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If he replies, I don’t hear it. I head straight into the kitchen and grab a knife to trim off any excess stems before reaching for the mortar and pestle.
Riven slips inside, eyes wandering over my home, lip curling in disdain. The sight of it bothers me more than it should. I have to remind myself I don’t care what he thinks about me or my home.
He is a means to an end.
A means to freedom.
So what if he probably likens me to some pathetic commoner living in a hovel?
Dropping the flowers into the mortar, I crush them more aggressively than I need to and watch as he inspects the baubles Avaline has brought me over the years. He’s still wearing that grating expression of judgment. It’s in the squint of his eyes as he picks up a trinket, in the souring of his lips as he sets it down on the shelf and wipes invisible dust from his hands on his top. I’m sure those meaningful gifts pale in comparison to what the lords and ladies in his court bestow upon him every Yule.
I add a bit of hartshorn and water to the mixture to help thicken the concoction until it starts to resemble a proper poultice.
A soft “Oh, shit,” followed by “You nonce,” and the sound of glass shattering pulls me away from my task. My gaze snaps up to find Riven staring wide-eyed at the mess of broken black and wisteria-colored glass skating across the floor.
He grimaces. “I’ll replace that.”
“You can’t,” I say flatly, chest tightening. “It was a gift. A one-of-a-kind figurine of my familiar, given to me by a friend who had it enchanted to wag its tail. It wasn’t just a decoration. It was a piece of her, a reminder that she existed, even now that she’s gone.”
“I hadn’t—”
“Don’t touch anything else.” I set down the pestle and feel the consistency of the poultice with my fingertip. Thick and moist. It’s ready. “You,” I say, eyes drifting to Arkyn, who’s inspecting the cauldron with keen interest, “sit.”
The sword catcher does as I command. He pulls out the wooden chair usually reserved by Avaline and plops down in it, crossing his ankles beneath the table. I grab a clean cloth, wet it, and approach him. With the gentleness of a healer, I cleanse the blood from his cheek and inspect the wound. It’s deep and angry, but not life-threatening.
Riven watches me very closely, his voiceless words evident in his taunting smirk—I told you he’d heal.
And his wound is healing, just incredibly slowly. It’ll likely be fine in a few hours.
Just to be safe, I smear a bit of the poultice into the cut.
Arkyn sniffs, then makes a pleased facial expression.
“What’s that look for?” I ask, carefully packing the poultice.
“It smells so much better than I thought it would. What’s in this? Lavender?”
I can’t stop my small smile. “A sword catcher who knows his botanicals?”
“Lavender was my mother’s favorite flower,” Riven answers for him.
Arkyn nods his agreement. “The entire palace smelled of it.”
I tsk him for the movement, and he draws still.
“I’m not surprised to hear that, actually,” I say. “Did you know that beyond its healing and calming properties, lavender has many symbolic meanings?”
The king’s brow lifts. “Such as?”
“It’s associated with purity, serenity, and tranquility. When found in homes, it can also bring protection against negative energies. I imagine for a royal, there could be quite a bit of that.”
“Sounds about right,” he mutters.
His bitter tone gives me pause, and I look at him again over Arkyn’s head. His gaze is fixed out the window, distant and unseeing, as if his mind has already traveled far beyond my yard, all the way to the Fae Isles and his childhood home.
The room grows silent as I affix a bandage to Arkyn’s cheek. “All done. Just give me a few minutes to grab my things, and then we can leave.”
Riven’s faraway look haunts me as I step over dirty clothes that haven’t made their way into the washing barrel and down the hall into my bedroom. Again, footsteps follow me, but when I turn, expecting to find the king in the doorway, no one is there.
