Itrail Cainon past wall sconce after wall sconce—nothing but a blazing blur as I struggle to put one foot before the other. I glance back, catching sight of two stoic-faced maids mopping my wet footprints, like I’m nothing but a ghost gliding across the polished, gold-veined floor, before losing sight of them as we turn a corner.
We’re moving through a grand atrium, its hard edges softened by sweeps of blueberry velvet hung from the window rails, when my gaze snags on an open doorway tucked beside a pillar—the gloomy innards unlike the rest of the palace from what I’ve seen so far.
Steps slowing, I place my hand on the doorframe and peer into the dim interior …
My breath catches at the sight of a woman clothed in lantern light, facing away from me, her silver hair a trickle of thin waves down her back and piled on the floor. She’s hunched on a stool before a large loom, manipulating threads with practiced dexterity.
I realize with a start that she’s missing a thumb and forefinger, the sheer beauty of her work suggesting it’s of no hindrance. The piece she’s working on is magnificent: a blossoming tree in full bloom, the odd petal floating down into the unfinished nether.
Something about it casts little prickles on the backs of my eyes—makes me feel like someone just scooped out all my insides, leaving me empty.
A cognitive shell.
Her hands still.
“I see you’ve found Old Hattie,” Cainon whispers too close to my ear, then relieves me of my boots hanging from my hand. “She likes her privacy. Especially when she’s weaving. Come.”
I snag one more glance of her still paused mid-motion, then follow Cainon, waiting until we’re a respectable distance from the room before I ask, “Who is she? To you?”
“My old governess.” He clears his throat, rolling his sleeves. “She no longer speaks. She was involved in a tragic accident that took her son and coupled.”
His words strike like nails to the chest.
For the first time, I picture him as anything other than the suave, sarcastic male. Picture him too young to do things for himself. Thingsshewould have helped him with.
Being so close, her heartbreak probably felt like his own.
“I’m sorry, Cainon …”
No answer.
I’m led up sweeping staircase that skirts past multiple stories, the silence pecked at by his heavy-booted steps. “I gave her a permanent residence here after the accident,” he finally says. “She now spends her days nurturing her woven art.”
“That’s kind of you.”
He shrugs. “So long as her hands are busy, she seems content, so I keep throwing yarn at her. Everyone in the palace knows to respect her privacy and leave her be.”
At the top of the staircase, we enter a grand hallway—globed chandeliers that look like sitting suns hanging from the ceiling every few steps.
“High Master. Mistress.” The monotone greeting snaps my attention.
Kolden swings a gold-brushed door wide, his stare stabbed at the wall. Walking past, I wonder if he knows how spectacularly I just failed.
We step into a lobby that boasts two other doorways, one on each side, and I glance back at Kolden—standing at attention in the hallway, wearing a blank expression.
I frown. “Is my room to be guarded ...always?”
“Of course,” Cainon chuffs, stepping toward the door on the left while digging through his pocket. “Safety precaution.”
“Anunnecessaryone.”
I fail to point out the fact that the first round of guards didn’t work out very well.
Quite the opposite.
“Anon-negotiableone,” he volleys back, brow arched as he looks at me from beneath a sweep of golden lashes. “Between my extended absence and compromised fleet from our little detour, I’m time-poor. I’ll be spending a lot of the upcoming weeks offshore, overseeing repairs rather than being right here where I’d like to be. I need to know you’re protected.”
An idea hits, widening my eyes and soothing the restless beast in my chest. “I’ll come with you! I’dloveto see the islands …”
