“Very well.”
The curved dagger—the same one he’d toyed with in the chamber—flashed in the light of the tapers and hearth. I didn’t notice the thin, neat line cut across the sphere of Osric’s throat at first. Not until the blood welled like a plague, slowly seeping from that narrow line, did the truth fully settle. The wound swelled into a bubbling brook, then a stream, then a river, until at last, an ocean, drenching his shirt, his breeches, and the rug beneath him.
Gormless I stood, as the last ember of life drained from his grey, hollowed eyes, until there was truly nothing left, the marbles of them open and glassy.
“He’s dead,” I breathed, unable to blink.
“A natural conclusion from slitting a throat,” the Butcher replied, wiping the curve of his dagger with the edge of his cloak.
Two chalices worth of pomegranate wine emptied to join Osric’s blood pooling on the anatolian. Stomach emptied, a crackling heat stirred in its depths, like the beginnings of a fire rising from tinder and flint.
“You are monstrous.” I heard myself say, the words spilling from my lips unbidden as I dabbed at them with my cuff.
Stilling his hands, his helm turned to me, a slight tilt to it. “A butcher, laurel, is that not what they call me? What did you expect? That I would collar his throat instead of slit it? Pat his head, call him a good boy, and feed him scraps from the table? Butchers make poor owners; laurels poorer pets, especially when they prove themselves dolts beyond one’swildest imagination.” Rotating the blade in the gleam of the sconce, he inspected its curve, its wicked edge shining silver again. “Be thankful I went for the merciful kill. Other knows he’ll be thanking me in the pits.”
“Oh, yes.” I finally blinked, a tear lining my cheek, the warmth within me smoking hotter. “I have witnessed what it is you callmercy.”
“Ah.” Sliding the dagger into his belt, he stalked to the desk. “Do you enjoy watching me penance, laurel?”
“No. No, I do not.” Another tear.
“Hmm.” He peeled off his gloves, sagging with blood, tossing them into the hearth and dulling their flames whilst the ones inside me crackled hungrily. His black tunic, embellished with filigreed thread, strained as he rolled up each sleeve, forearms sinewed and veined, looking just as capable of snapping a neck as slicing it. Caressing my throat, my fingertips traced the small dip in its centre, the same place where Osric’s flesh had unseamed. I swallowed, feeling the lump travel down.
“Sit,” he commanded, voice rumbling.
Though some foreign thing begged me not to, I fell into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, eyes fixed upon the Butcher’s arms—anywhere but the dead man to my left, his blood dripping from his corpse.
“Who are you?” he asked, taking the chair opposite mine, larger and padded in velvet.
Chin dipping, I focused on the rise and swell of breath inflating my chest, a reminder of the boon Demetri had promised. “Ashara Laurel.”
“Ashara Laurel,YourHoliness,” he corrected, unfurling a roll of parchment and dipping a plumed quill into an inkpot.
“Ashara Laurel,Your Holiness. Seamstress by trade, belonging to the Eastern Enclave of Dendra. Only child of—”
“I know about your lies.” Cutting through my words, he scratched something out on the scroll. I craned my neck, trying to decipher the letters, but he dragged the blackened candle stump across the parchment, shielding my view. “Curiosity begets trouble. Perhaps Osric was right.”
I felt it then, the moment his eyes met mine, like a pin, its sharp point boring into my irises from beneath his veil of chain.
I cleared my throat. “I have not lied.”
He sucked in a breath, robbing the chamber of air. “Allow me to rephrase the question.” Impatience clipped his tone. “Whatare you?” Leaning forward, the desk groaned with his weight, its legs creaking.
I glanced down at myself, to my neckline, splattered with wine and blood. Osric’s blood.
“A woman, Your Holiness?”
That pricking sensation left my eyes to nip at my neck, the line of his gaze roaming over the expanse of my flesh before lingering upon the seam of my bodice. “Well, yes, I can very much see that.”
He returned to his scribbling. “Are you who Gregorei spoke of?” He set the quill down with an obscene gentleness, so unlike the swish of his wrist when his blade slashed Osric’s throat. I watched his hands, stained from the blood, barely registering his words.
“Gregorei?”
“Hmm.” Lifting his arms, he leaned back, crossing them over each shoulder so his hands could cradle his neck. “Clever. Most clever.”
I blinked. “What is, Your Holiness?”
“I can fucking smell it on you.” He dropped both arms to thump his palms on the desk, chair scraping as he rose to a stand. Boots squelching in the sodden rug, he stormed over to the small, slitted window and peered out into the night, hisfingers toying with something tied to his belt in sharp, quick twists. “Why have they sent you so soon?” His voice was oddly soft.
