Page 11 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“You promise you’ll be careful?” he says to me.

“I promise.”

He puts his hand to my cheek, then leaves the room without another word—or look—at Ruskin.

Once we’re alone, the atmosphere shifts. There’s too much between us and the tension of it pulls taut as a hangman’s rope.

“I don’t think I made a very good first impression,” Ruskin says with a bitter smile. I can’t tell if it’s a cold joke or a genuine regret. Probably both, but I find I don’t care.

“I know you have your own reasons to be here,” I tell him, “but if there’s something you want from me, then you should know I’m not going to help you without getting answers first.”

“Answers to what?”

Is he really going to pretend he doesn’t know why I’m so upset? I fix him with my iciest stare. Then I ask the question that’s been running through my mind since the night I left Faerie.

“Ruskin, how did you know my mother?”

Chapter 4

His face gives so little away. Long gone are the days when he’d let me see his true reactions. He’s even still wearing his Unseelie features, as if I’m back to being someone he doesn’t trust with his real self.

“Destan told you about our conversation,” I say.

“He told me you put the poor man in an impossible position. Invoking the life debt? Such ruthlessness, Eleanor.”

I hate the way my name sounds from his lips. Hate even more how part of me still wants to hear another, sweeter name. The one he calls me only in our closest moments.

“I did what I had to—just like I learned from you.”

He bristles and a thrill of satisfaction runs through me. I’ve underestimated myself. I’ve been so worried about seeing him again that I’ve overlooked this opportunity. Finally, I can look him in the face and spit all the venom I’ve been holding onto. I know it’s petty, but it’s like all the feelings I had for him have grown stagnant and toxic inside me. Just for a moment, I want to—have to—let that poison out.

He knew my mother, and he kept that from me. He knew that I had magic, and yet he made me think I was wrong. Confirmation of these ugly truths won’t change anything—but I want it all the same.

“Here’s the other thing I’ve learned—you hold no power over me. So whatever you want is going to have to wait until you answer my question. How did you know my mother?”

He closes his eyes briefly, and something crosses his features, tightening them.

Pain, I realize, to my surprise. The very real, physical kind. My anticipation vanishes, replaced with an odd sort of dread. I’m hurting him, and I don’t even know how.

“It’s complicated,” he says through gritted teeth.

My heart thuds, but I can’t let this go, and he hasn’t actually told me to stop asking…yet.

“So you don’t deny you met her, then?”

That look again, like he’s preparing himself for torture. He grunts with exertion when he speaks.

“No, I don’t deny it.”

My uneasiness grows. This pain really doesn’t seem to be for show, though I don’t know why he’d react like this to simple questions. The fae can’t lie, but I’ve never heard about the truth hurting them. Still, he hasn’t protested—hasn’t tried to dance around my questions or misdirect me. If he’s going to keep answering, then I’m going to keep asking.

“And you knew who I was, that I was her daughter, when we made our deal?”

“Yes,” he says, the single word bitten out harshly.

Hearing this confirmed hits me harder than I expected. It’s like the ground’s suddenly spinning beneath me. But one force is enough to counter this unsteadiness: my desire for the truth. It will set both of us free, won’t it? Me from my questions and him from his pain.

“When? When did you meet her?”

---