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“Who is this woman?”
I startle at Zander’s voice suddenly behind me and spin around. “Can you please not sneak up on me like that?” I haven’t seen him in hours, since he disappeared into the main building with Abarrane and Atticus. A dim light glows from his bedchamber windows, and the door sits propped open. He has shed his jacket and sword, and his tunic is untucked, the front unlaced, as if he began undressing and decided to come out here partway through. Does he have a servant who helps him as Corrin begrudgingly helps me? I’ve never seen a hint of one.
“It is not my fault Ybarisans lack stealth.” He smirks, but his rapt attention is still on the paper in his hand. “Who is she?”
Sofie’s face stares back at us beneath the lantern light—delivered by Corrin when she returned with a freshly sharpened pencil, courtesy of dear Dorkus. Faces have always etched their way into my mind, and yet I’m surprised by how precisely I remember the cunning woman’s upturned eyes and jagged cheekbones, having spent not even twenty-four hours with her. Just long enough for her to alter my life irrevocably.
“I’m not sure.” It’s a lie but also a truth. Who is Sofie? An elemental, surely. Brokenhearted and desperate over her husband’s dire situation, also true. But beyond that, I don’t know anything about her.
I watch Zander closely, searching for any hint that he can read my lie in my pulse as he did earlier. But he’s studying the sketch with a creased forehead.
“Why? Does she look familiar to you?” Has Sofie been to Islor before?
He shakes his head. “I thought so, but no.” He breaks his gaze of my illustration to peer at me. His eyes drop to where the daaknar’s claws sunk into my flesh, visible in my peach gown. His jaw tenses. With revulsion or pity, I can’t tell.
I fight the urge to shrink away, feeling self-conscious despite my resolve to not care what he thinks.
His attention shifts back to Sofie’s face, but he offers, “I imagine that must have hurt.”
Not as bad as being poisoned with something that burns you from the inside out, I’ll wager. I’m about to ask him about Lord Quill when a large raindrop splatters onto the paper. It’s followed by a second and a third in quick succession.
I curse as I dive for the table. “Corrin is going to murder me if this furniture gets damaged!”
“She does pride herself on immaculate upholstery,” Zander says wryly. “Here.” He gives me the sketch, freeing his hands to collect the sizable wing chair and side table with ease.
I grab the lantern and together we rush inside as the deluge hits. I quietly trail Zander through my bedchamber toward the fireplace. Around us, the room glows with the various candelabras and candlesticks that Corrin lit on her way out. Coupled with the old-timey grace of the room, it creates an ambience that one might find romantic, under different circumstances. “I heard what happened.”
“I believe everyone in the castle heard what happened.”
“Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Not precisely, no.” He sets my furniture down, taking a moment to arrange it properly.
“The woman who was with Lord Quill, his tributary, was hanging off him. Do you think maybe his wife got jealous and—”
“Lady Quill did not murder her husband. She knew where he was and who he was with. And what they were doing.”
“And she didn’t care that her husband was getting more than his fill of blood? Because there is no way that wasn’t happening, and don’t even try to tell me differently.”
Zander brushes absently at wet spots on his shirt. “How they choose to conduct their relationship is none of our business.”
“Right. Of course. I forgot that’s how it works around here.” Just like it’s none of anyone else’s business that Zander brings his feeder stock to his bed when his supposed bride-to-be is right next door.
Zander’s eyebrow raises in question.
“Never mind,” I mutter. Can he read the irritation? I hope so. There is no way I would tolerate him bringing women to his bed for any reason if this thing between us were real. “Fine. Maybe this tributary felt differently, though. Maybe she was in love with Quill and wanted him to leave his wife and turn her, and when he wouldn’t, she got angry and poisoned him.”
“I think I liked it better when you knew nothing of our ways.” Zander flops into the chair he set down, as if the weight of the day has overwhelmed him. “Highly doubtful. It is forbidden to turn a human, even if that human is willing. Doing so would be an immediate death sentence for both parties. Besides, I was there shortly after Lord Quill fell. Humans are embarrassingly easy to read, and there was nothing but agonizing heartbreak in her.”
“So, you’re saying she did care for him.”
“Yes, and that is not surprising. Many of them bond with their keepers. But that does not change reality. Humans are taught from an early age that to be a tributary is an important role, but a service and nothing more.”
“Such an important service that the more attractive, the better, I’ve heard.” My voice is full of scorn.
“It certainly makes the necessity more pleasant,” he retorts with a challenge in his stare.
How many of his tributaries has Zander slept with? Would he have climbed on top of that last one had I not been there to catch him in the act? A mental image of what that might look like skitters through my thoughts unbidden, and I feel my pulse quicken.
