He lets out a small, strangled sound of disbelief.
“Am I clear, Baron Solisar?”
“Y-yes.”
I stalk toward him. “Yes, what?”
Solisar stares into the darkness, trying to make me out.
He blinks several times as the answer hits him. “Y-yes, Your Highness.”
“Remember that you’re a guest here. Finley, Aderick, Kastel, and Garan are under my protection. You aren’t taking your son anywhere until the physician deems he is fit to travel.”
“U-understood.” Solisar is now a meek man who knows when to hold his tongue. I know when and how to wield my power, and men like Lucar Solisar, who crave riches and fame, need to be reminded of where they stand.
Otherwise, they go and do stupid things.
“Good. At our next meeting, I will deal with the administration of your estate and lands.”
“W-what are you talking about?”
“As your future son-in-law, it’s only natural that I take an interest in the financial affairs of House Solisar. But that is for discussion later.” I walk towards the door, leaving him in the center of the room, covered in sweat and breathing heavily, clutching his broken fingers. His eyes are as wide as plates. “One more thing… did she put really a curse on you, Lucar?”
His shoulders slump. “She said that misfortune would follow me in life for what I’ve done to her. And that if I were ever to do anything terrible to Finley, then the same fate would befall my eldest son.”
“What’s her name, Lucar?”
He hesitates. “Aralya,” he says at last.
Aralya.
This is the woman that Lucar stole from a distant land. Finley’s mother. A dryad.
Who was given into my father’s possession, to be studied.
Powerless. Kept captive against her will. Forced against her will. I can’t even fathom such a fate.
Is she even still alive? I need to find out.
A bitter feeling roils around in my chest. For although her suffering can’t even compare to Aralya’s, mother was like that too, especially toward the end.
I push the heavy wooden door and let myself out into the corridor, locking it behind me. Baron Solisar lets out an almighty sob of frustration.
I leave him there, to stew in his regret and impotence.
My mind is already elsewhere. I’m thinking of her; of her bright-eyed defiance, of how everything about her is sweet and pure.
I want to go to her; to see her again.
Maybe, like me, she isn’t entirely human.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel a sliver of hope.
24
FINLEY
Filled with disbelief, I stare at the growing mounds of luxurious things on my bed.
The fabrics are finer than anything I’ve worn in my life. Silk that glides beneath the fingertips. Wool so soft and warm it’s like melted butter. The boots and shoes are made from smooth, supple leather that’s been expertly crafted, the stitching immaculate.
I might be a baron’s daughter, but I’ve never seen clothing like this before.
There are two piles. One is returns. The other is for keeps.
My keep pile is filled with smart, practical clothing. Plain colors. Unfussy cuts. Mostly trousers, vests, jackets, button-down shirts, and a few skirts. Things I would actually want to wear. The styles might be simple, but they’re impeccably made.
The returns pile consists of things that didn’t fit me or things I don’t ever plan on wearing, like that big, flouncy lilac dress.
It isn’t my color at all.
But surprisingly, returns is the smaller of the two piles. Most of the clothing fits me rather well. Whoever chose it must have a knack for guessing measurements.
I think I know what I’m going to wear to Corvan’s banquet.
I don’t want to turn up adorned in lace and silks and jewels like some highborn court lady. I’m not going to paint my face and display myself like a flower amongst the thorns.
I’m going to wear what I choose.
And I’m going to see how Corvan Duthriss reacts.
Does the Archduke of Tyron merely want a beautiful jewel sitting beside him? A trophy wife to be seen and not heard, the way Lady Dorava is to my father?
No… I don’t want to believe that.
A vivid memory flashes through my mind.
Of him.
After he drank from me, he was so gentle. Protective. Warm. Unassuming. For a moment, it felt like we were just two ordinary people, and titles and ranks and his strange condition didn’t matter.
My heart beats faster as I select a pair of trousers. They’re deep blue; high-waisted and tapered at the leg. I slip out of my loose pants and pull them on.
They fit like a glove.
I shrug off my knitted tunic and select an elegant white shirt made of fine cotton. It’s clean and crisp and very well fitted, just like the trousers. I do up the shimmering mother-of-pearl buttons before fixing the cuffs. Then I tuck it into my trousers, fastening the gold buttons on either side.
Next is a structured jacket, with long tails and sleek lapels, in the same rich blue as the trousers.
I walk across the room to the dressing table and look at myself in the mirror.
The wound on my lip has healed perfectly, thanks to Corvan’s magical blood. I look confident and assured. The clothing fits me well, the cut accentuating my shape. I’ve been told that my shoulders and arms a little too strong and un-delicate. Lady Dorava often remarked that my small chest needs enhancement to match my narrow waist and wide hips and thighs.
A rather unfortunate figure, that’s difficult to dress, my step-mother used to say.
But the clothes I’m wearing now fit perfectly. Somehow, I look taller, but maybe that’s just because I’m standing a little straighter.
Still, there’s something missing. The outfit is a luxurious backdrop, but it needs an accent.
I rummage through the smaller boxes and bags until something catches my eye—a russet colored silk scarf, intricately embroidered with gold and green threads; twisting vines with delicate leaves.
It reminds me of autumn. It tickles my fancy a whole lot.
I pick it up, running my fingers over the sumptuous fabric. I fold it lengthways several times and tie it around my neck, forming a loose bow.
I look in the mirror again, turning my head this way and that. The gold threads shimmer in the light, accentuating the gold-and-red highlights in my dark hair.
In all of my existence, I don’t ever remember wearing anything I’ve liked so very, very much.
I run my fingers through my hair and twist it up into a bun. A pair of gold enamelled hair pins lie on the dresser. I use them to secure my hair. Each is decorated with a small pink lily flower.
Strands of hair escape, falling around my face, but I don’t mind. It softens my appearance.
The glossy lacquered boxes on the dresser draw my attention. They’re of various sizes; some flat and square, about the size of my palm. Others are small, like a matchbox.
I open one.
A pair of teardrop-shaped rubies glitters inside.
I gasp. Each gemstone is as big as my thumbnail. They’re suspended on curved golden hooks, brilliantly cut and faceted to catch the light.
They remind me of Corvan Duthriss’s eyes.
I can’t wear those. They’re too extravagant; too precious. Just one of these earrings would be worth more than Dorava’s entire jewelry collection. It’s probably worth more than father’s entire fortune in gold.