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Why do some people have magic, while others don’t? It’s unfair. I’ve always thought so—not with anger, just with a kind of rueful acknowledgment. I never really minded not having magic because I didn’t need it. I had enough resources inside me—my brain, my will power, my goals, my health. All those things were advantage enough… why should I whine for more privilege?
But this time, it’s not just about me. It’s about Shenya. It infuriates me that the King would so easily cast her aside—a sweet treasure of a woman—just because her magic can’t give him rooms full of gold. Just because she decided to be my friend.
I won’t let it happen.
“Rupert,” I whisper. “Rupert, where are you?”
Even as I say it, I hear the echo of his voice in my memory, a low protest: “That’s not my name.”
He’s told me that twice, maybe thrice, and yet he hasn’t offered his real name.
I heard a legend once, about the importance of Elvish names. How they can be used to make wishes, or something… I can’t remember exactly how it worked, or what the rules were. I know there was some rule or condition. Fuck, if only I could remember… that legend could explain why Rupert is so reluctant to share his own name. He doesn’t fully trust me yet. He thinks I’d use it against him. But I would never. I’ve been used by someone close to me, by my own brother, and I would never do that to the person I lo—
My thoughts pull up sharply before that word, like a carriage driver reining in a skittish horse.
But my heart already spoke it, already pumped it into my veins, circulated it through my blood, fed my bones with it.
I may as well admit the truth. Unexpected as this has been, dangerous though my connection with Rupert is… I love him.
Despite everything I still don’t know about him, I care deeply for the blue-eyed Half-Elf who followed me to the royal city. And he cares for me too. He has told me so, by his actions and a handful of precious words.
Real love doesn’t abandon, doesn’t forget. It ponders and works and plans. It searches out its object and will not be satisfied until it has found that other part of itself and become whole again.
So I will believe in Rupert, and I will believe in myself.
And I do believe… for the next few hours, until his continued absence drives me into despair and I begin to picture Shenya being bound and permanently mutilated as my punishment. To make matters worse, she’ll be forced to serve me daily—me, the cause of her pain. She’ll resent me, or hate me, and if she doesn’t, I’ll still suffer anguish every day, knowing what they did to her because of me.
She doesn’t deserve that, and neither do I. But if Rupert doesn’t come to me soon, that’s exactly what will happen.
Can Rupert even spin all of this straw into gold? Last time he was nearing his limit, and there’s so much more now. Maybe the King will be satisfied with a partial conversion of the straw.
If only we’d been able to destroy the King sooner. If only I’d killed him last night, when he lay on the bed, helpless to pleasure.
But if he might have sensed the danger, even in the throes of an orgasm, and if he did, he’d have overcome me and killed me on the spot.
Suppose I had managed to get the job done—the guards would have known it was me, immediately. I would never have escaped the palace alive.
Still… I should have tried. I should have risked it all.
I didn’t know the King would threaten anyone else. I thought we had time.
I prop my elbows on my knees and let my face drop into my hands. The tears are swelling again, and I let them come, because if I hold them back, I fear I’ll send myself into another paroxysm of panic. I might even faint this time, and without anyone to catch me, I might bang my head on the stone floor. A head injury is not something I want to risk, not when my mind is my only weapon in this place.
So I let myself weep.
I’m just hitting my stride, getting deep into a really good cry, when there’s a soft scratching noise inside the lock and the door of my prison opens.
Rupert darts inside, closing the door behind him quickly and quietly.
“Fuck, Juliette!” he hisses, his eyes wide with alarm as he takes in the sheer volume of the straw.
“I know.” I sniffle and wipe my eyes. “There’s so much.”
“And so soon. He didn’t give you any time to recover—nowhere near the amount of time you asked for, anyway.”
“He knows I lied. He thinks he can force me into doing this for him… he threatened Shenya with terrible things. Do you think… is this something you can do?”
I hate to ask it of him, but I don’t have a choice. Shenya must be spared. Yet even as I ask the question, I notice how pale he is—how he sways a little on his feet. His face looks leaner somehow, more gaunt—as if vitality has been sucked out of him.
