Page 22 of Tale of the Heart Queen

ALLUVION—PRESENT DAY

It’s hard to tell how long I’ve been sleeping when I awake. Grit scrapes my eyes, and my head pounds in a steady rhythm, making the room twist.

A tray covered with fruit sits on the table near the bed. My stomach grumbles, and I heave myself up, hobbling on aching legs. It appears fresh enough, so I nibble on a piece of something I don’t recognize. It’s vibrant yellow with a sweet but slightly sour flavor. A knock at the door precedes the entrance of a low fae servant. She has long white hair and shimmery blue skin covered in scales.

“Hi,” I say. “Who are you?”

“I’m Pressia,” she replies, dipping into a curtsy. She’s wearing translucent white scraps of fabric strategically covering her unmentionable bits. Probably the type of thing that makes swimming easier.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Since yesterday, my lady,” she says, with a confused look.

I breathe out a shaky sigh. I was worried about being so exhausted that I’d sleep for a week. I have three and a half days left and I have to find a way to talk to the Coral. It may not know where the ark is, but it seems like the best place to begin my hunt.

It’s then I notice the dress hanging from Pressia’s arm. When she catches my stare, she holds it up.

“You’re to dress for lunch with His Majesty,” she says, and I suppress a groan, thinking about our dinner last night. But the Coral may not know the ark’s location and I might need a backup plan. Which means getting closer to Cyan, so I’ll have to make nice. A talent that has never been high on my list of strengths.

Pressia waits while I shower, managing to avoid rendering it into a pile of glass. I also need to deal with the issue of my rampant magic, but for now, I’ll resist the urge to use it. Maybe once I get my hands on the ark, I’ll be forced to blow a hole in the side of the palace and run. Though, I remain uncomfortably aware of who I might hurt in the process.

When I’m clean, Pressia tends to my hair and makeup. While I’m still not used to having these tasks performed, I have so much on my mind that I allow myself to settle into it. My thoughts churn as she tugs and brushes and dusts me from head to toe. Then she helps me into the dress, which resembles a slightly more modest version of the one she’s wearing, though it still leaves my stomach, my shoulders, and a decent amount of cleavage exposed.

My first thought is to wonder what Nadir might think of this outfit before my throat chokes with a torrent of repressed emotions.

Pressia notices. “What’s wrong, my lady? Is the dress not to your liking?”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. Sorry. This is about something else.”

I try again to call him with my mind, closing my eyes and hoping, hoping, something will happen.

Nadir. Can you hear me?

No answer.

Because he’s dead.

I killed him, and if I don’t get moving, I’ll never see him again. Even if I find the ark, my far-fetched odds are stacked against me like oily, unscalable bricks.

Pressia’s answer is a skeptical look, and I’m tempted to explain that I have much bigger issues to contend with than worrying about my stupid dress, but that wouldn’t be fair.

Another knock at the door summons our attention, and Pressia walks over to open it.

Cyan enters the room, still shirtless and wearing pants made of a soft, dark blue suede that melds to his strong thighs. A low-slung belt wraps around his hips, glittering with an array of colorful jewels. His long hair hangs down, and his feet are bare. Everyone’s feet are bare, including mine. I’d think this is a ruse to keep me vulnerable, but I have a feeling it has more to do with the environment. What need is there for shoes when your world is the beach and the ocean?

“I’ve come to escort you to lunch,” Cyan says, his eyes roaming over me. Something about the expression on his face sends an itchy warning up the back of my neck.

“Why?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, and he places a hand on his chest, giving me a hurt look that lacks the flavor of authenticity.

“You are my special guest, Lor. It’s the least I can do.”

I narrow my eyes further, positive he’s full of it, but what else can I do but go along with this?

“Please say you’ll join us,” he says with a smile that feels as genuine as leather made from papier-mâché.

“Fine,” I say, and he nods.

“Perfect. They’re waiting.”