Page 70 of Three Dark Kings and the Gilded Serpent

I hurry into the nearest toilet cubicle, while Miriam pauses at the far door behind me.

Her voice sounds, along with the soft clapping of her hands. “Mothers, we need fresh tea and fiber cakes.”

“Syrup?” a different woman asks, her voice the quietest murmur that reminds me of Stellen’s subdued whispers.

“Yes, good idea, Charis. Amber syrup: a little something stronger than honey to add to our tea. Goddess knows, we might all need it.”

After that comes the sounds of the women quietly setting about their work, the gentle clattering of porcelain and the swishing of what could be cushions being rearranged. If it weren’t for my acute hearing, I wouldn’t be able to detect these sounds, but they’re somehow amplified in the enclosed compound.

Quickly taking care of myself, I emerge to wash my hands, much steadier on my feet now.

I wish there were a mirror.

From what I can see of myself, I’m clean of blood and so is my armor, which means someone must have bathed me.

What’s more, Stellen’s ribbon has been freshly braided into my hair.

I’m not sure how my armor would have allowed any of that to happen without retaliating.

Either these women have some magical sway over my armor or…

They really aren’t a threat to me.

I emerge to find them all gathered on the largest platform, each one seated on a cushion, many squished in, although they don’t seem uncomfortable about their close proximity to one another.

Miriam sits cross-legged at a little table in the center of the platform, a teapot in front of her, along with two cups, a plate piled high with little cakes, and an opaque carafe.

She waves me over and gestures to the other side of the table. “Oracle, please take a seat.”

I mimic her cross-legged position, uncertain of customs.

She lets out her breath, her eyes bright as she considers me across the table.

“Oh.” She gives herself a shake. “I’ve waited so long for this day. Practiced over and over again what I might say, and now…” She chomps her bottom lip, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, but look at you all grown up.”

I’m startled, and it must show because she raises her hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m just…”

Two of the women lean forward behind her, rubbing her back, murmuring quietly.

Miriam inhales deeply and settles her shoulders. “Thank you, Mothers.”

To me, she gives another small smile. “We should start from the beginning. What would you like us to call you?”

“My name is Thyra.”

I’m suddenly conscious of the ripple of whispers through the women. Most fae are offended that I was given a highborn name when my appearance is that of a lowborn, but these women are smiling and nodding.

“Of course,” come their whispers. “Because of her mother.”

“A powerful highborn.”

“A well-chosen name.”

“It suits her.”

My focus snaps to Miriam to find her countenance softened, her shoulders gently raised.