Page 36 of Her Shadow so Dark and Lovely (A Curse of Fallen Stars #1)

Lorel

I hadn’t ever thought I would see the inside of the Keep again.

It is another world, with its austere walls carved into regimented blocks, its plain wood doors, and the tall imposing ceilings.

All the ornamentation is saved for the Dawn King’s palace that sits above, bloated with all the gold and beauty it denies everything below.

I don’t catch any of the words that pass between my captors, but I can tell that we are ascending. That worries me. To be in the Keep is bad enough— to end up in the palace would be a nightmare.

My captors turn off to take me into a plain, unmarked room, and relief sweeps through me. I do not wish to come to anyone’s attention here, least of all the Dawn King’s.

I’m dumped unceremoniously on the floor, and I hit it hard, still tangled in the sheet. With the sedation still in effect, all I can do is lie there and stare at the sigil hearth. No dull, insipid lights here. Only the best and brightest will do.

The Dawn King only knows why they’ve dragged me back here.

There are footsteps across the stones, the sound of the door reopening and then closing again.

A chair is dragged over with a screech, and someone drags me up and sets me in it, draping the bed sheet over me.

Beryl appears in my line of sight. I get a good look at the markings on her coat, and I realise she is not just a Lightkeeper, but part of the Dawn King’s inner circle.

One of his dreaded Lightwardens. They had protected me once— until they hadn’t. I don’t expect any mercy from this one.

Beryl’s mouth makes the shape of a smile. It does nothing to soften her face and does everything to make her resemble the creature from the dark room in the labyrinth. She kneels in front of the chair and takes my hand, looking at it with mock regret.

“Now,” she says. “I’m going to give you back control of your limbs, and you’re going to wash and dress. The Dawn King wishes to see you, and I’ll not allow you to go dressed in little more than a bedsheet.”

I take a moment to get enough control of my tongue to reply. “I’d rather go naked,” I say. It comes out a little mumbled.

Beryl grimaces. “You seem to be under the impression that I was asking for your preference. I was not, so let me make myself clear,” she says. “You were a scribe, were you not?”

I don’t much like her use of past tense. I am still a scribe. I belong to the Library. Not to these dusty archaic halls.

“I imagine your hands are rather important to you, then.”

Fear grips my chest. No. Beryl takes my little finger with one hand. I have no control over my body and no means to resist what is about to happen, but I still try to pull my hand away.

Perhaps it is a blessing that the sedation remains in effect, because it means it doesn’t hurt quite so much when she snaps my little finger up and back.

I let out a strangled cry, my eyes watering.

Beryl smiles up at me, still holding my hand.

This time the smile is sincere, and it is clear there is nothing she would like better than to break every one of my fingers.

I tremble, the pain and shock of it sinking through me.

“Do I make myself clear?” Beryl asks.

The thought of not being able to paint, or write, or sink my fingers into Sila’s thighs is enough to convince me that this is not a fight worth fighting.

“Yes,” I manage. It’s barely more than a whisper.

“Good,” says Beryl as she rises. “Jareth, set the finger, but don’t heal it.

I expect our visitor could use the reminder of what she has to lose if she decides to misbehave again.

” She leans in over the chair and lowers her voice.

“Your sister may have the Dawn King’s protection for now, but how long will that last, I wonder?

Be a good girl now, hm?” Beryl pats my cheek sharply, and the weightless feeling in my limbs bleeds away.

My slow, foggy thoughts clear, and then the man, Jareth, is grabbing my broken finger, and I can hardly think at all.

I’m left alone after that, with nothing but the throbbing pain in my finger and my bed sheet for comfort.

At least it still carries Sila’s perfume.

I bury my head in it and breathe it in. Sila will come for me, only now I hope she won’t.

I’m not sure she can stand against the Dawn King, but for me, I know she will try.

The curse stirs in my chest. It feels feeble, and a little dazed, like it’s in sympathy with everything that has happened since the Lightkeepers broke into Sila’s rooms. Under everything, the dark coal-black mark on my chest is burning. Time is running out for both of us.

There is a knock at the door, which seems absurd, and then the door opens and the quiet of the chamber is being turned upside down.

It’s as if I had never left the Keep, the chaos that floods in exactly as I remember it.

A woman marches in, followed by two men carrying a bath.

Another woman carries a fashionable dress, two more carry cases of accessories and shoes, and another man has a case that suggests he’s going to try and do something to my hair and face.

Overseeing them all is Inetta. My sister’s handmaiden, and a force of nature who does not ever back down from a challenge.

She takes one look at me and proclaims, “No, this won't do at all.” She claps her palms together. “Stand.”

