left his gaze. I look away quickly. Sunrise is still a few hours away, mercifully. Maybe I can get some sleep, even if it’s just a little.

After what just happened, though, I doubt I will be able to sleep at all. Instead, I will tangle in my sheets and wish the carriage had never arrived. Even now, I can hardly see the hallway I walk; I see the furrow between Rahk’s brows as he kissed me. I feel his touch and his lips. The cold of this night cannot reach me.

Mary is waiting in the bedroom for me. Her eyelids droop, but she smiles when she sees me. “Did you have a good time?”

Rahk is right behind me. “Take your rest, Mary. I will help Kat as she needs.”

I blink, suddenly alert. Mary glances at me, a question dancing across her irises. I nod quickly, too afraid of what my tone might betray if I speak.

She leaves at once.

Then we are alone once again.

I hurry toward the vanity. In the corner of my vision, Rahk flicks his wrist, and whatever glamours he placed on me disappears. I find myself staring back at the very disheveled version of myself. I set to work at once, pulling the askew pins out of my hair, freeing the bun, and brushing the tangled mess through.

Rahk kicks off his boots and slides them into his wardrobe. His back is to me, and I watch covertly through the reflection in my mirror as he shrugs off his overcoat. I swallow. Removing my gown is a task for two people. He’s going to have to help me. I steal another glance his way as I remove my jewelry.

I bet he knew very well that he would have to help me.

A thread of helplessness washes over me. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to not hurt him in this situation. If I act distant, that will hurt him. If I release my inhibitions and fall into his arms without a thought for the future, that will hurt him too.

It makes me want to run away as far as I can. I want to climb through that window, mount Bartholomew, and fly away where he can never find me.

But that will hurt him too.

“What’s this sad face for?” Rahk plants his hands on the vanity, framing my body between his arms. His hair brushes mine—light and long against dark and short. He lowers his head, and his lips brush over my shoulder, sending a shiver all the way to my toes.

Now I must lie to him. Again. The thought brings the sensation of a knife driving into my chest. Sharp and intense and agonizing. I hang my head. “I don’t know what to do, Rahk.”

“About what?” His lips ghost across the top of my head. “Tell me what burdens you, and I will fix it for you.” His hand slides from the table to my waist, making me suck in a breath.

I turn around. He leans his weight on his other hand still on the vanity, his face mere inches from mine as his thumb lightly caresses my ribs. His eyes travel over my face. Trying to read me. I’m so exhausted after this ball, barely clinging to the remnants of my will, I don’t know how he doesn’t see every secret I’ve kept from him written plain across my face.

“Are you afraid that I will touch you tonight when you are not ready?” he asks gently.

My lungs shudder as they fill and empty. He’s unwittingly offered me an escape from my turmoil. It is not his touch I fear, but my conscience if I allow it. Still, my answer to his question remains the same. I nod, not meeting his eyes.

He moves his hands to my shoulders, squeezing lightly and kissing my brow. I could weep from the softness of it. “Would you like to play Fool’s Circle?”

My head shoots up.

“I don’t know about you, but as tired as I am, I could use something to soothe my mind,” he says. “We can play until you fall asleep.”

The words are out of me before I can help them. “Yes, please!”

The skin around his eyes crinkles slightly. “Then get into something more comfortable and we shall play as long as your heart desires.” I must have pulled a face, because he adds, “You object to this plan?”

I cast a pleading look up at him, my cheeks going hot. “I need help. This bodice is fastened at the back, and I cannot reach it.”

His attention flicks to the reflection of my back in the mirror, before returning to me. “Then turn around.”

I obey, facing the mirror as Rahk’s hands fall to the top of my spine. “There are hidden hooks.”

He traces the fabric until he finds the carefully disguised hooks. He fidgets for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. “Human clothing is so complicated,” he mutters, ducking closer to the dress and squinting at it.

I find myself smirking. “Mary can do it in about thirty seconds, if you want me to call her in.”

The scowl that Rahk gives me is so dark, I burst into full laughter.

“Hold still,” he demands, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He undoes the top hook. “There we are.”

He moves faster now, his fingers working the hooks and eyes, until he reaches the end of the bodice. His eyes flick up to meet mine in the mirror, as if silently asking what is next.

“Thank you.” I hold the bodice with a hand on my midsection. “I can finish from here.”

He steps away, returning to the opposite side of the room, his broad back set to me. He busies himself with something I cannot see. I retrieve a nightgown and slip into my old room. I change as quickly as I can—which isn’t very quickly with all the layers of a ballgown—but when I emerge, I feel much lighter.

Rahk has changed too. He wears a loose black tunic and a pair of soft spun trousers. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed— his side, the covers pulled back and the Fool’s Circle board set up in the center of the bed. When I enter, he looks up, swiftly rakes his eyes over me, and then returns to setting up the board. He has set up one lone candle on the windowsill nearby. The rest have been put out. “Lie down. We’ll play until you fall asleep. I’ll snuff the candle then.”

