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“Thanks to you,” I murmur.
My defiance isn’t noble, like when I ran into Galaphina. I’m not doing this in the memory of anyone. But this is his fault—all of it. The death, the fear and yes, even the hundreds of stinging lacerations all over my body. He’s the one who manipulated our stupid deal because he somehow thinks he needs me. The bold, foolish part of me seems to think that if being rude is the only option to get a bit of my own back, then I should be taking it.
I stare at him, waiting for him to react to my insolence.
“And thanks to me you’re alive to sit here and be ungrateful,” he says, dropping the bowl onto the bed beside me.
It’s filled with a delicate-smelling paste, and I pick it up to examine it, sitting up properly.
“Marigold,” he says, in way of explanation, “and Cal?—”
“Calendula, yes, I know. My mother used to make a balm like it.” As a healer it was one of her essential tools for soothing and healing cuts and bruises. The normality of it relaxes me a little, enough to meet his gaze with interest, rather than fear. It’s hard though, because his eyes are so intense I have the urge to shiver every time I meet them.
He seems about to say something, then changes course, his voice coming out firmer.
“There’s something else. We made a deal, and it will not be fulfilled if you die. I’ll assume—despite today’s behavior—that this is not something you want to happen, so here.”
He’s wearing his black coat, the high collar brushing occasionally against his razor-straight jaw, and his fingers go to it now and pluck at the fabric on the join between his sleeve and his shoulder. I’m confused as a piece of the material seems to come loose, a tear-drop sliver that he holds out to me.
I take it, my fingers registering his warmth as they brush against his hand. Examining it, recognition dawns on me. It’s a rose petal, so dark it looks black in almost every light, but I can see the crimson buried within it as I turn its silky softness over in my fingers.
“It won’t tear,” he says, “so keep it on you always, and if you need me again, it will help you find me.”
“I can’t just say the rhyme?” I ask, even though I seriously doubt I would actually seek Ruskin out of my own will. Once was enough, and even that proved to be a big mistake.
“It won’t work inside Faerie.”
“Why not?” The question is automatic, my mind catching hold of the contradictions of this world and its magic. Why would he be able to hear the rhyme in Styrland but not here?, is just the first. My head is whirling with them: For instance, why do they call him a prince when it seems like he’s in charge? And why did Galaphina call him an Unseelie? Wouldn’t the Seelie Court have a Seelie king?
I wait for his answer to the one question I’ve dared to ask, but it never comes.
“Use the petal,” he simply grunts. His demeanor seems calm enough now, but his very presence unsettles me, makes me feel conscious in my body. I assume this is an instinctive reaction to the threat of violence he carries with him, though I remind myself that so far, he hasn’t moved a hand against me. “I expect you to not have to, however, given you surely won’t be so foolish as to go taunting a High Fae again.”
“I didn’t taunt her,” I snap, before I can temper my tone.
“Of course,” he says, his voice taking on that unique note again, the one that’s somehow both dangerous and inviting at the same time. It makes sense if he gets people to agree to his deals all the time. I suppose he needs to be more than just terrifying, but also persuasive—seductive. When he switches his voice like that, I can imagine him getting people to agree to really stupid, risky things. I shift my legs against each other, trying to ignore the pull the sound of it has on me, suppressing the feelings it evokes.
It’s just magic, Eleanor, I tell myself. If fae magic can compel me to dance, it could easily be tempting me into certain thoughts now…couldn’t it?
“I just reminded her of something she did,” I say, organizing my thoughts at last. “Something evil.”
I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to him. Especially when he probably views what Galaphina did to Clara as perfectly just and proportionate.
“Was it worth it?” he asks. The question surprises me.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you do it again—take the risk of reminding her, knowing what she would do to you in return?”
I turn this over in my mind, thinking of the bite of the thorns, and then of Clara, whose body wouldn’t heal, whose name probably wouldn’t even be remembered by the woman responsible.
“Yes,” I say with certainty.
He nods and I’m suddenly aware of our proximity, the way he towers over me, close enough for me to feel his body heat. Despite this I give an involuntary shiver, and not just because I’m still damp and filthy from the party. Still, when I glance down, I see the evidence of my chill. My breasts are peaked through the thin fabric, which is torn all over from the thorns. Little half-moons of my flesh show through, leaving little to the imagination. Ruskin’s gaze follows mine, and I watch him take in my state of disarray, the hints of nakedness. His eyes darken, with anger or something else, I cannot tell, and I feel myself blush, the pale skin on show turning rosy-red under his stare.
“Your clothes are ruined,” he says and the perfect response pops into my head so quickly that I can’t stop it from tumbling out of my mouth.
“Why do you have such a love for stating the obvious?”
