Page 37 of The Midnight King
“And you shall have my wisdom. I’m right behind you.”
The Prince’s steps retreat.
As soon as Brantley closes the greenhouse door, I climb out of the bushes. “What was all that?”
“All what?” The King grabs his shirt and jacket from a peg nearby and begins putting them on.
“What he said about you disappearing often. I know about the evenings, when you and I are together, but what about all the other times?”
He works the buttons of the shirt into their holes, one by one. I wish I didn’t find his masculine fingers so fascinating.
“Would you be angry if I said that I’m seeing more than one woman?” he asks.
A flood of disappointment rushes through my heart, leaving a wasteland behind. And yet I feel guilty for begrudging him a second lover, when I haven’t been faithful to him, either.
“You are the King,” I say quietly. “You can sleep with as many women as you like. I’m not so vain as to think I would be anyone’s first and only choice.”
And yet… in my memory I see Killian turning around on the stairs, and I hear him say quietly, earnestly,It’s just you.
“Well… now you know,” the King replies. “I’ll understand if you’d rather not meet with me again. I wish I could stay so we could discuss it, but I must go. My son needs me. If you’d like to visit the library again, I’ve left the vault open for you.”
“You left itopen? Isn’t that dangerous? Someone could steal the books.”
“And what if they did?” He shrugs, buttoning his jacket. “Most of the information in those books is inaccurate anyway.”
“I thought you hadn’t read many of them.”
“I really must go. It was a delight to see you, as always.”
He hurries out of the greenhouse. I’m tempted to stay and stew for a while in the warmth, but I end up following him, snatching up my cloak and gloves on the way out. I walk far enough behind him to avoid his notice, but close enough so I can follow him along the garden paths and avoid getting lost again.
I hang back as he enters the rear doors of the palace, and then I go inside. I’m not used to this entry point, so it takes me a few minutes to orient myself.
When I finally enter the library, it’s darker than usual, with fewer lamps on, but the vault is open and aglow, just like the King promised. I don’t understand why he would keep the books hidden away for so many years, and then suddenly leave theplace wide open to whoever wants to enter. Either he’s growing careless in his middle age, or he likes and trusts me more than he’s ready to admit. Which means I might have a chance of triumphing over the other woman and winning his love.
Not that I want his love. A relationship with him wouldn’t work—itcouldn’t. It won’t, unless I can breakfree.
I spend a couple hours in the library and leave at precisely eleven-thirty. When I arrive at the bottom of the palace steps, the black carriage appears, pulled by four smoke-colored horses and driven by an illusion of a driver—a plain man in a dark coat.
When I reach home and climb the stairs to check on my stepmother, she’s sound asleep. I steal another dose of contraceptive herbs, then descend to my cellar without waiting for either my stepsisters or my Faerie godfather. Despite all the worries in my head, I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep at once.
I wake up in the night to find myself dressed in a soft nightgown, with a thick blanket covering my body. Blurry with sleep, I snuggle in and doze off again.
In the morning, when my pocket watch rouses me from sleep, the conjured nightgown has vanished, but the blanket has not. It’s real. And the entire cellar is not only spotless, but newly furnished. There’s a sturdy chair in place of the battered one, rugs on the earthen floor, new light fixtures, and a new dresser. The cracked washstand has been mended, and it gleams like it’s new. When I open the bureau, it’s full of clothes that I suspect are also purchased, not conjured.
On the hook where I usually put my old nightgown, there’s something hanging, wrapped in tissue paper. I rip the paper away and discover a turquoise gown studded with pearls. There’s a wrap to match, but as usual, my Faerie godfather forgot the shoes. I can’t help smiling to myself at the thought.
Then my smile fades, because he was in my cellar last night, sneaking around and fixing up the place. He brought me real things, and though it seems like a kindness, I can’t helpwondering if there are conditions attached to these gifts. He wants my body—he has made that clear. Is he doing all this so I’ll fuck him? If I keep refusing, will he insist?
The idea of him forcing me goes against everything I know of his character. But what do Ireallyknow? Everything he has told me, everything he has said, and everything he has done could be deception, a plot to serve some sinister purpose.
What if he isn’t a benevolent godfather, but a demon who tricks people into giving their children charmed objects, only to entrap those same children later, when they’re doomed and desperate?
My heart tells me none of that is true, yet my bones and flesh have had caution and suspicion beaten into them for years. Distrust is a learned behavior of mine, and it is not so easily relinquished.
12
No one in Eisling House knows I attended the ball last night. While my step-family eats breakfast, I listen from the kitchen, catching bits of gossip. Apparently the King made a brief appearance at the ball with his son and danced with several of the ladies, including my stepsisters.