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I nodded somberly, swallowed hard, and waited for it to be over with. It was taking longer than I had hoped, but my pain receptors were beginning to dull down—my shrieking more like a baby’s just-waking-up cry now.
I turned to Arkyn, looking for a distraction. “You once spoke of a girl with hair similar to mine. What was her name?”
He stopped abruptly, as if the mention of her triggered an old memory. Continuing, he said, “Aurelia.”
“Aurelia.” I tested the name on my tongue, pausing to wince when he finished another stitch. “It is a beautiful name.”
“As was she,” he said, his gaze lifting to mine. “As are you.”
I didn’t know if it was the wine or the fire or the honey in those brown eyes—but my cheeks heated. I looked away. Damn it, it was the wine. I was more of a broody-male-with-obsidian-eyes kind of woman.
After the stiches were finished, Arkyn caught the housemaid in the hallway and asked her to bring another pitcher of water. While we waited for her, he emptied the wash basin and dropped the bloody needle and scissors inside. With his back turned to me, he said, “The tattoo on your arm, I do not recall seeing it before. Is it new?”
Instinctively, at the mention of the tattoo, I looked at it. “It is,” I said, not sure where this topic was going.
“Whydid you get it?” he asked, turning to me. A thin cloth was slung over his shoulder, a light dusting of bloody fingerprints faintly visible on it.
I traced the vine as I answered his question, half mumbling to myself. “Same reason I’m here with you.”
I regretted it as soon as I said it because his eyes narrowed and the room fell stagnant. Lukewarm at best.
“Whodid you make a deal with?” he asked, calculating things faster than I thought possible. I was reminded of his age and that he was the one trusted to advise the king. Of course he could map out things faster than most.
My brain tossed the question over, inspecting it for sink holes. I decided there were plenty. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Arkyn slung the towel down on the floor, opening his mouth to speak—
He was cut off by a knock at the door.
Arkyn offered me a withering stare before he walked over and opened it, revealing a buxom maid. She looked up at him and batted her eyelashes, her chest thrust up suggestively. Immune, he offered her a dashing smile, took the pitcher, gave her a, “That will be all,” and closed the door swiftly. He walked over to the basin, dumped the fresh water in, and continued to clean—vigorously, intensely. I was starting to feel sorry for the scissors. At that rate, all that would be left of them were nubs.
“Do you want me to do that?” I asked, feeling every bit of his soured mood dampening the air.
“No,” he said firmly. His voice was not unkind, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either.
After he was finished, Arkyn stood at the door. He opened his mouth but then closed it. Whatever it was he wanted to say was snuffed out as he turned and shut the door behind him.
The sound of his bootheels faded as he walked down the length of the hallway, until the sound of them was completely gone.
I flopped onto the bed, my one foot on the floor, the other stretched out before me, my head swarming with what just happened. Why did he react like that?
I sighed, giving up the question to the gods, and pulled the feather from my bodice. “Tell me your secrets,” I whispered as I studied its silky, black plumes.
But the feather did not answer. So, I turned to my dreams instead.
One push. That was all it took.
Down. Down. Down.
I was but a leaf destined to never hit the ground.
Forever falling.
Down. Down. Down.
A rustle of feathers.
I was saved.
