Page 97 of Born for Silk
As I suspect, she says, “No. She's still unwell.” The lie barely makes it to my ears. I don’t believe it. “You like birds.” Paisley wiggles her brows. “I know you do.”
Sighing hard, I concede, “Very much. They are the closest thing to a dinosaur.”
“Dinosaur?”
“Yes.” I slide from the bed and drop to the floor. “Great animals. Some like giants. Some like crocodiles.”
Paisley watches me amble across the room toward my closet, her gaze assessing my naked skin; I know she sees evidence of him painted over my thighs.
“But they were real?” she asks, genuine interest pitching her voice.
“Once.” I pull my robe on. “Or so the book said.”
“Which book?”
“One I wasn’t supposed to read.” I walk to the bathroom and pause at the door. Sensing the shower will be my salvation to sit in my sorrow, I anticipate bursting into tears between the cool, tiled walls. A small cry in privacy is not so shameful. “I’ll be ready shortly.”
I move inside, close the door, and as I wash, cleaning his cum from my thighs and stomach, I let myself feel.
Feel anger toward my childish heart, regret for my naïve tongue and wishful utterances under the veil of night when we are alone… And disappointment… Unjustified, unwelcome, disappointment.
Crown-light is nearly over when it is my turn.
Between the queen’s wing and the forest edge, there is a large silvery cage housing hundreds of birds. Birds with bright wings and insects on leaves, flowers in mid-bloom and hidden stony pathways, red-brick bird houses, flapping wings, the sound of freedom and excitement, these things make it difficult not to smile.
Tuscany and I walk a few paces ahead of a member of The Queen’s Army. A brawny, tall woman capable of lifting both of us and rushing us through fire… probably.
The contentment and ease I feel with the queen is immediate, like our brief interaction on the grass.
“I want to apologise,” she offers, “for the other day.”
I shake my head. “Please, my queen, there is no need.”
“Rome…” She sighs. “Never mind.”
I blink a few times, thinking. “I wonder why birds survived when so many other animals became extinct.” I change the subject. “It’s the Redwind that makes The Cradle so uninhabitable.” I look at her profile, her expression soft and quietly filled with contemplations. “I hear the Horizon is thousands of miles of nothing but Redwind and desert ground.”
Gazing ahead, she says, “I have never seen it.”
“No one has seen the Horizon.”
“The Redwind,” she corrects.
“What?” I stop in my tracks, inadvertently touching her shoulder, though one should never touch the queen. I retract my hand instantly. “Sorry. What do you mean?”
The Redwind is everywhere, outside The Estate, outside the towers, the aviaries, it is the atmosphere that cloaks every inch of The Cradle.
She peers over her shoulder, eyes meeting the woman behind us as she says, “You can wait by the entrance. I am in no danger with Aster.”
“But my queen?—”
“Leave,” she orders.
I press my lips together under her tone, a strong, curt cadence that somehow has just as much enchanting melody as her softer-spoken words.
She waits for our privacy.
When she continues to stroll onward, I follow by her side. “I have never left The Estate, Aster.”