The whole room is in chaos over the information that the Queen of Mystral is someone the Old Magic knows. Someone they call Mother.
I don’t care who she is.
If she lays a hand on Nox, I’m going to kill her.
I’m going to rip her to shreds and feed her blood to the mortar between the stone bricks of her palace floor.
CHAPTER 52
BLAISE: AGE TWELVE
The servant’s robes are too loose.
They hang from my shoulders, droop at my belly, and sag at the floor.
Clarissa wouldn’t allow the tailor inside the manor when he arrived to fit me. She coughed in his face and claimed the house had come down with a mild case of the pox. It didn’t take much shooing after that to get him to flee the premises, but she did offer him my measurements before he left.
I watched him from the window, how he glanced at the paper then allowed it to fall to the wayside as he wiped his hands on his tweed pants.
I suppose this could have gone poorly for Clarissa, but nothing ever does, except for her gambling and inability to bypass a window display without being caught by the purse strings. The tailor could have made my robes much too tight, exposing the belly that’s left over from my pregnancy, but when the tailor dropped off the robes on our manor doorsteps, he left a note saying he’d measured the robes too large on purpose, that way I could grow into them.
Clarissa had been delighted.
I practically trip over the hem as she pushes me into the foyer of the palace. We’re greeted by a footman who recognizes Clarissa from the few times she visited the palace while my father was well enough to attend meetings and balls, and the footman stumbles over his words in her presence.
My stepmother blushes, because of course she thinks the footman is dazzled by her beauty, when in reality he probably just remembers how she got drunk at the ball and called one of the servants a litany of offensive words.
Come to think of it, this is probably that very same footman.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Clarissa asks. “We have an audience with the king.”
The footman takes another glance at the summons Clarissa handed him when we walked in. I can practically feel his mind buzzing as he tries to find a way out of this precarious situation.
It’s clear enough what he’s thinking: there’s no reason to introduce the new household staff to the king. It’s ridiculous that Clarissa thinks this makes any sense, but I can’t say I’m surprised.
There was a time in my life when I would have cared, when I would have been mortified at Clarissa’s insistence that others treat her as if she were the Queen of Dwellen herself and not the penny-squandering widow of a human ambassador.
I simply cannot bring myself to care.
Not that I’m trying all that hard.
There’s something about not caring that works. It’s not nearly as ideal as happiness, but if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that happiness is not for girls whose fathers are dead and whose lovers have left them and whose babies are gone.
Girls like me have limited options, and if I have to pick between a despair so encompassing it makes me feel as though I’ll never take another breath, or a quiet numbness that feels nothing, neither good nor ill, I know what I’ll choose every time.
Silly servant girl, only princesses get happy endings.
Well, that might be true, but it doesn’t mean I have to have a depressing ending either.
I’ll just exist, and that’s enough for me.
I’m as resolved as I suppose a twelve-year-old can be.
That is, until I hear my name.
“Blaise?”
I can’t recall the last time I heard my name uttered aloud. Perhaps it was my father, but he went such a long stretch where all his words were incoherent, I wouldn’t have been able to decipher between my name and a curse. Derek had said my name often, but the last time he’d spoken it, he’d been furious, so I’m not sure I want that one to count. Besides, that was almost a year ago, and I don’t want to think that no one has called me by name in a year.
Maybe Clarissa has used my name, but if she has, it doesn’t feel like my name when it’s said with such scorn.
If I were to dwell on that fact, it would certainly make me sad.
And I am done being sad.
“Andy?” I recognize his voice instantly. I haven’t seen him in a year, but that means nothing. He’s fae, and while his face will age over time, I’ll likely not live to see it by the time it happens.
He rounds the corner and steps into the foyer, and Clarissa practically swoons. In fact, she places the back of her hand against her forehead as if she’s suddenly come down with a fever.
I’ll never understand why she does this around men she finds handsome. I gather it’s to garner their attentions, but it seems to me that, were I a male, I would want to stay far away from anyone showing blatant signs of illness.
Fae don’t become ill often, but I’m sure they don’t find it pleasant on the rare occasion it does happen.
Still, Andy does look handsome, and I can’t blame my stepmother for hoping. He’s grown out his copper-brown hair since I’ve seen him last, though that doesn’t stop his pointed ears from poking through.
I used to be fascinated with Andy’s ears when I was a little girl. I still am, but I’ll wash my mouth out with curdled milk before I admit such a thing. Still, they twitch when he sees me, and I steal a quick glance at them, hoping he won’t notice.
If he does, he doesn’t show it, and the smile that bursts across his face breaks through my every resolve. Every resolve not to feel, to recede into a shadow of the life I once wanted.
