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I settled into the lusciously warm water, letting the heat soothe my ever-cold hands, the scrapes from the day before barely stinging. The miracles of fae healing. Not a drop of magic in my veins, but at least I was still blessed with the most mundane features of my kind.
My eyes drifted closed as I listened to the soft movements around me. The crackle of flame as Charis lit a brazier to warm the towels for when I was done. A soft whistle—the teakettle in the bedroom, heating the water for tea. Cyara’s low voice as she issued directions to the other two. Slowly, the sounds faded away until only the soft bristle of a singular set of wings remained.
The scent of jasmine and sweetberry drifted over me at the same time that a steady warmth appeared at the head of the tub. I was ready when Cyara’s fingertips touched my temples, skating over my scalp and gently massaging.
I leaned into her touch, a soft groan slipping from my lips. A slight pressure, then she dipped my head back to wet my hair.
“I have not seen you this relaxed.”
Not in the months since Arran’s arrival, nor Arthur’s brief reign before that. Never was the word that Cyara meant but didn’t quite say.
Guilt quivered in my stomach, but I kept it small as I leaned into the stroke of Cyara’s hands.
“Sex has a way of releasing one’s tethers,” I said flippantly.
Cyara’s hands continued their steady massage. I heard the brief sound of a cap popping, then the sharper scent of the shampoo filled the air. “Is that why you kept Master Parys around?”
I flinched. Only from the sharpness of her nails, I told myself. Cyara eased her touch in seeming response.
“Parys is my friend.” It was the answer I’d given again and again, even when I hadn’t meant it.Friendwas a dangerous word. It implied caring and emotion I hadn’t been able to express or endure. It meant I could be hurt.
Cyara continued to massage in the shampoo, reaching for the long strands that drifted away in the water. “I hope that you consider me a friend as well, Veyka,” she said quietly.
My chest tightened.
I was so, so bad at this.
For most of my life, I’d been deprived of all company except those chosen by my mother. I’d never known which nursemaids actually cared for me, which ones would be complicit in her torture, and which were as twisted as she. When I emerged from my captivity, the only person I dared to trust was Arthur. His brutal murder had not improved my wariness.
But now…
“I consider myself lucky to count you a friend,” I said past the emotion in my throat. Maybe I could have a friend. I could stand the pain of it—of that inevitable goodbye.
I’d withstood much worse, I reminded myself.
“Friends help one another,” Cyara’s mild voice said.
“You are currently washing my hair,” I said blandly.
Cyara flicked my ear. “I can help you.”
Unease settled in my chest. “What do you mean?”
“You have tasked Parys with investigating the rifts. Allow me to do the same.”
That seed of guilt sprang to life, loud and punishing. How she’d found out… there were enough opportunities, I supposed. I should have been better at hiding it. But I was so damned tired. When all the rage was stripped away, I was just… tired.
I scrubbed a hand up over my face. “Do Carly and Charis know as well?”
Cyara emitted a delicate, ladylike scoff. “You were notthatobvious. Carly is too busy spending all of her spare time lusting after a mid-level water-wielder who’s taken an interest in her, and Charis spends every extra minute strumming at her harp. She fills the silence with music and is careful not to listen past it.”
Small mercies, I supposed.
But Cyara was not an acceptable loss. “You help me enough.”
Those steady hands continued their work, lathering every tendril of my waist-length white hair. “A queen knows how to delegate, to use her resources.”
A mirthless chuckle fell from my lips. “I thought you were my friend. Now you want me to treat you as a sentinel.”
