Page 28 of House of the Beast

This would all resolve itself soon enough.

Once I’d killed the star and left my father reeling and wallowing in the dirt as I became First Hand, Sevelie would see what a second-rate, glory-hungry deadbeat he really was—and maybe then she could make better decisions with her life, which hopefully I would never have to witness again.

At least she seemed to be taking her new role as my caretaker seriously. She hurried to join me a few seconds later, but not without an unhappy huff in my direction.

Carriages awaited outside the station to take us to her lodgings.

I could not help staring as we were carted down the wide and well-lit streets of Sorrowsend.

It was a far cry from Avera’s severe architecture or the packed melee of Merey.

Buildings with elegant friezes and tall, stately windows towered above us, everything forged from beautiful white stone.

Canals ran along almost every street, some as narrow as a doorway, others wider than the roads themselves.

There was life everywhere: light flickering in windows, tunes pouring from the open doors of crowded inns, tradesmen pushing carts down paved streets, ladies in fine silk dresses examining shopwindows.

People stopped and bowed as we trundled past, even if they wore favors in the Lady’s white or the Heavenseer’s deep midnight blue.

It seemed that any connection to the Four commanded respect, here in the home of the Court of Divine Hearers.

And on what seemed like every second corner, there was some shrine or statue or shop display in the Weeping Lady’s honor, hands clasped before her chest in prayer.

Sevelie’s house was at the edges of the eastern quadrant of Sorrowsend, the noblemen’s quarter.

The oldest and most important family estates were located farther into the city to be near the court’s center of operations, but I knew from my research that this area, near the commercial district, was considered very fashionable for new money and aspiring young heirs.

We were mostly silent during the carriage ride, Sevelie radiating displeasure and embarrassment, and myself too tired to attempt conversation. But once we reached her house, she brightened up like one of the glowing festival lights above our heads. She very clearly adored this place.

It had a lovely facade made of the same white stone as all the buildings we’d passed, set back behind curling iron gates twined with leafy vines.

Neat rows of arched windows were adorned with colorful, blooming flower boxes, and the double doors were decorated with large brass knockers shaped like roses.

It was all so charming I could not help but feel welcomed.

Sevelie threw open the carriage door and jumped out without waiting for the attendant.

“Come on, then,” she called toward me, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Just wait until you see the inside.”

She even temporarily put aside her hostility to take me on a tour while the maids prepared dinner, pointing out the decor in each room with phrases like “bespoke fabrics” and “artisanal glassware.”

It was very different from the dark colors and gold accents I had grown up with in the Avera estate.

Something about the estate had always felt cold—not just due to the attitude of the inhabitants, but because the entire place felt like an extension of the temple, and we were the subjects of worship.

Everything was kept pristine. Untouchable.

Here, the house felt lived in. The parlor walls were deep purple, with dark wooden furniture and brightly colored cushions.

Trinkets and baubles that had clearly caught Sevelie’s fancy were piled upon the shelves.

The dining room, where we were called for dinner, was done in varying shades of teal, the walls cluttered with paintings and tapestries of plant life as if we were sitting in the middle of a tastefully decorated jungle.

The meal itself was a quiet affair, with Sevelie asking several leading questions and me giving one-word answers that ensured she would have nothing interesting to report back to my father.

I could tell she was frustrated and clearly rethinking her decision to welcome me into her home—but as I was careful to be courteous despite my reticence, she had no reason to kick me out just yet.

The bathroom, where I was directed afterward, had a giant claw-foot tub and marble shelves stacked with little glass bottles that contained all sorts of fragrant concoctions.

I had never seen anything like it. These were luxuries that probably would have been granted to me if I had asked nicely enough back at the estate, but I had always been too proud.

I stayed in that tub, surrounded by those pleasant smells and the low lamps the maids had set out, until the water turned cold.

It felt strange to be taking advantage of someone’s hospitality like this, especially someone who did not like me very much.

Not that it stopped her from being a wonderful host, apparently, because this bath almost made up for everything I would have to endure from this point.

When I finally returned to my room, I found Aster curled up on the wide windowsill, watching the streets below.

I had taken off my metal arm for my bath, and now I set it down on the dresser to be cleaned and oiled in the morning.

Armed with a bottle of lotion from the bathroom, I went to join Aster at the window.

I uncorked the lid between my teeth, but before I could tip some of it out onto my palm, Aster held out his hand.

After a moment of hesitation, I handed him the bottle and watched as he poured the contents into the cup of his own hand and warmed it before scooting closer to massage it onto my stump.

This used to terrify me. This intimacy. I did not consider myself bashful, but where my missing arm was concerned, I had never properly overcome my vanity.

The stump that had been left behind was ugly—obscene.

Over the years, the skin had turned dark and hardened where the socket of my arm would dig into it.

I did not want anyone touching it, let alone someone like Aster, who was as beautiful as the stars, and who was prone to teasing.

But he had never been callous with this.

In fact, the first time he had insisted on helping me, pouting and wide-eyed, he had been nothing but gentle and considerate.

I had thought he would be disgusted. A part of me had even hoped he would, that my deformity would put an end to his need to be so close all the time, so that I could finally get over my own feelings.

It never did. Even now his hands were unflinchingly thorough as he worked the lotion into my sore muscle, not shying away from the small ridges where my skin had been sutured together, or the scar tissue that had risen in fleshy, grisly patterns over time.

The touch of his fingers was gentle and focused; his eyelashes skirted the tops of his cheeks as he observed his own task, and he was close enough for my breath to ruffle his silver hair.

I hated how all of it was a comfort to me.

“You took your time bathing. I wondered if you’d drowned in there,” he said as he worked. The room had been left in darkness, but there was enough light coming from outside for me to see the impudence in his smile. “I was about to go check on you.”

“I would’ve introduced your face to the edge of Sevelie’s scalloped bathroom sink,” I said. It was the one thing we had agreed upon years ago. If he was going to take the form of a young man, then he would at least provide me with the illusion of privacy.

“She does have quite the lovely home, doesn’t she? Her taste in furniture is better than her taste in men.”

I snorted a laugh. Briefly I wondered if she had stationed anyone outside my door to listen in, and what she might think of me having conversations with myself. “Are you sure it’s all right for us to be here?”

“I imagine your father would have sent someone to watch you no matter what. At least, this way, you can take advantage of the situation.”

“As long as she doesn’t expect us to have dinner together every evening.”

“What, you didn’t enjoy all those intrusive questions about your childhood over delicate roasted duck breast?” His hands ran over my scarred skin, less to soothe and more just to feel. “Did it hurt today? I know it always does when you wear your arm for too long.”

My traitorous heart expanded at his words.

He had remembered and cared enough to ask after it—the way he did with so many other things in my life.

How could I not fall in love with him, just a little bit?

Even though I knew he wasn’t human and couldn’t truly return my affection—it felt so real sometimes that I wanted to believe.

“It’s better now,” I answered quietly. As he worked the soreness out of my muscles, I leaned my shoulder against the window.

For a while, we sat in silence as I took in the view outside—this room was on the top floor and looked over the well-lit street, still teeming with carriages, and beyond that a canal where low boats floated past. It was completely unlike the Avera estate, where we had been cloistered halfway up a mountain and surrounded by darkness on all sides.