“Do ya know who it was?” one of the scullery workers asks. Now that the servants have been marked by Wendeline, the guards aren’t hovering in the kitchens and people feel free to chatter again.
“No one too important, from the sounds of it.” Fikar dumps the jugs into the washbasin. “And he’s thrown the Lady Saoirse in the gray tower.”
“What?” This gossip, I welcome. “Does that mean he is not marrying her anymore?”
“I would think not, but after the last king ran off with his family’s murderess, who knows.”
A bubble of elation swells inside me. It would be best for everyone if that marriage agreement was no more. Islor wouldn’t have a cruel queen seated on the throne. Atticus wouldn’t have a wife who wants him dead. And if he wants me as his tributary, as he has all but declared … I wouldn’t have to share him with her.
I slide my teeth along my bottom lip. I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss since I walked out of Atticus’s chamber—I can still feel his mouth against mine. Nor have I been able to shake his words. He said he wouldn’t take something from me that I wasn’t willing to give. He must have read it in my pulse, the fear of reliving the worst nights of my past.
He is the king of Islor. No one denies him anything. But he is also Atticus, and he is nothing like the terrible keepers I’ve known. Every encounter I have with him, the more confident I am of that.
The less apprehension I feel.
The more excitement.
Was I a fool earlier? I didn’t reject him, but I might as well have, my thoughts reeking of hesitation. Atticus has been nothing but kind to me when he could easily have not been. Today, he needed me.
He still needs me.
I look up to find Corrin studying me intently. She always seems to know what’s spinning in my mind. “What about all the cakes for the wedding?” I blurt, as if that’s my only concern.
“They will get eaten. Never mind all the cakes. And you never mind all your gossip and exaggerating.” Corrin claps her hands at Fikar. “Get to work.”
“It’s not gossip if it’s the truth!” He sets to hanging the clean silver jugs from the hooks on the ceiling. He’s the only one who can reach them. “Ask Manfred. He had to haul the headless body out.”
Gasps sound as servants steal looks to see others’ reactions.
“Whoever it was, surely they deserved it,” I mumble.
Too loud, it seems. As one, they gawk at me, as if they had all assumed my tongue didn’t work up until now. I’ve never joined in any of the chatter before.
But none of them know why Atticus did what he did. I know why. The king himself divulged his secrets to me. A warm glow spreads in my chest with that knowledge.
How long before I can see him again?
A darker thought stirs.
What if I can’t? What if he thinks I’ve made my choice and he’s already in search of someone willing to serve him?
Jealousy burns inside with that thought.
Fates, I was such a fool.
“You shouldn’t be on your knees,” Corrin scolds, bringing a broom over. “You’ll cut yourself.”
“I won’t. And stop mothering me. I’m fine.” I’m more than fine. All those aches and twinges after birthing Suri have vanished since Wendeline’s healing touch. The residual bleeding has ended. Even my stomach feels taut. Aside from my ability to nurse, my body feels like my own again.
And I’m irritated with Corrin. “You went to him?” I whisper with accusation, not wanting anyone to hear.
Her jaw sets with indignation. “Of course I did. On your behalf.”
“Why?”
She crouches alongside me, picking at bits of pastry with her stubby fingers. “Because he needs to know that you have no interest in being a tributary again. Is that not true?”
I swallow. It was true, but that was before I met the king.
Now … I don’t know what I want, except that if I get another chance, I might do things differently.
Corrin’s stare is severe. “Remember your place, Gracen. You are a mortal in a kingdom where we serve, and nothing more. Do not get swept up in fantasy and charm.” She shakes her head and sighs. “These relationships between tributary and keeper are not always like what you faced, but they can be equally dangerous.”
The only relationship I’ve ever experienced was one of abuse and neglect, and all the keepers in Freywich were the same, so I have nothing to compare it to. But I’ve heard tales of mortals who fall in love with their keepers, who are utterly devoted to them. “I don’t know if I would call it dangerous.”