Page 55 of Heart of Night
I’ve seen this female fight, and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of her wrath.
Apparently, Herinor doesn’t either since he stands from his chair and marches for the door. “Find a way around my bargain, and I’ll help you.” He glances between Clio and me. “Both of you.”
Without another word, he walks out, the door creaking as he closes it behind him.
“Weird fairy,” Clio comments, standing from the bed and joining me by the window.
Wondering if Herinor heard that, I listen for footsteps or voices from the hallway. Everything is quiet like any other night when Clio joins me in my room to perform her lady’s maid duties. And like every other night, I know that there is no such thing as a conversation Herinor isn’t privy to.
Him leaving is a gesture, a show of his goodwill. If there’s anything he could do, he’d have already done it. He has done plenty to help me even with the many things he did to hurt me.
My mind travels back to the first day I met him when he cut my skin open.
“I have a plan. One where I don’t need to break my bargain and where the pain will benefit you.”
His words before he’s sliced into the tattoo on my back. I didn’t understand then, was too blinded by my fear to acknowledge something I should have realized a long time ago.
He knew. Herinor knew Myron was alive. He knew about the connection the tattoo formed between us. He knew that Myron would feel it and know I was alive, too.
Uncertain of whether that counts as betrayal or as actual help, I turn to the door. “You knew he was alive, and you didn’t tell me.”
Clio understands without explanation that the words are meant for Herinor. Her arm wraps around my shoulders. “Come on, Ayna. We need to get you out of this dress and into your nightgown.”
I don’t object, merely let her guide me into the bathing chamber where she opens the faucet to fill the bathtub. Once the water is running, she shoots me a victorious grin. “Now he can’t hear a thing.”
Hot water thunders into the tub, filling it angrily and with enough noise to drown out all other sounds.
By the Guardians, she’s right.
“One of the many reasons I believe there is value in being your lady’s maid.” She helps me out of my dress and gestures for me to slip into the tub. “This might be the only time in the day where we don’t have an audience and our conversations remain fully private.” Before I can ask any questions, she settles on the rim of the tub and adds, “We both don’t have access to our magic, so we’re dependent on Herinor as the muscle of our operations. How do we find a way around his bargain?”
Determination shines in her eyes as they meet mine when I sink into the filling tub.
“I have no idea. But we have about five minutes until the tub is full and we become transparent again, so let’s figure it out.”
The golden dress abandoned on the bathroom floor, we tuck our heads together in hopes of finding a way to make it happen.
Dinner arrives late that night, brought in on a wide wooden tray in the hands of the same servant who carries it in every night. Clio left shortly after my bath, a frown on her features and her cap back on her hair. The main worry, for now, is that, even if we could find a way to sneak down to the dungeon, we don’t know what condition the males will be in when we find them. Without Clio’s full fairy strength, she can’t carry them out of their cells if they are unconscious like the last time I was down there. Even if Herinor was able to help us, he still could carry only one at a time. It might take too long to get them out, and if we’re discovered, I wouldn’t put it past Erina to torture the males as a punishment for us. Not to mention what Ephegos would do to Herinor.
The woman wordlessly sets the tray on the table and leaves with a bobbed curtsey, allowing me some privacy to eat—or wallow in self-pity about my fate.
Every other young Tavrasian woman would probably kill to be in my position, engaged to the handsome King of Tavras, but all I can think about is my husband in the dungeon, the bruises marring his face, the heat in his gaze when my foot slid up his boot, the sensation in my shoulder that seems to ease only when we touch.
I’ve long stopped paying attention to the constant throb in my flesh where the inked bird covers my skin, but what Clio said about bonds makes a weird kind of sense when my mind can’t seem to stray from the topic of Myron of Whinghaven. My heart flutters as if those dark feathered wings were beating between my ribs instead.
I will free you, Myron. I will find a way. I don’t expect him to respond, but the sensation in my shoulder intensifies as if my tattoo provided a direct channel to him—as if the separation is equally painful to him.
The silver covers clink against the teacup as I slide the tray closer, the scent of peppers and meat climbing into my nose. My stomach grumbles violently. Apparently, the sugary cake wasn’t enough to make up for the missed meals and lack of strength, and I could devour several of the steaks I used to be served in Myron’s court.
I lift the cover, taking in the appealing draping of vegetables around slices of pheasant, but that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the barely visible piece of parchment stuck under the piece of rye bread at the edge of the plate where the sauce doesn’t reach.
With shaking fingers, I pick up the bread and extract the paper, shooting a glance around the room as if Ephegos or Erina might appear out of the walls to witness the secret message someone is apparently trying to pass me.
As I unfold it, a narrow scribble challenges my ability to decipher letters. It’s so unreadable it takes me several attempts to realize it’s a language I know, but once I do, my heart beats faster, adrenaline coursing through my veins at one simple sentence: Don’t eat the bread.
Gaze darting to the thick slice of fresh bread I placed beside the plate on the wooden tray, I wonder if that’s where the drug is hidden. I hope that’s what the message implies and it isn’t some ploy to lead me on a wrong track to consume only the parts of the foods that are laced with the drug.
It’s not like I know anyone’s handwriting, which leads me to the decision of trusting whoever smuggled this message in with my dinner—or not.