My garments were rough and painful and when I looked toward him with a question in my eye. I saw his were the same.
“We go to do grim work today, fire of my eyes. I thought it fitting that we dress for the occasion.”
I nodded, taking in his clothing — breeches of woven nettle and bramble belts that wound ‘round his hips. Boots of the same. A garland of thistles hanging loose like a baldric across his naked, scarred chest, showing very plainly where his rib had been ripped from his side. A small half-jacket of living brambles that came down to the middle of his rib cage but rose up in a tall collar around his neck and ears. In the brambles, small creatures climbed — beetles, luna moths, and even — I thought — a small saw-whet owl. He reached for the Bramble Crown and set it upon his head, and when it met his brow, the sun itself seemed to grow warmer and more golden as if it, too, were pleased to see its king crowned.
He arranged my hair himself, to my blushes, combing his fingers through the tangles and weaving it across one side and then down to the other. My boots, belt, and short jacket matched his — though, thankfully, the living brambles were not inhabited — and my dress was of woven thistle.
When he had finished my hair, he wove for me a crown of thistles and with red, painful-looking hands, he set it upon my brow and his smile lit my heart and flooded me with warmth and contentment enough that I did not care that my skin was aflame from our garments.
“Grant me a request, my wife,” he whispered.
“Ask it,” I whispered back, and he lowered his head until his lips were a breath away from mine and then ran his reddened knuckles down my jaw with gentle appreciation.
“Let me take your flesh hand for the breadth of a day.”
I gasped, surprised by his request, but what could he ever ask for that I would not give?
“Take it, then,” I said and he snapped his fingers and my left hand was bone once more.
“And now we go to the land of mortals and dispense the pain and discomfort we share,” he said, smiling as he took my skeletal hand in his and led me through the swirling pollen and out of our hollow.
I expected us to step into a forest, but I was not surprised when we did not. I had lived too long with my husband to be surprised anymore by sudden changes of place and time. I was, however, startled and somewhat horrified by what I saw.
We stood before the palace in Pensmoore, the city fanning out behind us. If I had not been with him, the swirling clouds of pollen and the way every plant in sight was in bloom — from the vines that crawled up shop walls to the grasses growing between cobblestones — might have stunned me. But I was not stunned right now.
“Pensmoore seems very fecund,” I murmured.
“My presence has that effect now,” he murmured back, shooting me a wicked look that made my cheeks blush hot, and before I could say anything else he led me straight through the gates and directly to the guards standing before us.
They wore blue. They were not mortal.
“Where is the Pensmoore green?” I asked, my voice hard with my worry.
“An apt question, wife,” Bluebeard drawled but I knew by the sharp look in his eye that his casual tone was a ruse. “Care to explain, guard?”
“We do not answer to outsiders,” the Wittenbrand said. He was a great hulking creature with a massive polearm held in one hand. I said “was” because he quickly became so when Bluebeard snapped his fingers and with a shivery tinkle as if gemstones were being shaken out of a bag, little sparks of green leapt from his heart to Bluebeard’s hand and then he collapsed, so dead that he already stank before he hit the floor.
“Who else would call his king an outsider?” Bluebeard asked, eyeing the other Wittenbrand who had stood with the first.
When none spoke, he strode past the stunned guards, mounting the steps to the palace. They trailed behind him like lost puppies.
After so long away, the palace seemed small and dull to me.
A Wittenbrand who was dressed like he thought he was something hurried toward us. His short cape swept behind him, sewn all over with what I thought might be human ears and his doublet was stitched with finger-bone beads as decoration. His face had the faint greenish cast that Bluffroll shared, and I smirked at the concern on his face.
“Lord Bluffroll is not seeing guests in the court at the moment,” he said, his voice coming out choked. He must have already heard about the guard Bluebeard had killed.
Bluebeard made a brushing away motion and kept walking and I strode at his side, just as cold-faced and dead-eyed as he was.
It was not a show for me. While Bluebeard had all the attention of the yipping Wittenbrand, my eyes had been searching for mortals, and what I saw deeply troubled me. The staff was not right. There were servants, most certainly. But they scuttled around with heads down and walked with limps or faces hidden. Some bore terrible scars across their faces. Others were missing fingers or even hands. I felt ill at the sight. My family ruled this land and it was bound to me. Why had my people been so mistreated and who would set it right?
“Save it up, my grim monstrosity,” Bluebeard murmured to me. “Save it for the ones responsible.”
The Wittenbrand following us was still trying to protest when Bluebeard reached the throne room and flicked a finger. There had been two rows of Wittenbrand guards in full regalia there. There were none standing now. They lay on the ground stone dead and already rotting. I swallowed down bile as I stole a glimpse at my husband’s face.
“Think you their punishment too great? I do not think you will judge so for long.”
He was right. When — at a flick of his wrist — the doors to the throne room opened wide, I certainly did not think his judgment was too harsh. If anything, he had been too merciful.
