Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (32)
He took it back while ordering, “Coat on.”
I pushed my arms into the sleeves and then immediately opened the drapes.
“Butterfly.”
I turned to find him holding my pouch of gold coins. Flushing, I ignored his amused gaze and snatched them from his hand with a mumbled, “Thank you.”
I tucked them into my coat pocket and looked out the window.
Snow-covered cobblestone streets filled with wagons of produce and lined with tall wood and stone buildings greeted me.
Among them were civilians dressed in heavy coats, furs, long-sleeved gowns, and thick tunics. The kaleidoscope of color and fabrics—ranging from moth-eaten cotton to expensive silks—I was accustomed to glimpsing on the dreary streets of Crustle seemed an entire world away.
And it now was, I thought with a sprinkle of alarm, absorbing this faerie kingdom’s dark blues, blacks, and varying shades of crimson.
Windows of colored glass dragged the eye to many homes. Some were two story, some three, and others tiny bungalows squashed between with adorable gardens.
Well-kept wooden signs with curling script hung from shop fronts. Displays in long, oblong, and arched windows were cast aglow by strings of fireflies within crystal orbs. Smoke puffed from almost every chimney within sight, rising toward the early evening sky.
Many civilians continued to wave and bow and curtsy. Others merely continued with their end-of-day routines as if a royal carriage was nothing they hadn’t seen a dozen times or more.
It might have been blanketed in snow, but it didn’t matter. This place was so far removed from the mud and debris-flooded streets of the middle lands that I fell more and more in love with each new slice of winter-kissed perfection.
“Lurina,” Florian said. “The royal city of Hellebore.”
Turning to him, I said with an awe that made his head tilt toward the window behind me, “It’s magical.” I turned back, waving at a bouncing youngling held by a giant male. “You must visit as often as possible.”
“I mostly just pass through,” he said, apathetic.
I frowned at that. Then again, this was his world, and he’d been alive for a long time. It was only new to me. The reminder had my forehead sticking to the glass as I waited with my breath fogging the view to see what would come next.
“Your nose will turn blue if you don’t straighten up.”
“I’m fine,” I said, but I rubbed it and my forehead regardless.
The king huffed, seeming to withhold a laugh.
Not a minute later, the city street we traveled became a slow and winding road uphill into the mountains of woods that overlooked the city of Lurina.
And then I saw it.
Hellebore Manor appeared in gaps and glimpses between the trees.
It would have been disguised by the deep-red ivy coating the entirety of the three-story fortress if it weren’t for the windows. Arched glass glinted in the glow of dusk and stood in tall rows along each floor.
As we finally neared, I had to wipe the carriage window clear of the fog from my breath, unwilling to move an inch.
Willow and oak trees surrounded the manor’s circular drive.
In the center stood a large statue of the goddess, her robe marked with mildew and her star-spun hair and features cracked from the elements.
“They say Mythayla was forged from the flames of colliding stars,” Florian murmured, knowing what had caught my attention. “Forced to kill beasts until she could feed from those she loved to rejuvenate and survive during her reign of procreation with falling stars.”
I’d heard similar, as well as many different beliefs, as to how the Fae and the continent of Mythayla had come to exist. Including that it had taken countless centuries for her offspring, faeries, to grow strong enough to survive without her aid. So strong that a jealous and vindictive harem of lovers supposedly killed her when they learned they were no longer needed.
“Do you believe that?”
I expected no response. Then, as we came to a rocking stop, he said, “It is a test.” He leaped out of the carriage with distracting grace. “To trust in what you cannot see.”
I frowned. “You think it unwise?”
“I didn’t say that.”
As he assisted with my ungraceful exit from the carriage, I silently questioned whether he needed to when he’d already suggested as much.
A smirk attempted to curl his stubborn and glorious lips when my hastily-donned gown snagged on the carriage door handle.
Glancing away to rid the heat entering my cheeks, I looked back to the statue of the goddess. Beneath Mythayla’s feet spread a small garden of frosted roses, almost black in color. Upon closer inspection, I noticed they were a dark and glimmering blue—much the same as the king’s eyes.
My fingers fell slack, leaving Florian’s as I then looked at the manor.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, dragging my eyes from the circular row of stone steps. Above them were arched doors in a towering stained wood, and beneath the walls of crimson ivy hid a sparkling onyx stone. “And huge.”
I hadn’t realized I’d garnered an audience until Florian’s boots crunched over the brown pebbled drive toward the doors. “This is Olin, our family steward.”
I blinked and approached the tall and thin male who assessed me with sharp lavender eyes. “Hello, Olin.”