AllFreeNovel
Share Us
They act like an old couple in love but appear youthful like every other faerie in this place. No charms tinkle on chains, and I couldn’t make out the shape of their ears. My gut says they’re human.
After he leaves, Cricket says, “Come now, milady. We have much castle to get through before we arrive at your wing.”
“Wing?”
“Usually, you’ll sleep in the west wing. The masters are usually in the east. The clock tower is strictly forbidden. It will be hard to resist at first. And the castle will give you a little nudge now and then, but mark my words, you donotwant to go in.”
“Why?”
“No one comes out. As to the rest, you’ll get used to the castle butting its nose where it doesn’t belong. Servants are housed—oh, apologies, milady. We’re not supposed to call ourselves servants here. The masters don’t like it.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Don’t know, to be honest.” She scratches her chin. “They don’t like us doing much at all. Drives us a little barmy, especially with how this place is falling apart. But we do what we can. It makes us feel like we earn our keep.”
“You’re boarders?”
“You could say that. We were here when they moved in, and instead of kicking us out, they let us stay. At first, they didn’t want us anywhere near them, but Finch and I like to think we’ve warmed the cockles of their hearts with our cheerful dispositions. Shall we go inside?” Cricket watches me intently.
I crane my neck from the porch and look again at the neglected exterior. I came to Avorlorna to make them suffer, but I still haven’t heard of Styx’s whereabouts. Varen has lost his marbles. Their almighty death dragon is a wildling baby. I suspect none have the same indomitable power as in Elphyne, except maybe Fox. He remembers me, I’m sure of it.
Something is wrong.
I feel it in my bones.
It makes my skin crawl to have my choices made for me again, but something Legion said makes me think: “Inside,allof our choices belong to the queen.”
They have no freedom either.
Chapter
Eighteen
FOX
Willow’s nightmare screams in my mind as I storm into Varen’s room. I promised myself I would never listen to her thoughts, but they were so loud. So distraught. I had no choice but to experience them with her.
Varen’s chambers are known as the Hive Room, not because we often gather here, but because of what he’s done to it. The peacock-blue papered walls are covered in charcoal sketches of honeycombs, scribbled nonsense about bees, and gibberish in a fictional language. As far as the eye can see, he’s depicted a vast network of hexagons interlinked over peeling paper. The furniture’s gold filigree is tarnished, the fireplace is dormant, and the air is frigid.
Fresh charcoal marks etch the wall beside the fireplace. For the millionth time, I touch the lines and try to decode the ramblings of madness.
Frustrated, I head to the hearth and use a poker to clear old logs before tossing in a fresh one. Gone are the days when a family of fire sprites would gladly warm the house in return for shelter. Gone are the days I’d eat the family who used to live in their house.
The sprites in Elphyne followed us from our prison in the Winter Palace, where Queen Maebh held us in a chokehold. Were they still there to warm Willow in our stead, to provide comfort as she cried herself to sleep?
There are no sprites in Avorlorna.
Flashes of her nightmare shove into my thoughts, and I toss another log on the hearth, then set it ablaze with my power, wishing to incinerate her pain with it.
The door opens, and Varen strolls in. He heads to the wall beside me, taps a section, cocks his head, then mumbles something about the honeycomb cells not being in the right place. Dark circles shadow his eyes. He needs a shave, and his hair is messy, no doubt from running his hands through it on the walk up from the porch.
He throws his charcoal stick at the fire, slams his fist into a honeycomb cell, and shouts, “Queen bees aren’t supposed to be the rulers.”
Dropping his head to his hands, he keeps mumbling nonsense, exasperated. The only way to calm him down from this state is to go along with it, to humor his whims.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” I suggest, dragging over an antique armchair. “Tell me about the bees while I clean you up.”
He looks dubious as I guide him onto the seat.
