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His eyebrows shoot up. “This is your room.”
“Do you really expect me to believe that? This room is far too luxurious.”
“I’m too tired to jest. This is where you will sleep.”
I hunt his expression for even a hint of mockery. “Wait, really? You mean that? If I step inside, you won’t laugh at me or beat me for trespassing somewhere I shouldn’t?”
“You were beaten for that kind of thing?” he growls, fury flashing over his expression.
I was beaten for the smallest of reasons. For no reason.
I’m so tired and that bed looks inviting. A room of my own instead of a cell or a freezing dormitory is a strange thing indeed. “Thank you. I’ll go in and sleep.”
“Take care in the palace, Isavelle, and don’t wander too far. Never forget that there are enemies beyond these castle walls and people who would do anything to get their hands on you. Now, close the door and lock it behind you. I won’t leave until you do.”
I take a look at the door and see that the lock is on the inside rather than the outside. That makes a surprising change. “I’m allowed to leave this room if I want to?”
He points down the corridor. “The Great Hall is that way. If you turn right before you reach it, you will find the main courtyard. I will look for you here and in those places. They are all well-guarded, and you will be safe.”
What I hear is that there will be soldiers watching my every move.
Zabriel waits as if he’s expecting me to thank him, but I regard him in silence. I’ve been told my eyes are too expressive for my own good, so he can probably tell that I’m not feeling grateful for my captivity.
“I’ll bid you farewell, Isavelle. One last thing.” He takes my hand and raises it to his lips. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss my palm, but then he buries his nose in my wrist, closes his eyes, and breathes in deeply.
Zabriel’s countenance softens and this enormous man looks…endearing. He changes so utterly from smelling my wrist?
He lets me go and stands back.
“Why did you do that?” I ask in surprise.
“To get me through until the next time I see you. It will feel like another five hundred years. Now, lock this door. I’ll send someone with food in a few minutes.”
I close the door. There’s a big brass key in the lock, and I twist it until I feel the lock slide into place. A door with the lock on the inside instead of on the outside? This prison cell is nothing like I’ve ever known before, and it’s bigger and more luxurious than any room at the monastery.
I listen to Commander Zabriel’s footsteps receding down the corridor. He is without a doubt the strangest man I’ve ever met.
The room is surprisingly cozy for such a large space. The fire crackles and the candlelight is soft. Someone has left a chest open against one wall, and I see clean clothing inside. I pick out garment after garment. Some of the underclothes seem fine, but the dresses are ridiculous. Or rather, they’d look ridiculous on someone like me. Long, trailing things in rich colors, and so luxurious that I feel like I might drown in them. I drop them back in. I can’t wear these.
There’s a knock on my door, and I stand before it in an agony of fear and indecision.
“Lady Isavelle?” calls an unfamiliar male voice.
“What is it?” I reply, my voice high and tight with fear.
“Commander Zabriel asked me to bring you food.”
My stomach convulses in response. Food. I haven’t eaten since that mouthful of milk days ago. With trembling fingers, I unlock the door and open it just a few inches to reveal a soldier in a black and silver uniform holding a wooden platter. My mouth waters at the sight of bread, meat, cheese, and fruit, but I still can’t make myself open the door.
“Would you like all your meals brought to you in your room? Or you may eat in the Great Hall if you prefer,” the soldier offers.
Have all my meals brought to me like a fine lady expects? This soldier must think I’m important for some reason. How he’ll laugh when he realizes who I really am. Besides, leaving this room for my meals will be a good excuse to hunt for a way to escape. “Thank you, but I will eat in the Great Hall for my future meals. And just Isavelle is fine. Sorry, what was your name?”
The man respectfully bows his head. “Captain Ashton, wingrunner.” He has brown, curly hair, tanned olive skin, and a serious face with scars along his jaw. Serious, but kind.
“You ride a dragon?”
“A wyvern, my lady.”
