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He calls for Halima, and she’s there almost as quickly as he, somehow fully dressed in her armor despite the hour. I dazedly wonder if she sleeps in it.
She takes in the scene with an unchanged expression, then looks to Ruskin for her orders.
“The guards on duty tonight, both shifts, bring them to me. And round up everyone in the vicinity of this room in the last six hours.”
She nods. “Do you think this was an attack aimed at undermining you, my Lord? An attempt to stop Eleanor from helping you?”
“Whatever it is,” Ruskin snarls, and I glance up to see his eyes have changed, his horns protruding from his hair, “the people responsible will pay dearly for it. Now stop wasting time,” he barks.
I’ve never seen him speak to Halima like that, but she doesn’t protest, simply leaving without a word. Though he doesn’t say anything as he lifts me up and carries me to his quarters, it’s like I can sense the fury rolling off him in waves, radiating outwards, threatening to flood the whole palace.
He lays me gently on the bed, but there’s violence in his eyes, and when I look up at him, it’s like looking into a black storm cloud.
“Stay,” I ask. I’m not worried about him turning his anger on me, but I’m very worried as to what consequences will come for the Seelie Court if he leaves this room now, burning like this.
He brushes the pad of his thumb across my lips gently, but his eyes harden again when they fall on my neck, which I’m sure is ringed with the purple marks of the snake’s embrace.
“The healers will be here soon,” he says, as if that will be a comfort. All I want, all that will truly calm me, is for him to stay here; to hold me close in his arms until I feel safe again. Then I can also kiss away the rage that I’m sure will run through this place like wildfire if left unchecked.
“But—” I begin. He cuts me off.
“They have to be punished,” he says, his voice low and harsh, then sweeps out of the room before I can say anything else.
I pull off my blood-stained clothes, and find a robe to keep me warm. The healers do indeed come, in their soothing green uniforms, healing my aching throat, wiping away the tenderness of my skin with their gentle hands. It takes all of twenty minutes and then I’m alone again.
I climb under the blankets, trying not to imagine what could be hidden beneath them, blocking out my memory of that awful pressure, the hissing, and the blood.
But most of all, I try not to think about the way Ruskin coursed with that dangerous fury, and the fact that I know—am certain—that I won’t be the last person in the palace to suffer this night.
Chapter 30
Iwake from a dream about the snake, the icy blue sheen of its scales dancing in faerie light as its thrashes, trying to consume its own tail. It’s grotesque and horrible to see, and my brain tells me it doesn’t make sense. The snake should be attacking me, not itself. What’s going on here—and why does it unsettle me so much? I have the strange urge to shout to try to stop it, to warn it of its self-destruction. It doesn’t know that its own desire will destroy it, that the thing it hungers for will only cause it unimaginable pain. When I open my mouth, however, I find I cannot speak, my voice stolen by its touch. All I can do is watch as its fangs sink into its own flesh, releasing a dribble of black blood…
When I wake, the bed beside me is empty, but I can tell Ruskin slept in it. His side still bears the shape of his body, the covers are pushed back, and I remember vaguely the embrace of large, warm arms in the night. I’d felt safe, but not at peace. How often did that feeling come to me when I was in his arms? It was the central contradiction of being near him—feeling like he’d move heaven and earth to protect me even as he was constantly pulling the ground out from beneath my feet, frightening me with the extremes of what he was willing to do to everyone else. I shiver, remembering the kinship I felt with the snake in my dream.
I tug on the petal pendant, wanting to chase these thoughts away with the sight of his beautiful face, the intoxicating touch of his lips. The pendant only leads me a few steps, to the balcony outside his bedroom window. There I look down to see him in one of the courtyards below.
I pad down to it, not worrying about being only in a robe. We’re still in Ruskin’s private quarters, and he lets few people wander them. He doesn’t turn around when I drift through the arches into the courtyard, likely already guessing who it is.
That, or he’s too deep in his own thoughts to notice my approach. As I get closer, I see he’s standing over a pool sunken into the floor. Rather than his own reflection staring back at him, there are figures moving across its surface—it’s a picture from another place, like a window. I guess that, like the magic that allowed us to travel through ponds in Styrland, this water is acting like a portal.
Ruskin’s eyes remain fixed on the surface, following the unfolding action. The figures shown are human, ordinary people who could be my neighbors in Styrland. They’re gathered in a room—two children, maybe fourteen and sixteen, and a woman, their mother, I assume. All three are looking down at a figure in a bed. A man, his face pallid and unmoving.
The family clutch each other, tears streaking their faces, and I remember with a jolt how I clung to Dad when Mom died. No amount of holding each other could erase our grief at her absence, and yet it had been the only thing we could think of to ease the pain we carried. I feel the family’s sorrow viscerally, and it twists to combine with my own homesickness for my father, my cottage, and my workshop.
The scene of this grieving family plays on, with no great revelation or change as we watch from afar, unseen. My eyes flick to Ruskin’s face, trying to piece together what significance this might have for him.
But I only know of one reason for Ruskin to have interacted with these humans.
“Is that someone you made a deal with?” I ask.
“It is.”
Ruskin’s voice is neutral. So much calmer than the intense snarl it was yesterday. He doesn’t look up from the pool and I stare at the scene, a sourness curdling my stomach at this voyeurism. Who are we to intrude on this family’s private moment? Especially when Ruskin is probably connected to their loss?
“What did you take from him?” I ask, my own voice cold to my ears.
“Ten years of his life.” He says it so quietly. I stare at him, trying to understand what this means.
