Page 78 of Cursed Crowns
“Did you find our furry little friends helpful?” There was that hunger again—so quick, Wren almost missed it. Alarik was hopeful, even desperate. He wanted this to work just as badly as Wren. Maybe more.
They were standing on either side of the wooden door that led to Ansel’s corpse, surrounded by the king’s soldiers and, of course, his beasts. Wren was relieved not to see Tor lingering in the shadows. She didn’t want to worry about his disapproval when she was already worrying about her spell—and what would come after if she succeeded. Or worse—if she failed.
The king was staring at her.
Wren realized she had forgotten to answer him. “Very helpful,” she said, thinking of the mouse back in her bedroom, still alive and thriving. “Though I wouldn’t mind a little more freedom.”
“Why? So you can drown yourself in my lake again?”
Wren glared at him. “That was an accident.”
“What need have you of more freedom? Don’t I feed you well?” he countered. “My cook offers you the same food that I eat.” He gestured to her expensive dress, then the decadent cloak tied around her neck. “Aren’t you wearing the finest garments Gevra has to offer?”
“Just as I am constantly being stalked by its finest soldiers.” Wren pointed to Inga, who was hovering over her shoulder. She had become much stricter since the unfortunate incident at the lake, refusing to make conversation with Wren, and balking at the mere suggestion of going for another walk. “And locked away in my room, with nothing and no one to entertain me.”
Alarik pretended to pout. “Shall I send you a wolf for company?”
“I’d prefer the key to my door.”
“You have to earn it, witch,” he said, laying his hand against the door. “Here is your chance.”
Alarik opened the door and stepped through it, holding it ajar for her. She summoned a breath of courage and stepped inside after him,leaving the soldiers and their beasts to wait for them outside.
The chamber that held Prince Ansel’s body was even colder than Wren remembered. She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the shiver that rattled down her spine.
“It has to be this way,” said Alarik, watching her. In the narrow chamber, they were forced to stand close to each other. Their arms were almost brushing, the king’s breath warming the air between them. “The cold preserves his body.”
Wren dipped her chin. She knew that, and yet, it made the whole affair seem even eerier. A lone sconce flickered on the wall, making shadows dance across Ansel’s face. The prince looked serene... peaceful, as though he didn’t want to be disturbed.
Wren’s fingers began to twitch. She swallowed the knot of fear in her throat, trying to ignore the creeping wrongness of this moment.
“You’re nervous,” said Alarik.
“No, I’m not.”
“Your hands are trembling.”
Wren curled them into fists. “Stop looking at my hands.”
“Then hurry up and do something with them.” He reached into his frock coat and removed a small leather pouch, then placed it on the marble slab, by Ansel’s left foot. “This is black sand from the Sundvik Shore in the south.”
Wren stared at the pouch but didn’t move to take it.
“For your spell,” said Alarik. “It’s the best earth in Gevra.”
Wren turned to look up at him. The king really didn’t know the depth of what he was asking of her. He thought it would be simple—that a pinch of sand and a few pretty words would summon his brother’s spirit from the afterlife and stuff it back into his body.
Alarik’s frown sharpened, deepening the hollows in his cheeks. “Is it not the right kind? I was under the impression that—”
“Do you have a knife?” Wren interrupted. “Or your sword. That will do.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you intend to run me through in my own dungeon?”
“No.” Wren paused. “I mean, I’d consider it if I thought I could get away with it...”
“Charming. And barely a day after I saved your meager little life.”
Wren snorted. “We both know you would have drowned me yourself if I didn’t owe you something.”