A Curse So Dark and Lonely (Page 18)

“No. The blood in that room is unfortunate to look at, but is ultimately of no real concern.” He continues down into darkness, leaving me to follow.

I do my best to scurry after him. At the bottom of the staircase, light flickers along the shadowed hallway and warm scents of flour and yeast reach my nose. I should have chosen this path to begin with.

“Is the blood part of the curse?” I whisper.

He turns and gestures around, his expression incredulous. “All you see is part of the curse.”

I hesitate, thinking of his dead family, though I can’t make wet blood match up with people who’ve been dead for numerous seasons.

I shouldn’t have worried, because his voice remains casual and unbothered. “Do you care for some wine? I can fetch a bottle from the cellar.”

“No. Rhen—” I swallow, and my voice goes husky. Grey told me about the hundreds of girls—some who made it out alive, and some who didn’t. “Who died in that room?”

“No one.”

“That’s not possible.” I pause and wonder if I should try to run from here again. I edge toward the doorway. “Was it—was it from the last girl here? Did she die in there?”

“No. She returned home when the season reset. If not wine, do you prefer mead, or possibly—”

“I don’t care what we have to drink!” I stop in front of him. My pulse is a roar in my ears and I’m sure my expression is fierce. “How can you talk about lunch when you’ve got a room full of blood upstairs?” I slap my hand against the stone wall. “Stop evading my questions.”

He gives me a level look. Light from the oil lamps flickers across his eyes. “I have answered quite directly. If you feel otherwise, you are asking the wrong questions. What is it you want to know?”

“Whose blood is that?”

The first hint of anger slides into his voice—but it’s backed by resignation. “The blood you saw was mine.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RHEN

I’m rethinking my decision to allow her freedom. If she found my former suites terrifying, it does not bode well for what’s to come. In truth, I should probably be on my knees, grateful that she hasn’t bolted from the castle again, and has instead willingly followed me into the warm depths of the palace kitchens.

I have fond memories of this part of the castle. I used to come down here often as a child, and the pastry girls would reward me with twists of dough and cups of sweet cream. My nurse was friends with the cook, and they would gossip and laugh while I traced pictures in the flour that seemed to coat everything.

My visits to the kitchen stopped—and my nurse disappeared—when I asked my father what it meant that no girl could hold his eye longer than a fortnight, or why that would make my mother a pitiable thing.

But the memories remain intact. After Lilith cursed me, after the echoing emptiness of the castle began to haunt me, I would seek refuge down here. The warmth and the heavy smell of sugar and yeast remind me of childhood.

When I was harmless.

Without a staff, the kitchen seems huge. Food sits everywhere, almost spilling out of the shadows. Loaves of bread by the dozen wait on shelves by the hearth, where a massive fire roars. Soup bubbles in a huge cauldron, a roasted corn chowder the cook would have served with the evening meal. Six pheasants roast on a slowly turning spit above a fire on the other side of the room. Vegetables have been sliced and roasted to line serving platters. Cheese. Nuts. Pastries. Everywhere.

The only available work space is a large table in the center of the room, dusted with sugar and cinnamon and lined with piles of dough.

Harper stops in the doorway and looks around. “Holy … wow.”

I move to the table and shove the strips of dough to the side, then pull a stool over. “Sit, my lady. Wine?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m going to need some.”

I fetch a bottle from the storeroom at the back of the kitchen, then pour. Harper watches.

The weight of her eyes makes me uneasy. I lost the ability to feel self-conscious long ago—or at least I thought I did. I’m used to the weight of prying eyes and critical glances.

Harper’s judgment is different. She is my final chance. The stakes feel immeasurably high.

Once the glasses are full, I hand one to Harper, then down mine in one swallow. I pour more.

She takes a small sip, watching me. “So you are upset.”

That makes me pause. “What makes you think so?”

“In my experience, men drink like that when they’re upset.”

I don’t like that she seems to see right through me. “Indeed? And what is your experience?”

She flinches almost imperceptibly. She swirls the wine in her glass and keeps her voice light. “I don’t want to talk about me.”

I take a slower sip from my glass. “Do you wish to talk about me?”

As with any other time I challenge her, it sparks a light in her eyes. “Yes, I do. What really happened in that room?”

“I made a mistake.” I take a longer sip of wine. I’m already feeling the effects of the first glass. “One of many, in fact.”

She leans against the table and studies me. “What kind of mistake?”

I hesitate. Weigh my words. Take another, longer drink. “I enjoyed the company of the wrong woman.”

“And what? She tore you apart?”

“Yes.”

Her question was flippant and she clearly did not expect that answer. Her voice quiets. “Then how are you standing here? Where are your scars?”

“Not all scars can be seen, my lady.” I drain the glass again. “I somehow think you have already learned that lesson yourself.”

She goes still. I’ve shocked her. Or offended her. Or something else entirely.

“What made her the wrong woman?” she finally asks.

“To understand that, you must understand our history.” I pause. “During my grandfather’s rule, a small colony of magesmiths from the western colony of Verin took refuge in Emberfall, near our northern border. From what I remember of my lessons, they were the last remaining magesmiths, and the King of Verin had sought to destroy them all, so they fled east. They swore allegiance to my grandfather and caused few problems. They would sell their spells to the people, and my grandfather saw it as an indulgence to allow it. Their magic was small, harmless. He would tax them heavily for the privilege. There were surely tensions there, but he ignored it—or he did not care. When my father reached marrying age, a young woman visited the castle, presenting herself as a candidate for marriage. But she was a magesmith in disguise, and once she was here, she bewitched my father. She tried to trick him into marriage.

“She was not very powerful,” I say. “The guards were able to imprison her and execute her once she confessed. But my grandfather took out his wrath on the magesmiths who remained. He sent an army, because it was said that as each one of the magesmiths was killed, the magic would be passed on to the others, making the magesmiths who remained increasingly powerful. To avoid that, they had to be slaughtered all at once—and so they were.” I shudder, then continue, “The stories of their deaths would put that room to shame.”

Harper’s expression has lost any suspicion or disbelief. “So what happened?”

“One escaped,” I say. “Or one was hidden.” I pause. “And she appeared on the night of my eighteenth birthday. Dressed as a courtier, ready to seduce a prince.”

“And she had the strongest magic—because she had absorbed all the magic of the rest, who were dead.”

“Yes.”

“Why did she curse you, if it was your grandfather who killed them all off?”

I look down into my glass. “She was not solely seeking revenge. She truly did want to align herself with the royal family. She is quite powerful—but her magic only extends so far. To me, to Grey, to the territory of Ironrose. She cannot cast her web over my entire kingdom. She seeks true power. For that she needed me.”

“And you turned her away.”

“I did.”

I say nothing more, and after a moment, Harper’s eyes light with understanding. “You turned her away after spending the night with her.”

“Yes.”

“Probably after promising her the world on a string.”

“I promised nothing.” I hesitate. “Though I allowed her to believe our night meant more than it did.”

“Charming.”

I pour another glass of wine and meet her gaze. “I have learned my lesson, my lady. I assure you of that.”

She twists her glass in her hands and studies me. I wish I could read the emotion in her eyes. After countless seasons of hiding the truth behind pretty lies and extravagant stories, I have laid the truth at her feet, and I am no more sure that she will accept it.

Guilt pricks at me. I am lying to myself now. I have not laid the entire truth at her feet. Not about what I will become.

“I can offer you no proof,” I say to her, “if that is what you are after.”

“So she cursed you to perform a task.” Her tone is musing. “Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

“I have found that revealing the nature of the task is the quickest way to assure failure.”