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Her day had been spent reburying as many of them as possible but she still felt them, writhing and unsettled, turning in the soil. If she went back to the palace tonight, she did not think they would stay buried, and the only thing worse than Alaric thinking she was avoiding the room he’d made her would be if she jumped out of her own skin and proved all his suspicions correct.
She entered the bedroom—hers, she supposed she was to think of it now—and locked the door behind her, even though a sweep of the grounds and barn had proved that Alys was still nowhere to be found. She supposed the woman was completing whatever preparations one made when planning to rescue one’s lover from one’s traitorous brother.
The bed taunted her from its position in the corner. It promised sleep and rest—a rejuvenation from the exhaustion that plagued her—but she knew she would find none of those things if she sank into its depths. Her mind was too busy.
I can quiet it, the Song whispered.
“And no doubt I wouldn’t have a mind left once you’ve finished,” she muttered.
You always think the worst of me.
“Because I know you.” Because she knew what it truly wanted, knew what desires she kept caged by caging it.
She lay down on the bed, if only to spitefully prove to herself that sleep would elude her. The house felt strange, empty of its lords, and the perfectly fine bed with its perfectly soft mattress did nothing to lull her into sleep. The silence seemed to have a voice that wouldn’t be quiet.
She knew where she wanted to be, where she might be able to sleep, but given what Ida had told her that morning, there was no point in going back to Numair’s. Because what she wanted wouldn’t be there. Outside, the wind blew, slapping the branches of the hibiscus plant against the window.
Getting up, she eyed the distance between the bed and the window. Grabbing hold of one of the bedposts, she pulled. Nothing happened. The frame was massive, carved of solid, heavy wood. Gritting her teeth, she set her weight into her legs, took a firmer grip, and strained. The post slid a scant inch.
I suppose you don’t want my help with this either? the Song rumbled, amused.
“That depends”—Clare strained, moving the post another inch—“on what you mean”—another heave, another inch—“by ‘helping’.”
Only this.
She gave another forceful pull just as the Song’s power flared, and both her and the bed shot six feet across the room. She stumbled from the unexpected movement and let go of the post, her back slamming into the wall as momentum continued to carry her. Annoyed that she couldn’t even glare at the Song—at least, not without looking in a mirror—she shoved herself off the wall…and found herself halfway across the room.
Glaring, even though it couldn’t see, she very carefully walked back to the bed and very carefully slid it lengthwise against the wall, the center of it beneath the window.
There, was that so awful? The Song retracted its power and Clare’s unnatural strength ebbed.
No, it hadn’t been awful. That was the problem with the Song. It was always tempting her with things she knew better than to rely on. As she’d been reminded only that morning, the Song wasn’t always there when she needed it.
She ignored the entity within her and climbed onto the bed, opening the window six inches to feel the crisp bite of winter flood in. The hibiscus plant was still alive, still flowering, not a hint of frost burn on its petals, nor any other sign of nature taking the toll it exacted from all its inhabitants. Just the pure, unmarred beauty of the flowers that shouldn’t be blooming.
“Damn you, Numair” she whispered. For what, she wasn’t sure. Her fingers brushed one of the blossoms and it curled against her, as if recognizing that she had been there at its inception, that Numair’s magic had flowed through her and into the seeds from which it had been born.
When she retracted that hand, the bloom followed, its branch lengthening as it grew to extend its reach into the room. She crossed her legs, settling her back against the wall, and cupped it in her palm.
“I’m not nice,” she told the flower. “And it’s stupid to be both beautiful and trusting.” As if a flower were capable of trust. She had the violent urge to pluck the blossom, to crush it in her hands and see her skin stained red with its destruction.
One of the petals moved, brushing against her, and she sighed. She could always destroy it tomorrow.
Chapter Fifty-One
Never Again
Clare woke before the dawn, face and fingers chilled from the frigid air that had been allowed to creep in all night through the partially open window. The branches of the hibiscus plant had grown unnaturally more in the night, curling around her head like some kind of living crown. She gently pushed them back through the window, sliding the glass barrier closed.
She’d slept unexpectedly well, and the hours of rest had resettled her unpleasant memories down deep where she preferred them. She crept back into the palace before most of its inhabitants woke, returning to an empty suite. Judging by the mess that remained, Fitz had left directly after she had, and the palace’s staff took the Arrendons’ ban on entering their suite, even to clean, quite seriously.
The phantom hands of panic reached for her, grasping, reminding her of the unexpected surge of violence, of hands holding her down. She brushed them off and tidied the space, removing the physical reminder of the previous day’s events. Once she’d gathered all the scattered letters Fitz had handed her yesterday, she took them to her room and set about deciphering them with the aid of Numair’s books.
She suspected, as she worked through them, that she was learning more quickly than she should. Yesterday, she’d hardly been able to make out a single word on the cover of the book she’d picked up in Numair’s library. Today the words were difficult, and she found herself having to sound them out in a way that felt childish to her, but she could make them out.
As if it was an old, forgotten skill she was dusting off, rather than one she was learning fresh. It had the feel of familiarity to it, and she wanted to be angry with the Song, as she suspected its hand in her improved literacy, but it had gone as silent as it always did once she’d walked through the palace’s doors.
By the time she’d finished reading through them all, she was irritated she’d bothered. The majority of them were stuffed full of flowery, circuitous language that amounted to one thing: where she was concerned, Veralna’s court had decided to wait and see.
