“A far finer class of prison,” Oak says, moving to lean against one of the posts of the bed. While he was moving, he wasn’t dizzy, but now that he’s stopped, he feels the immense need to be supported by something.
“Get dressed,” Hyacinthe says, pointing to a set of clothes laid out on the bed. He holds the key in his palm pointedly, then places it on the mantel. “If you can’t persuade her, it may interest you to know there’s a shift in the guard at dawn. I left you a book on the table over there as well. It’s mortal literature, and I understand you like that sort of thing.”
Oak stares at the key as Hyacinthe leaves. Part of him wants to dismiss this as a trick, a way for the former falcon to prove the prince untrustworthy.
His gaze goes to the clothing left for him and then the mattress beneath, stuffed with goose down or perhaps duck feathers. He feels almost sick with the desire to lie down, to allow his throbbing temple to rest on a pillow.
He takes a deep breath and forces himself to pick up the book that Hyacinthe indicated—a hardback with a dust jacket that proclaims Magic Tricks for Dummies. He ruffies the pages, thinking of how he once made a coin disappear and reappear in front of Wren. Remembering his fingers brushing against her ear, her surprised laugh.
He should have let her leave that night. Let her take the damned bridle, get on the bus, and go, if that was what she wanted.
But no, he had to show off. Be clever. Manipulate everyone and everything, just the way he’d been taught. Just the way his father had manipulated him to come here.
With a sigh, he frowns down at the book again. There doesn’t seem to be anything tucked inside. He isn’t sure what it means then, except that Hyacinthe thinks he’s a dummy. Just in case, he goes through the pages again, more slowly this time.
On 161, he finds an almost thoroughly dried stalk of ragwort.
Guards wait for him in the hall when he emerges from the room, dressed in the clothes he was given.
The doublet is of some silvery fabric that feels sturdy and stiff, as though there might be silver threads woven into the cloth. His shoulders are a little broader and his torso a little longer than the original owner, and it feels even more uncomfortably tight than the uniform. The pants are black as a starless sky and have to be pushed up a little because of the curve of his leg above his hooves.
He says nothing to the guards, and their faces are grim as they escort him to a high-ceilinged dining room where their new queen is waiting.
Wren stands at the head of a long table in a dress of some material that seems to be black and then silver, depending on the light. Her hair is pulled away from her pale blue face, and while she does not wear a crown, the ornaments in her hair suggest one.
She looks every bit a terrifying Queen of Faerie, beckoning him to some final supper of poisoned apples.
He bows.
Her gaze rests on him, as though trying to decide if the gesture is mockery or not. Or maybe she’s only inspecting his bruises.
He’s certainly noting how fragile she looks. Harrowed.
And something else. Something he ought to have noted in her bedroom, when she’d given him orders, but he’d been too panicked to think about. There’s a defensiveness in her posture, as though she’s bracing for his anger. After having held him prisoner, she believes he hates her. She might still be angry with him, but she quite obviously expects him to be furious with her.
And every time he behaves as though he isn’t, she thinks he’s playing a trick.
“Hyacinthe told me you were reluctant to explain how you came to be hurt,” Wren says.
Oak doesn’t need to glance at the entrances to note the guards. He saw them upon his arrival. Not knowing their loyalties, he can hardly mention Valen, or even Straun, without stripping Hyacinthe of the element of surprise. Did she know that? Was this a play put on for their benefit? Or was this another test? “What would you say if I told you I grew so bored that I hit myself in the face?”
Her mouth becomes an even grimmer line. “No one would believe that lie, could you even tell it.”
Oak’s head dips forward, and he cannot keep the despair out of his voice. This is off to a bad start, and yet he truly does seem unable to keep himself from making it worse. “What lie would you believe?”
CHAPTER
7
W
ren stiffens. He can see the careful way she is holding herself. Transforming her habit for shyness into remoteness. He is all admiration, except for the part where this new queen might decide he is nothing but a thorn to be excised from her side.
“Am I to advise you how best to deceive me?” she says, and he knows they are no longer just talking about his bruises.