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One of the players on the end, a violinist, nods and lifts his bow.
The music changes and picks up tempo, no longer the graceful song from before. It becomes a lively jig, infectious in its energy. It makes me want to dance.
No, it makes me need to dance. It’s not just a feeling, it’s a compulsion. The melody is too infectious, filling my ears like a siren song. An unexpected joy overtakes me, making my heart feel like it will burst if I don’t express this emotion, right here, right now. I’m elated and I need to show it to the world. The feeling seizes upon my muscles, my feet, and tugs at them, pulling them into motion. The magic that made me want to weep before forces my limbs into action now, and I begin to move.
It feels so good, lifting my arms, twirling to the beat. Except?—
A sharpness scratches at my joy, nicking a hole in it. Then again—a shard of a different emotion, dark and unpleasant—punctures this glorious ecstasy. I look down, still swaying, and see that the thorns aren’t just snagging on my skirts, but tearing through, dragging across my knees and sinking into my thighs.
I frown, watching at the way the thorns expose my flesh, biting at the skin to create bright, pink wounds.
It hurts, I think dimly, and the realization bothers me. How can there be pain when such beauty plays around me, enveloping me in its perfection?
I throw my arms forward as the tune swells, seeing my sleeves bloom crimson, beads of blood blotting the fabric.
Too much pain. The sensation yanks at me through the joy, even as the music directs me like a puppet on a string. This isn’t right, I realize. I’m not happy, not gleeful at all…
I’m terrified.
The gouging touch of the thorns becomes too much, wrestling part of my mind free from the music’s enchantment. I notice the fae laughing and clapping their hands. Their amusement seems to encourage the musicians to play faster. And no matter what my mind screams at me, my body won’t stop following the music.
My neck jerks involuntarily in response to a piercingly high note, and I scream as I receive a face full of barbs. I’m in agony, the iron taste of blood on my lips, every inch of my body pulsing with the sharp stab of pain.
I was wrong. They don’t just want to humiliate me. They want to hurt me so badly I might never recover. They want to watch me rip myself apart until my eyes are poked out and my skin hangs off of me in tatters. Horror grips me even as every moment brings a fresh wave of torture. I catch sight of Galaphina’s satisfied face as I turn, and I think that maybe she even wants to see me dance myself to death, twirling until my exhausted body hangs impaled on the spikes. I stumble and crash into the nearest branch, driving its prongs deep into my side and I choke out sobs of despair, not even able to catch my breath to cry out any louder.
This could be the end of me, here in this palace, without a chance to ever see my father again, to make sure he’s okay. He’ll never even know what happened to me.
Then just like that, the music changes—the strings screeching before falling into blessed silence. I want to weep at the mercy of it as my treacherous feet trip to a halt. I manage to catch myself with my aching arms, finally able to lower them to find a handhold amid my prison.
I try to look through the foliage to see what’s happened, and glimpse a fae stood by the musicians, a man with smooth, brown skin and eyes so hazel they look almost bronze.
“Destan,” I hear Vanis’s voice take on an edge, “trust you to ruin all our fun.”
“That’s enough, now. You’ll kill her,” Destan says.
As I expected, Galaphina just scoffs at the idea. “And that would be a bad thing? She deserves it, the horrid maggot.” Fae can’t lie, which means the blonde fae really does think I deserve death simply for calling out her behavior.
“She belongs to Prince Ruskin, you harpy.”
Hortense makes a show of gasping in offence on her friend’s behalf, but through the thorns I can see Galaphina is just smiling.
“Ah, doing his dirty work for him again, Destan? Tell me, do you ever get tired of being the prince’s lapdog? Or are you too grateful he picked the runt of the litter?”
“Better a runt than an insufferable bitch, Galaphina,” the fae called Destan replies. His tone is languid, like he could trade insults all day.
Galaphina laughs, but the noise is too tight, and I sense that his words have gotten to her. “What could I expect but beastly language from a beast’s errand boy?”
Destan doesn’t answer. Instead, a voice rings out across the garden, somehow still as soft and velvety as the first words he spoke to me in Albrecht’s castle.
“And which beast would that be, Galaphina?”
Chapter 9
The atmosphere of the party changes in an instant, I can sense it even from my thorny cage. A number of party guests had situated themselves within earshot of Destan and Galaphina, no doubt looking to enjoy the entertainment of them clashing. Now the gathered fae seem to want to be anywhere other than near them, retreating to the corners of the garden like rats scurrying from water.
Ruskin’s cat eyes are back, and his horns, and as he stalks towards us, he looks every bit the predator deciding which prey to snatch up first.
Vanis’ thin lips almost disappear as he pulls them into a tight line, and Hortense looks like she might be sick. Galaphina sweeps her hair back over her shoulder again as if unfazed, but her face is a few shades paler than it was a moment ago.
