Page 53 of The Ashpaw: Part One

It was a hairstyle her mother had taught her, one she favored on hot summer nights in the tavern.

The work done, she stood up, catching the briefest glimpse of her reflection in the glass window.

She’d been here for only a month now, and had been the Ashpaw for half of it. But the work and fear had already taken a toll on her body. Her cheeks were hollower than she remembered, and dark circles looked like bruises under her eyes.

But the dress was clean, and her hair was still the same shade of honey.

She walked back towards the kitchen to hide her broom when a voice cut through the air like an ax through wood.

“Ashpaw!”

Fern couldn’t stop the small flinch from shaking her shoulders, but turned around dutifully, waiting to hear what she was supposed to do.

Her stomach dropped when she saw it was Mauricia.

“Lady Kyntha calls for you.”

Confusion and surprise stole her tongue for a moment, until she finally swallowed and replied. “Me? But why?”

Mauricia frowned, coming up to her and slapping her across the face. “Who are you to ask such a question? When you are summoned, you go.”

Her hand rested on her cheek to ease the sting, and she nodded wordlessly, following as Mauricia turned quickly on her heel and marched towards the other end of the castle, where the alphas resided.

When Mauricia finally stopped and pushed open a heavy oak door, warm perfumed air rushed over Fern’s skin.

The room beyond was almost as large as the entire sleeping quarters below.

An upholstered divan, piled with pillows, sat in front of a wide hearth carved with curling wolves and moon phases. There were polished silver mirrors mounted along the walls, and thick rugs softened the stone floor, their woven patterns so intricate Fern hesitated at the threshold, afraid one muddy footprint might ruin them forever.

Tables overflowed with crystal bottles, ivory combs, jeweled pins, and powders, and before them sat Kyntha, her pale hair spilling down her even paler back in loose waves—winter wheat against fresh snow. Two Solvekh attendants worked carefully through the silken strands, pinning tiny seed pearls and silver chains into an elaborate braid, while another knelt at her feet, fastening delicate slippers around slender ankles.

She really did look like the moon goddess herself.

One attendant stood behind Kyntha with a gown draped over her arms.

The dress was sheer in places, layers of white silk and lace embroidered with silver thread and thousands of tiny glass beads.

Kyntha glanced at Fern’s reflection and smiled, her blue eyes as hard and unforgiving as the sapphire stones in her earrings.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “There you are.”

Though the room remained heavy with heat left over from the day, Fern felt suddenly, unmistakably cold. She quickly lowered into a curtsy.

“You called for me, my Lady?”

“I did.”

Fern rose to a stand, her hands twisting nervously in front of her.

Kyntha stood and let the silk robe slip from her shoulders before dressing. Fern blinked, looking away for a heartbeat before her gaze drifted back despite herself.

It was no wonder Darion was so captivated by her. Kyntha’s figure was soft and full, a body made to be pleasing to both the eye and the hand.

When Kyntha caught her looking, the curve of her smile carried an unmistakable message. Fern was nothing by comparison—too thin from surviving on scraps, her figure lacked the give that invited affection.

Then, Kyntha’s gaze glided down towards the floor, and Fern’s followed, catching what looked like starlight spilled across stone.

Beads.