“Welcome,” I mutter, slamming the door on the king’s men and Gillian.
He says nothing, only scans the main room of my cottage. Wooden chairs, threadbare curtains, mats made of rushes by the fireplace and table—not much to view. His gaze moves on, pausing at the blades and whetstone on my table before stopping at the open bedroom door. Papa’s old, ratty quilt is covered with dresses. Dresses?
Five fine silk dresses.
Unsuitable for hunting, tracking, or normal life.
My eyebrows squish together. Last time he brought a fancy cloak and a gold necklace. He’s lost his seeds. When would I use any of these things?
“A gift,” he says, as if reading my mind. “For the Royal Winter Feast Ball.”
I went to the Winter Feast celebration when I was fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen on Papa’s request. Papa said we had an obligation to attend once I was of age. So, he paraded me around the lamp-lit streets of Brentyn, where boughs of holly and sage rested on tables and pigs sizzled over fires. Townspeople chatted in groups and danced in the square. Luckily, most ignored me. The few who didn’t dampened the merriment of the evening with their insults that were forgotten until now.
No way do I want to go again, let alone to the pompous Winter Feast Ball at the castle itself.
King Aodren’s jade eyes jump to mine, and I realize I spoke my protest aloud.
“I . . . uh, pardon me.” I rub my clammy palms on my trousers. This man could order my execution if he wanted—unlikely, but still. “Five dresses are, um, excessive.”
“To give you a choice.”
I frown.
“At the Royal Winter Feast Ball. Where you’ll be presented to the court as nobility.”
Warmth oozes from my belly to my toes—confirming that he speaks the truth. I clutch my queasy stomach. Nobility? He’s definitely lost his mind.
Does he even realize how that would look?
Ever since my father’s death, all I’ve wanted is to live my simple life outside the public eye in Papa’s cottage with Cohen.
But Cohen is gone. He made no offer of marriage before he left. A painfully brief kiss and an I’ll catch her was all I got. Now I’m stuck with a king who won’t leave me alone and my Spiriter ability burning like wildfire through me, driving me mad with want to use it.
I hate being near the king, feeling the connection pull me to him with invisible claws. First, because I don’t know how to break it. And second, because Cohen doesn’t know about my bond with the king. Knowing nothing much gets past Cohen and that I’ll have to explain the strange link douses me with anxiety.
I cross the room to the table, putting myself in arm’s reach of my dagger. Right now, I need its stability. “Your gesture is . . .”—I fumble for the right words—“. . . unnecessary. I’m not noble, and I’ve no lofty goals. The Winter Feast Ball isn’t for me.”
“Your father was a noble. You’ve inherited his land. You deserve the privileges that come along with it.”
My laugh sounds salted and dry. “If by ‘privilege,’ you mean the acceptance of the nobility, no thank you.”
“I was told people in town have made you feel unwelcome.” He sounds uncertain. “And I . . . well, I’ve seen some things. After the declaration, you would be treated differently.”
“No.” I stand stiff, not sure if I’m more annoyed by his admission that he’s seen others’ cruelty toward me, or by his preposterous idea that would only serve to draw more of their ire. More attention that could get me killed.
His face slackens for a beat before hardening. He’s not used to people telling him no. I don’t know what else to say to make him understand that I’ve no interest in mingling with the flocked and feathered of Malam, so I remain quiet.
“You saved my life. And in return . . .” His voice is subdued, cadence measured. “I insist on improving yours. Also, the gowns are a gift, not just a token of my gratitude, but to wish you a merry birthday.”
How did he know? I pluck my dagger off the table and flex my fingers around the handle.
“I know I’m a day late, but I chose not to come yesterday so I wouldn’t disturb your celebration with Miss Tierney.”
I will strangle Gillian. We made sweet cakes and rode into the woods to ring in my eighteenth birthday. When I stayed out, she must’ve sent a missive to the castle. I wish I could throw the dresses and the king out the door. The only thing I want is for Cohen to return home. That would be a much better birthday gift.
King Aodren turns away and enters my bedroom, where he touches a green gown. It’s almost the exact shade of the lake’s reflection of the pines.
“Whichever one catches your fancy, wear it to the ball two weeks from today.” A command, not a question.
A scowl is all I can muster. “I don’t know the first thing about attending a ball.”
Can he not see my favorite accessory is a dagger? I’d rather tromp naked through a forest full of bears and mountain cats than get gussied up for a royal ball.
“Surely, you could spare a night.” His lips curl into a subtle, almost imploring smile. As if he’s giving me a choice.
Something hard and heavy forms in the pit of my stomach.
“If you’re worried about the dancing, I could teach you.”
“I’m worried about my life.” I glare at him.
“I would never let any harm come to you.”
Right. I drop my dagger on the table with a clunk, cut to the door, and yank it open.
“You’ll come, though?” He says it like a question, but it isn’t. Not when he’s who he is and I’m who I am. I glance back at my dagger on the table and consider throwing it right through the heart of the dresses. He might understand that message better.
“Fine,” I say, with teeth gritted, leaving a sour taste on my tongue and a dull ache behind my eyes.
He gives a tight nod and leaves.
My fingernails chew my palms as the king and his men ride away into the Ever Woods.
Gillian sweeps in, face beaming. I want to shake her shoulders and erase that smile. I slam the door.
“You look murderous.” Gillian spins around, her skirts swishing against the stone.
“I am.”
A blink. “You don’t like the dresses?”
“Really? You’ve been living with me for a month.”
“Right. So they’re not your usual choice, but there’s a variety. Something different from brown trousers.”
“They’re for the Royal Winter Feast Ball. He wants to sprinkle royal dust on me and make me noble.”
Gillian presses her hands to her cheeks and pretends to swoon.
“Stop it,” I snap.
She flounces into the bedroom and lifts a rose dress from the bed. That grin. Seeds. She’s as mad as the king.
The pull to the king, still taut in my chest, halves my attention from her squealing prattle. I press my palm to my sternum. I’d give anything to be free of him. To be able to live in peace on Papa’s land. But I don’t know how to break the bond.