Page 2 of Heart of Night
I clasp the spoon harder, suppressing my shudder at his words.
Let’s see how Myron’s ghost will like it when I watch his bride wither away just like he watched my sister fade and die. That’s what he’d said when I’d woken to this nightmare of comfort and luxury. Something I don’t deserve after everything, after failing yet again to save someone I loved.
“Something better?” I challenge. “You mean something worse.”
Ephegos doesn’t even have the decency to hide his amusement at my remark. “Depends on who you refer to.”
I refuse to ask the question he’s set me up to ask, staring him down with cold determination. Icy and hard like my heart when I manage to shove down those painful memories of Myron’s beautiful face, lifeless and dead, and…
I’m not going there or the tears will spill.
“And I assume you aren’t inclined to let me out of this room today either.” It’s not a question when he made it clear the first time I woke that I’m a prisoner. That I won’t see more of this place than the obnoxiously comfortable room I’m being kept in and the slice of sky and garden outside the window.
“I’m glad you’re such a quick learner. It will come in handy in the future.” The look he gives me informs me that, whatever this future is, I won’t like it.
I’m trying not to dwell on the fact that he’s using the word future as if referring to a longer timespan rather than a few painful weeks leading to my eventual death, so whatever torture he has in mind will be slow. I try not to quake with fear at the mere thought of what he must be capable of if he so easily sold out his best friend and his entire people to take revenge for a death Myron had no hand in.
“You’re insane,” I tell him instead of begging him to let me go, instead of reasoning with him. I’ve tried appealing to his kinder side before, and it didn’t end well. A purple bruise is still blooming on my jaw where he struck to shut me up, to show me that he wasn’t kind at all and I should never attempt to appeal to that supposed softer side of him, which he doesn’t have.
It’s easier to show him hatred; he knows what to do with that, and there is no reasoning with the mad.
“Finally something you got right, Ayna.” The smirk he gives me makes a chill creep through my bones. “Now get out of bed and clean up. We have visitors coming over.” Before I can ask him who, he’s on his feet and heading for the door. “Don’t disappoint me, Ayna.”
I’m too weak to throw the half-empty bowl of soup after him, but I flip my middle finger at his back, tears shooting into my eyes at the realization that it’s the only thing I can really do. There’s no escaping this place without my strength or my magic, and Ephegos is doing all he can to keep me weak. He doesn’t even need chains to keep me shackled to the bed, and no matter how hard I try to believe that things will turn for the better, there’s a part of me that has given up since the moment I laid eyes on Myron’s lifeless form.
This is my new prison.
And I’m never getting out of here.
Two
Ayna
When I make my way to the bathing room, a set of clothes has already been laid out for me. For a moment, I stare at the elaborate blue and eggshell silk and the myriads of golden and russet blossoms embroidered into the fabric of the bodice. My feet are unstable, as are my hands, but I lock the door behind me and strip out of the plain linen shirt and pants I’ve been wearing the past days, focusing on the task at hand. The bruise on my jaw has turned a shade lighter since I last looked at it, but it hurts like the wrath of the Guardians when I run my fingers along the tender spot. It will be a challenge to bathe myself with the hundred ways my body is inclined to fail me, but my strength of will is the best weapon I have—against Ephegos and against my own weakness.
So, I take a stabilizing breath and untie my hair, running my fingers through the long, ash-blonde tresses while I brace one hand on the edge of the clawfoot tub to stabilize myself.
If Ephegos is dead set on my being presentable, it must be someone important coming to take a look at me, or he wouldn’t have placed a dress fit for a queen in here. A silent part of me wonders when he did it, if he sometimes sneaks into my room when I sleep. The thought alone makes me want to scream in horror. I’ll have nightmares of a different sort for sure now.
Getting into the filling tub is an exercise in self-control, but I manage. Since Ephegos didn’t give me a time limit, I don’t rush as I submerge myself in the hot water. I haven’t felt clean since the moment I woke in this place, and I’m reluctant now to wash away the last of the battle stuck under my nails and in my hair, but if there is one thing I’ve learned during my time at the Crow Palace, it’s that appearance impacts greatly how strong or weak one is perceived. Whomever Ephegos is bringing to visit, I’m inclined to look my best, to wear whatever clothes he provided like armor and my smile like a shield. As long as I can keep that up, Ephegos hasn’t won. As long as I don’t break, I haven’t let Myron down.
For a heartbeat, I imagine his deep voice rumbling his agreement, that I can take whatever comes my way. Then I remember that I’ll never hear that voice again, and my heart splinters all over again, a million pieces that not even my steel will can hold together.
It takes me three rounds of soap to get all the grime and suds out of my hair, but when I get out of the tub, I smell of lilies and rosewood, and I’m clean in a way that makes me want to check if the bath washed away my memories as well.
They are right there, striking with a vengeance as I conjure Myron’s death-pale features, the strong, featherless arms I got to see only once. The blood smeared on his chest where Clio tried to close his wound with her healing magic.
Tears fall onto the white marble of the floor, mingling with the water dripping from my hair, and I pretend I’m not crying. I pretend that I can put on that dress and be fine long enough to convince Ephegos that torturing me will not do anything to Myron’s ghost. That there is no such thing as anyone’s ghost, and if there were, Myron’s would certainly not care what happened to me.
Ghosts don’t need to exist for Myron’s memory to haunt me. It will until the end of my days, and whatever Ephegos has in store for me can’t be half as bad as watching Myron die in my sleep over and over again, knowing he chose my life over his.
With a shaky breath, I comb out my hair and pull it up into a tight bun—there is no way I’ll make a shred of effort for Ephegos and whatever mysterious visitor he’s expecting—before I pick up the heap of silk and blossoms on the carved wooden stool.
In another life, I might have appreciated the dress. The bodice is tight and covers my breasts in a sweetheart neckline before it continues in a nude fabric ending in an ice-blue silk high collar. The long, sheer sleeves are wide enough to slip in easily, but when I turn before the mirror to take in the pattern of flowers embroidered all over my torso and arms, it’s something else that catches my attention.
On my right shoulder blade, stretching to my neck and spreading on the back of my upper arm, a large black form covers my skin. Instead of buttoning the high collar at the back of my neck, I pull the shoulder of the dress down to take a closer look and gasp as I recognize what I’m looking at.
A crow is inked into my skin, its outline a swirl of black and its shading like blotches of ink spreading on wet paper.