My fear turned swiftly into irritation. “Malek?”
The rustling ceased. Lorell gave an impatient huff and I thought for a moment that Malek might rather remain all night in the thicket than show himself. With another curse, he stepped forth. He looked ghastly. His cloak hung in thorn-shredded scraps from his frail shoulders and broken twigs littered his thinning hair.
“Ah,” he said, plucking a leaf from his cloak. “Good evening, sir. Good evening, madam.” He bowed, stiff as a board. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, madam.” He disappeared quickly into the dark, like a scolded dog tucking its tail.
“I find him quite unnerving,” I muttered, releasing Lorell’s sleeve and reeling back the threads of magic I’d unspooled for our protection.
“That is just Malek,” Lorell assured me as we continued toward the castle. “He has always been like that.”
I spent the following morning restless with nerves, though I could not say why. As the sun began its descent, Zora and I met Almira at the burrow, where we helped each other into our dresses and weaved pearls into our hair. I’d never known such soft delights. When I caught a glimpse in the mirror, hurrying past to fetch rosewater for Almira, I stilled for a beat.
The warm, hearty meals had filled the hollows in my face with pink health, and my curls gleamed like feathers of a raven. A glow came from me, sweet as a spring sunrise. I blushed when I noticed that the silken dress I wore was not at all dark green—it was the precise color of rivermoss speckled with golden late-winter sun. Zora snickered madly when she saw me, nearly spilling her glass of berry-wine down her sun-gold skirt.
I could not keep a straight mind after that. I blamed it on the sweet wine, flooding my blood with warmth and my thoughts with stupor; but in truth my breath caught whenever the cool silk of my dress whispered against my skin, reminding me of searching fingers, stolen breaths, eager hands.
Torment, I called it silently, and hoped it would never end.
We left the burrow as the sun kissed the hills and found ourselves soon amid a tangle of townsfolk, all dressed in finery and abuzz with glee. As we neared the castle—snow melting underfoot, leaving a trail of wildflowers in our step—the air began to sing. It must have come from the ballroom and swept through the arches, but it rang brightly and clearly through the vale as if the wind and stone and trees had come together to serenade us.
We streamed like a flood through the gates and into the hall, lured by the scent of wine and cake, and by the sparkle of a thousand gleaming pearls, like stars adrift in the songful air. Almira, truly in the prime of her age as she swept in a dress like riverwaves through the courtyard, looked rather pleased.
“Come, girl,” she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “The king is waiting, and the wind tells me he is running out of patience.”
Adrik leaned against the wooden throne, no longer cast into a corner but perched on a pedestal at the heart of the hall. He had his bare arms crossed at the chest and he watched the gate with the sharp, eager glare of a hawk.
For the first time since he’d swept into the chamber with the snow, I truly mistook him for a faerie—leather-woven straps curled like snakes around his arms, his shirt was woven from midnight silk, gilded vines coiled around his chest, his shoulders, his throat. Upon his locks sat a crown; a thing of strangeness and beauty, like strings of liquid gold twining into something not quite of this world.
Just like him.
He tensed.
His gaze snapped to mine. The hall melted at the edges, narrowing at the centre to a sliver of green and gold. I had the strange impression I’d angered him, so dark and fierce was his stare.
I noticed, faintly, that the air had become stone-quiet—there was no song, no chatter, scarce a breath. The crowd had retreated, leaving me alone and exposed at the heart of the hall. There was only the crisp click of shoes against marble as Adrik stalked its length. As he neared, I was a wild thing backed into a corner—I craved it more than I feared it.
I spotted, when he halted two paces from me, the crown of daisies in his hands. A twinkle danced in his eye and a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Evana,” he said silkenly, voice like a secret caress. “Queen of the Wild.”
I beheld him breathlessly, this strange king, as he placed the flowers on my brow. A murmur in the crowd. The crown became strangely stiff—not unpleasant but unexpected.
Adrik laughed softly. “The wild, it seems, approves.”
He bowed. The music returned, as lively and suddenly as if it had never ceased, and with it came laughter and revel. A tide of dancers swept me off before I’d drawn breath.
Though I danced for many hours, I never felt the strain—there was no place for such tedious things in my mirth-filled heart. I danced without pause, but when I thought back on it in the quieter hours of the night, I knew it was not the truth. There were moments when a trickle of heat slid over my skin and I knew, before I looked, that I’d find a pair of sharp, keen eyes sealed to me like a brand. Then, the room faded once more to a narrow sliver and I found myself snared to the spot until the next passing dancer whirled me forth.
Hours into the feast I caught a glimpse of myself in a moonlit mirror. I thought that I looked rather like a faerie myself: bewitching and graceful. The stalks and leaves of my crown had turned into threads of pure gold.
I discovered that I felt a little chill; the sort of hollow chill in the gaps between my ribs that only ever came in Adrik’s absence. He’d been dancing too. I knew because once or twice our paths had crossed and our fingers brushed. Now he was not among the dancers, and not at the table of sugar-frosted cakes either.
I caught a glimpse of Lorell’s pelt hat and hurried to ask if he’d talked to Adrik, but he was dancing with Sai, wearing an achingly tender smile, and I had not the heart to disturb them. I found Zora and Almira seated in one of the leaf-cushioned alcoves, lips red with wine. They directed me to the far balcony and snickered like fiends as I hurried off.
Adrik stood as far removed from dance and company as the hall allowed. He leaned against the curved balustrade andwatched with well-practiced indifference as couples drifted past. I noticed only because we had spent so many evenings together that a slight weariness clouded his eyes.
“Are you bored of the revelry?” I asked, smiling as I stepped through the arch. I welcomed the cool air, the crisp scent of snow and midnight.
He laughed quietly. “Quite the opposite. I find myself a little overwhelmed by it.”