“You’re not going to go hide in your study tonight?” I say, with probably too much cheek.

He glowers at me. “You know perfectly well I have done that for the sole consideration of your comfort.”

I know it’s true, and yet I cannot think of a reply. I slide into my side of the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin and staring sideways at the set Fool’s Circle board. “Who starts?”

“You.”

“Don’t be such a gentleman.” I move my pieces. “It’s disgusting.”

That surprises a chuckle out of him. He slides beneath the covers on his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he studies the board. He makes his move.

I watch the way he moves. He is graceful down to the way he selects a piece between his two fingers.

“Have you killed many people?” I ask.

He pauses moving his last piece long enough to shoot a look at me. “Yes.”

I chew my lip and take my turn.

“But,” he adds a moment later, when it’s his turn again, “I will not kill you.”

I restrain my rueful snort. “Do you enjoy killing?”

He sighs. “No. I am good at it, though. I do like being good at it.”

“I can see that. I think I would also like being good at it.”

He looks at me, as though trying to discern if I am serious or making a morbid joke.

“I don’t want to kill,” I explain, “but I think it might be nice to know what to do if, say, an assassin had a knife to my head.”

Pain flashes across Rahk’s face.

“You’re not still guilty over that!” I cry, shoving up to my elbow. “Please, I will not have you hating yourself for that!”

He shakes his head. Then he reaches across the board, and I don’t breathe as he lightly touches my temple. “You must reconcile yourself to the fact that I will never forgive myself for these scars.”

“They are basically invisible,” I grumble.

His silent reply is loud in the room: Not to me.

“I am glad you have never had to kill,” Rahk says, resuming play of our game. “The frightening part of it is how little you come to care.”

“Care about what?”

“The life you are taking. The first kills are always the hardest. Maybe for some people, they view every kill like their first. That was not how it was for me. The more I killed, the easier it became. Now, I do not think about whether they have families, or whether they are afraid or in pain. I just kill.”

He says it so simply. I study his face instead of the board. His jaw gives a tiny flex.

I lick my lips and say tentatively, “It seems like it would be a heavy burden to take every kill personally. You would probably go mad.”

“I probably would,” he replies ruefully. “Though sometimes I wonder if the callousness is madness itself.”

I think of all the people in Faerieland I cannot rescue. Callousness almost seems like a reprieve from the yawning torment inside me. I change the direction of the conversation. “When was your first kill?”

He frowns, considering the board between us. “When I was ninety-nine, I hunted down an assassin who had come to kill Lord Nothril. I brought him back and slaughtered him before my parents. I proved myself to them that day.” He looks up to find me staring at him wide-eyed. “Time runs differently in Faerieland, and we mature much slower than humans. The equivalent human age would have been around thirteen.”

“You must have been a bloodthirsty child,” I say.

His laugh is low and rumbling. “Compared to your average human child. But Faerieland is not a tame place. While you humans like to play your games of societal expectations, we play ours in blood. The stakes are higher, but so is the reward.”

“What is the reward, then?”

“Long life. Beauty. Power. Pleasure.”

“But you only have one chance at obtaining those things? If you take a misstep, if you ally with the wrong force . . .?”

“You lose all of it.”

Rahk plays an aggressive move that destroys the plan I was working toward. I’m forced to adjust my strategy. “You crave those things? Pleasure and power?” I ask.

“I am drawn to all of those things, yes.”

That sentence hangs there long enough that I add, “But . . .?”

“But,” he says, claiming one of the few spots surrounding the Fool, “those things come with a cost. I do not like the cost.”

“What is the cost for you?”

His chest expands with his deep breath. “There is no true freedom in Faerieland. Even when I become Lord Nothril in many, many years, after my parents’ lives come to an end, I still must answer to the High Throne of Faerie. I still must bear in mind the considerations of the people I rule. And I will always have enemies.”

Several turns go by. I claim another spot adjacent to the Fool. He nods approvingly at my strategy.

I lick my lips. “May I ask you another question?”

He inclines his head, focused on the board.

“What is that tattoo on the back of your neck for?”

“I thought you might ask about that again,” he says, reaching up one hand to touch it. “It is . . . a little hard to explain, but the essence of it is that it is a bargain. Lord and Lady Nothril gave me a task, and if I do not accomplish it my sister will die.”

All at once, the pieces fit together. The task must be capturing the Ivy Mask. Me. That is why he is hunting me. Lord Nothril must have been particularly angry after I freed his slave girl. And that is why, when the assassins came, he was so grateful that I saved his life. Because if I hadn’t, he would not have been able to fulfill his side of the bargain. His sister would have died.

So one of us will have to die.

My stomach turns over. I feel sick. The game becomes my refuge from the swirling thoughts in my mind.

“I wish I could take you to Faerieland,” Rahk says after a long time. “You would find it fascinating.”

