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“What are you doing here anyway?” she asks.
I find my tongue tied. “It’s...um…”
“Something for the prince?” she asks, looking a little guilty. “I’m afraid gossip does go around, and I heard about how you’re in a deal with him.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I say.
“It’s okay, I understand that you can’t tell me everything.”
I wince, hating how Ruskin’s grip is driving a wedge between me and one of the few people I actually connect with here.
“It’s just…I can’t afford to make him too angry, and?—”
Fiona pats my hand. “I understand, Eleanor.” She looks around and then surreptitiously pulls up her sleeve, showing me an arm riddled with purple welts. “Believe me,” she says, meeting my shocked gaze.
“Are you all right?” I try not to sound too appalled for her sake. “Did Rivera do that to you?”
Fiona pulls down her sleeve, a flush rising to her cheeks like she regrets being so candid.
“One just has to be careful about angering the High Fae,” she says, her words laced with warning.
Destan and Halima don’t comment on my change of mood, but I barely speak all the way back to the palace. I’m angry. So angry I could throw everything we’ve just bought out the window and tell Ruskin to take himself and his whole court to hell. How can these fae think they can treat humans like this? Steal them away and enslave them for the rest of time? How can Ruskin let it happen? But then, I know how—he basically encourages it, doesn’t he? A cruel prince for a cruel court. He doesn’t care that his subjects treat their servants this way. He could do something about it, and he doesn’t.
And me? I’m just another cog in this machine, another pawn for him to play with. I remember his words in the hall, about not letting humans con the fae, about me being a fool that needs to repay my debt. I don’t need to know fae can’t lie to be sure he meant every word.
Kaline has already shown me the workshop I’m meant to use, provided with everything I’d asked for, and the three of us head there now to drop off our purchases. But when I push my way inside, I see the person I least want to face at that moment.
Ruskin is leaning against the workbench with an easy languor, examining the fireplace. He looks like a painting—blessed with this otherworldly beauty that nothing can diminish—no matter how terrifying he gets. I stop in the doorway at the sight of him, my anger twisting itself up into something more complicated.
“It was hard to find someone in this place who’s any good at conjuring fireplaces, but I persevered,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.
“Good. It can keep your cold, dead heart warm,” I bite out, dropping my bag of shopping to the floor. Just like when I ran into Galaphina, I can’t seem to let things lie now. Not when the image of Fiona’s bruised arm is still fresh in my mind, clear as my memory of Clara lying dead in the dirt.
Ruskin straightens up as soon as the words are out of my mouth, his expression darkening into a glower. He looks over my shoulder, where I hear Destan and Halima coming in behind me.
“Leave us,” he orders. I see them both hesitate, and my stomach sinks. They’re usually so relaxed around him. Respectful, of course, but not wary. Even when his tone turns sharp, they never seem as if they’re bracing themselves for him to lash out. But now, they’re tense. Now, they hesitate. Which, to my mind, means that now is when I should be running for cover.
Too late for that.
“Now,” Ruskin barks.
Destan gives me an apologetic look as he and Halima duck out of the room. I wonder what he thinks he’s just condemned me to. Whatever it is, I’m stuck with it now. I’m still just angry enough to feel defiant. I refuse to cower. If he beats me for it, so be it. This time, I’m not backing down.
He stares at me, and I feel like he could pierce me just with his eyes.
“What do you presume to know about my heart, Gold Weaver?” he asks. I think the quietness of his voice is worse than any shouting. I take a deep breath, bracing myself to tell the truth. I have to, for the Fionas and Claras and the many more like them.
“I know it doesn’t feel. How can it, when you take from people so carelessly, destroying their lives for your own selfish reasons?”
I think he looks a little relieved by my answer, though I can’t imagine why.
“And what reasons are those?” he asks. I don’t expect that to be the part he seizes upon either, and I shake my head.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” It’s not entirely true. Some part of me burns to understand him and his world, but I fear the price for earning that knowledge would be too high. Even as he steps towards me now, my heart jumps in my chest and heat creeps up my neck.
“The people I make deals with do so of their own free will,” he says.
“Except you take advantage of them when they’re desperate, when they feel they have no other choice.”