I do, the sheet huddled around my shoulders. I remember this part of life here— this ritual of dressing. An army of people, all existing only to dress courtiers up like dolls for their roles in the Dawn King’s circus of a court. Orielle had always thrived in this place. I had withered.

“No, don’t hang onto the sheet like that.” Inetta swats at my hands, and I wince, dropping the sheet to the ground. She grabs my hand roughly, but not unkindly. “Beryl,” she hisses. “The nerve of her to think she can lay a hand on a Dawnchild.”

I shrink back from the title and the way it settles sickly in my stomach. It has been a decade or more since anyone has called me such a thing. Since I had thought of myself as such. I’d been na?ve to think I could be free of it.

Inetta holds my hand gently between hers, and the pain eases.

“There now. Let’s see to all these other scrapes of yours.

” She does not heal the broken finger completely.

It still aches, but perhaps the damage won't be so lasting now. I do not begrudge her the caution in the slightest. Inetta is a clever woman, and she hasn’t survived with my sister all these years in the Court without knowing how to play its games.

Inetta heals as many of the cuts and bruises as she can— and there are more than I thought— and while she works, the rest of the envoy prepare the next stage of torment.

A water mage fills the bath, a fire mage heats it.

The hairdresser sets himself up at an empty table, and the remaining attendants lay out some of the finest clothing I have ever seen.

It’s all colourful silks and florals, ribbons and pearls, and they are lovely beautiful things, but I prefer my sturdy woollens and my dependable leather boots.

As I stare at the beautiful costume laid out for me, I wish I was stronger, that I didn’t have to go along with this. Not again.

“Right,” says Inetta. “Into the bath.”

I allow myself to be ushered across the room and submerged under the water. Inetta and another woman take no time in starting to scrub me.

“Really, I’m sure I can?—”

“Nonsense, Lola, you are in the Suntide Court now. You do as you are bid,” says Inetta, rubbing soap into my hair.

I grit my teeth. Of all the indignities I have suffered today, this is the worst. Being called by my childhood nickname somehow digs in like a thorn.

As if it wasn’t enough to be dragged from my lover's bed, have my finger broken, and be called a Dawnchild by the same people who had happily called me a foundling and my mother a whore.

Now I must also sit and be called Lola, and do as I am told, like a dutiful child.

Because on top of everything else, these are not the people who truly mean me harm. Inetta is as close to an ally as I will ever get in this place. I should just be grateful that, for now, I’m still alive.

Once they have scrubbed me to within an inch of my life, I am pulled from the bath and dried off.

I endure the whispers and looks the two women give each other.

Inetta has already cleared away Sila’s kiss marks, and I’m sure they’ll speculate later for their own enjoyment.

Fury seethes through me. If I am to die, I would have preferred to be left as I was.

The splint is redone on my finger, which is looking less swollen, though still aching.

That ordeal over, they start on the next one.

I set my jaw and grind my teeth as they begin to dress me.

First a clean shift, then stockings, garters, stays laced comfortably, petticoats, hip padding, all the pieces of the gown pinned into place, jewellery, my short hair puffed up and set, cosmetics applied to my skin so that I look less like a rogue prophecy is draining my life force.

And silk slippers to finish it all off. I’m so tired and I haven’t even left the room yet.

If the Dawn King had any mercy, he would have skipped the torture before he killed me.

“There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it Lola dear?” Inetta places a slim gold band upon my head. “Perfect.”

“How do they do this every day?” I ask. I can barely recognise my own face in the mirror.

“How does anyone do anything?” Inetta replies. “Do scribes not sit and copy letters for hours?”

It’s not entirely what a scribe does, or at least it isn’t all that a scribe does, but I suppose, to another person, it might be tedious.

I touch my face lightly as I lean towards the mirror, peering at this strange version of myself.

I turn to Inetta before it overwhelms me. “Take me back to the Library,” I say.

Inetta gives me a pitying look. “Lola, darling, they should have never let you go there.

You are a Dawnchild, one of the King's own blood. If this is where he wants you, this is where you will stay.” She pulls me to her side and lowers her voice and speaks quickly.

“Lady Orielle does not know you are here, and if you run, Beryl has been given permission to do what she thinks is necessary to subdue you. I do not know why you have been brought here, but do not think that all of this is for your benefit. If you bring harm to my lady, I will hand you to Beryl myself. Do you understand?”

My blood turns to ice, and I hide my trembling hands in my skirts.

“Yes,” I say.

Inetta’s voice returns to its usual cheerful tone. “You have always been such a sweet girl, Lola. I am sure the Dawn King will find no fault in you.”