“Oh?” I keep my gaze fixed on the board.

“Most humans don’t do well there. The land isn’t made for them. I think you, however, would be smart enough to survive the perils of it, if your Fool’s Circle instinct is any indication.”

His praise warms my chest while simultaneously making me want to cave into myself.

“But it can never be,” he adds. “To bring you across the border as anything other than my wife would be to guarantee your death and sentence as a slave.” He glances at me. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to come anyway, after what happened to your mother.”

My awareness sharpens on him. A conversation from weeks ago resurfaces in my mind—Rahk telling me about fae bindings. I’d forgotten about it until now. So our marriage might not be acknowledged in Faerieland as it is? I keep my tone casual as I ask, “Why wouldn’t you bring me as your wife?”

He looks startled by my question. I’ve never seen the way his lips very slightly open, then close. I’ve cornered him, and if I’m lucky, he won’t realize I’ve done it on purpose. He must now admit that he has purposefully avoided marrying me in the more permanent fae way or lie to spare my feelings.

He makes his move. I bite my lip at how careless of a choice it is. “Faerieland doesn’t acknowledge human weddings,” he replies, dodging the question.

I don’t intend to let him off so easily. I want his confirmation that he has withheld himself from me, that he has chosen to avoid binding himself permanently to me.

I need to know that I am not the only one holding back from this marriage.

“There was that princess of Aursailles.” I claim the second-to-last spot next to the Fool. Rahk blinks at the board, realizing the mistake of his last move. “She married the High Prince, or whatever his title was. Does Faerieland not acknowledge their marriage?”

It is dangerously similar to what Queen Vivienne asked of him. I ask it as innocently as possible, yet Rahk’s black eyes still pierce me like twin blades of obsidian.

“The fae do not usually acknowledge fae and human marriages,” he says at last, giving in, “unless they married according to fae tradition. You and I are married according to the human tradition. Our union would not be acknowledged there.”

“Does that mean we aren’t truly married?”

He narrows his focus on me. “To what end do you ask these questions? What is it that you are afraid of?”

Many things. So many things. “You’re going back to Faerieland.”

The hard line of his mouth softens slightly. “I will stay as long as I have a reason to.”

“But you will still leave.”

He sighs. He reaches across the board and tucks away a strand of my hair. His fingers linger longer than necessary, tracing the line of my ear. I hold very still.

“It’s for your own benefit that I do not marry you my people’s way,” he murmurs. “If I am forced to leave you, you will be free to remarry. If we seal our bond with magic, however, as long as we are both alive—no matter where in the worlds—that bond is very, very difficult to break.”

The words are dull thuds against my heart. It all makes rational sense. It makes even more sense when I consider my own secrets.

My time with Rahk has an ending point. It always has. I’ve known this. It fueled my jealousy when he said he was marrying. It fuels my grief now.

“It’s not fair that the only man good enough to not care about my fortune is a fae,” I mutter bitterly.

Rahk flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as a great exhalation leaves him. His voice is a whisper of defeat. “I don’t know what to do, Kat.”

Those words hang in the air, an echo of my own feelings. I don’t know what to do with this mess of a situation—with this mess of a marriage.

I curl beneath the blankets and study the board because there is nothing else to do. Then, to my surprise, I see the end of the game in just a few moves. I take my turn. “You’re going to finish this game. That is what you’re going to do.”

He rolls to his side, dully staring at the pieces. A moment later, his eyes widen. I can almost see the calculations running in his brain—a last, desperate attempt to pull his usual win. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to mine. His mouth curves upward.

“Make your move,” I say, jutting out my chin and trying to keep a straight face.

He shakes his head, smiling, as he does the best he can. We take our last moves, but he can only delay my victory by a mere turn. When, at long last, I claim the fourth and final spot surrounding the Fool, my saucy grin breaks free. “There. I win.”

And just for one moment, the demons and worries flee Rahk’s face entirely. With one swift motion, he swipes away the board, scattering the pieces. I read the look in his eye and say, “No, don’t you dare!” as I try to rip aside the covers and flee.

But he grabs me, grinning when I holler in protest, and pulls me to him. He tickles my ribs until I’m almost screaming with tortured laughter. He pauses once, letting me catch my breath, and warns me in a low whisper, with a conspiratorial smirk, “Careful about how loud you are. You’ll worry Mary.”

“You devil!” I cry, just before he pins my arms above my head so I am defenseless against his attacks. I roll and kick and writhe, trying to free myself as I laugh hysterically.

He finally stops, pulling me into his arms and holding me close as he buries his face in my shoulder. He chuckles as I reclaim my lost breath.

“That was not fair,” I grumble.

He holds me tightly, no longer playing, and I find myself relaxing against him.

“I do not know what we are going to do,” Rahk murmurs against my skin. “But I am not going to abandon you, Kat. I swear it.”

I cannot find my voice to reply, so I just nod and close my eyes.