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I recognize the tenderness in his eyes as he watches her disappear beneath the roses. It’s the same look I give my father when I find him asleep in his chair. The gentle protectiveness we feel at a reminder of the fragility of our parents. I’m shocked Ruskin has allowed me to see this, to share this moment with him, but it seems like he’s inviting me in just when I’ve come to ask for access to his world. It’s the perfect opening, and I don’t want to squander it.
Ruskin fully turns to look at me for the first time since I entered the garden. He doesn’t speak for a moment—instead his eyes widen, and I finally remember what I’m wearing.
I’d predicted this, and still as those bright eyes rove over me I fight a blush, feeling thoroughly exposed. I try to remember that this dress is completely acceptable by fae standards, and yet…it suddenly occurs to me that Ruskin might find this outfit distracting, of all things.
That can only work in my favor.
“You said she was attacked?” I prompt. “I thought she was sick?”
His gaze snaps back up to my face.
“My mother made the mistake of extending a hand of peace to a human king. You would not know him; he died many generations ago for you. He came to believe that she could give him something she could not. Even High Kings and Queens have limits to their powers.” A bitter smile plays on his lips. “When she could not give him what he asked, he tortured her, believing she was deceiving him.”
My hand twists in the fabric of my gown. I didn’t know what humans could have done to be able to injure a fae queen so badly, and I chase my mind away from imagining exactly what things.
“Luckily, I found her before the king killed her outright, but she was inches from death. The healers could do nothing. Only her magic—and some of mine—saved her. But it could not heal her, merely bring her into a sleep she is yet to wake from.”
I’d expect him to sound resigned, but there is a steel in his words, an emphasis on the word “yet;” that has an unwavering determination behind it.
“I’m sorry, Ruskin,” I say, and mean it. “That’s terrible.”
“We fae are not the only ones who can be unfathomably cruel, Gold Weaver.”
I know how this feels. Perhaps not the exact circumstances, but the loss, at least. I know how much harder it is to bear alone, when you feel like no one could possibly understand your grief.
“When my mom died, I didn’t know how life could continue,” I say. “It seemed impossible that the world could go on without her in it. But somehow, my father and I adapted. With time, we found a way to live around the absence. It made me realize the heart can be more resilient than we think.”
I stop, thinking that this fae prince might find me trying to compare our situations foolish. After all, he lives in a world of magic and royalty. What’s my life experience compared to that? But when I meet his gaze, he’s looking at me with something a little like wonder. It’s warmer than the sudden flare of surprise that I can sometimes provoke. In this light it makes him look positively human.
“You’re right,” he says. “When did your mother die?”
“Nine years ago. I was ten. What’s ironic is she was a healer, but she could never really say what made her sick. She just started getting weak one day, like the life was all drained out of her, and nothing she did made it better.”
There’s something else in his face now, a look of deep sorrow I don’t understand. I wonder if I’m simply calling up memories of the High Queen for him. I shift, the breeze making my dress waft gently around me, drawing his eyes again.
“I thought you’d be at the ball,” he says.
“Why? It’s not like a I had a fun time at the last fae party I went to.”
“And yet you’re always so curious, I imagined you’d want to see how we fae celebrate the harvest—under the safe watch of Destan and Halima, of course.”
I examine my hands, feeling naked in a way that has nothing to do with my dress. It’s a small thing, but I find I’m oddly moved that he’s noticed the questioning part of my nature, the way I want to know everything.
“I think I saw all I needed to,” I said, not wanting to brush off his invitation now I know the reasoning behind it. I look up from my hands, wondering if I’m brave enough to risk the sentence forming on my lips.
I remind myself I came here with a purpose.
“After all, you weren’t there,” I say. I stand up straighter, shaking my hair back over my shoulders. It’s a sentence with more than one implication, and I think I’m starting to learn how to communicate in the vague, double-edged speak of the fae.
He looks like he’s about to say something when the clouds shift again, and the moon bursts through them, its pale light gently falling on the garden. It gives Ruskin a faint luminescence and I see, for the first time, the way his Unseelie features emerge. His round pupils tighten into slits, the ends of his fingers curve into points, and what looked like shadows before, or just the way his hair falls, solidifies into the tips of black horns on his head.
I shiver, but not entirely with displeasure, as I watch his inner beast come out to play.
Chapter 17
Ruskin lifts his face to the moon and closes his eyes, as if basking in its light. He lets out a sigh of pleasure that sends a little jolt of lightning through my body and, when he opens them and lowers his head back down, he’s different. All softness from his face has gone, and he levels me with a stare that has the unmistakable glint of hunger to it.
Just that look pulls a reaction from my body, my skin tingling and breath hitching a fraction.
