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“He was castrated and demoted for ogling the King’s mistress,” snaps the guard beside me. “You’d place him in the service of a highly-gifted royal concubine?”
“He’s learned his lesson, haven’t you, Rupert?” Hutch claps the blue-eyed servant on the shoulder. “He’ll mind himself. Give him a chance.”
Rupert gives the doubtful guard a bow that rides the line between subservient and saucy. Then he advances, placing his hand on the open door of the cell like he’s swearing a vow. “I hereby devote myself to His Majesty’s lady.”
“You’d better serve the King well in this, or you’ll lose your tongue, too,” mutters the guard. “Make sure she doesn’t try anything—she’s a feisty one.”
“The feisty ones are the worst, sir,” says Rupert. “I’ll be sure to curb any misbehavior.”
“Very well. To your posts, all of you! Hutch, take the midpoint of the hall—Larrick, you’re at the end.” He sets the pitcher of water Larrick brought on the floor of my cell. As he straightens, he looks into my eyes and hisses low, venomous words. “You’d best work your magic fast and well, missy. The king hates being disappointed. Tongues, dicks, and balls aren’t the only things he likes to cut off.”
Before I can respond, he slams the door. There’s the scrape of a key and the clank of the lock, then the retreating thump of booted feet.
The door has no window. I’m alone in a gloomy chamber full of straw, with a thick slab of wood and metal between me, the guards, and blue-eyed Rupert.
I want to bang on the door right away and ask Rupert if he has a plan. He must have a plan, or he wouldn’t have suggested this arrangement.
But why would he help me? Why should he even care about my fate, when my own brother didn’t?
No… I’m being a fool, imagining rescue where there is none. There’s no plan, no help, no hope. I’m stuck here, in this chamber filled with straw, with that stupid spinning wheel mocking me for claiming to possess magic.
I’ll languish here for a day and a night, maybe less, and then they’ll figure it out. They’ll know I lied. The King will know I played him for a fool, and I’ll end up mutilated and silent, if I don’t hang from the nearest gallows first.
Panic swells in my chest, turning my breaths shallow and frantic.
This can’t be happening again. Before last night, I hadn’t suffered an attack like this since my father’s funeral—and now I’m having the second one in two days?
At least it’s not happening in front of the other potential brides. Curse this corset… my head is reeling, and my dizzied mind tells me I’m going to faint if I can’t manage a deep breath. I need to get out of this restrictive clothing, but I can’t do it alone.
Staggering forward, I pound on the door. “Hello? I need help in here!”
Strange… there’s something stuck to the inside of the door—a tiny, round mirror no bigger than my palm, with red-and-blue enameled edges.
I pry at it for a second, but it’s stuck tight. Mysterious mirrors are the least of my worries, at least until my lungs can expand properly.
I pound on the door a few more times, but I can’t keep going—I can’t breathe—can’t drag a good satisfying gulp of air into my constricted lungs. I need someone to tear this corset off, cut it off, burn it off—I need it gone… but my knocks are half-hearted now, and I’m sliding to the floor… venting tight, choked sobs while black spots dance in front of my eyes. Tears flood my vision, and sparks swim through the tears while I bend over and try desperately to breathe. My heart is galloping at a breakneck pace, a terrifying pace, so fast I’m sure no heart can stand that speed for very long…it’s going to give out entirely, I just know it…
I let myself slump over onto the floor with my cheek against the cold stone, a bit of straw tickling my arm. Still can’t breathe properly… my heart won’t stop racing… my eyes close.
Sound and smell blur together… a low squeak of hinges and the scent of leather, pine, and peppery heat. I’m rolled unceremoniously onto my belly. Someone is unfastening all the buttons of my dress—hauling me to a sitting position, then dragging the garment off, over my head. I have to shift my position so the skirt can pull free without tearing.
The dress is off, but I’m still panicking, still fighting to breathe, my eyes squeezed shut.
A series of sharp pops, like taut cords breaking, and the corset bursts open.
I draw air into my lungs, filling them all the way to the bottom. It’s beyond satisfying, and tears of relief bathe my cheeks. “Oh goddess,” I gasp. “Thank you… thank you.”
“The goddess didn’t help you, though, did she?” scoffs a male voice. “Let’s give credit where it’s due.”
I can’t see his face. I can only hear his voice. And suddenly I remember where I’ve heard it before.
By the fountain in Maystead.
The hooded stranger.
I scramble away from him as fast as I can, snatching up the discarded gown and pinning it over my breasts as I turn to face him.
It’s him. The blue-eyed stranger… Rupert, or whatever he’s called.
