Page 39 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

“Do you need help lacing up?” Ruskin asks, and I turn to eye his back suspiciously. How does he know what stage of dress I’m even at? As it is, Kaline does usually help me with this bit, as the fastenings up the back are fiddly. We’d be here about fifteen minutes longer than we need to if I tried to do it myself.

I sigh.

“Yes please,” I say.

The moment Ruskin puts his hands on me I know I’ve made a mistake. I can feel the heat of them through the fabric and then—just there—the brush of skin on skin as he threads the ribbon. I feel my body come alive with the attention, yearning for more, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch.

I think I stop breathing as the sensation awakens memories in me of those hands undoing these very same fastenings, of his nimble fingers stroking and teasing the body beneath on those long nights when we would take our fill of each other. He would worship every inch of me, making me feel as precious as a jewel, then hold me so close that I knew I was better than just a treasure to him. We were connected, part of each other—making the sweet oblivion of pleasure seem like coming home at the same time.

I can’t help myself—I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. His face is beautiful in its concentration, alert and alive, and I know instantly that seeing him in this moment was a mistake. I’ve caught him with his guard down, and I can’t look away. With the mask off, it’s too irresistible. He’s too irresistible. Eventually, he lifts his eyes to mine, and we’re trapped in a net of tension. Neither of us wants to move first, neither wants to avert our gaze. And then he does. Slowly, so slowly, he lowers his mouth and presses a kiss to the inch of exposed flesh at the base of my neck. It’s soft and tender. An invitation.

I bite my lip, knowing he’s testing me—seeing how firmly I’ll hold the line. But I bunch my hand in my skirts, clamping down on any impulsive movements. I mustn’t go down that path. I have to be strong—stronger than my base impulses, at least. Ruskin was always good at bringing those out in me, but I know better than to give in to them again.

I turn my head away and clear my throat, remembering to start inhaling and exhaling again, and the noise breaks the silence. Ruskin says nothing, but resumes his work, tying the final bow and stepping away.

His voice is gravelly when he speaks.

“You’ll need to eat before we work. We’ll stop off at the kitchens on the way.”

I push away the thought that I’m hungry for something completely different right now and nod.

The tension thrumming through me eases a bit once we’re in the corridors of the palace, no longer alone together, and the possibilities my brain has been grasping at fade away. I’m conscious of the looks from people we pass—High and Low Fae bobbing curtseys and bowing to Ruskin, but openly staring at me. I wonder if it’s to do with Lady Petra’s accusations yesterday, or what happened after. After the way Ruskin touched me in front of everyone, the rumors must be flying. Even if we’re not actually lovers anymore, it must’ve left little doubt in people’s minds as to the nature of our relationship.

“How’s your mother doing?” I ask, trying to ignore the probing looks.

“She’s fine. Resting. It will take time for her to be as she once was, and all this iron business is hardly helping.”

I wonder if the fae won’t question Evanthe’s absence. She wasn’t there at the attack on the square and gallery. It was Ruskin seen helping his subjects, covering the iron. I doubt Evanthe could’ve done that—not without the High Queen power—but it worries me that the Seelie might wonder why she didn’t. It occurs to me that this is the kind of situation Halima warned about. I just hope that the rest of her warnings don’t come to pass.

In the kitchens Ruskin tries to force a pile of food on me, but I settle for jam and bread, which I wolf down as he takes me to the orchard. No need to draw this out. I’m here to do a job—and I’d rather get on with it.

The bodies have been removed from the dining hall, but blood—dried to a rusty brown—is still visible on and around the twisting iron vines, spatters of it peppering the surface of the metal, or else dotting the ground with dark circles.

“Are you all right to be here?” I ask as we step between the tree trunks, and Ruskin takes care not to brush up against the metal.

“There’s not as much iron here as at the memorial square,” he says—which doesn’t actually answer my question. I try to gauge if it’s truly bothering him or not. He doesn’t look happy, I think, but he still has his color. When he sees that I’m not satisfied with his reply, he adds, “I can manage here for a time. At the moment it’s like a developing headache. When it becomes unbearable, I will take a break.”

I examine the nearest shoot to me. It’s thick as my torso, and I can’t help but think there’s a kind of malevolence to the dark, dull color of it. It looks like it wants to do harm.

“We’ll start by having you get a sense for this substance,” Ruskin explains. “Tap into it—as you did before with my mother. Not just to move it or influence it, but to read it. We want to know where it’s from, so pick a tendril and follow it down.” He points to where the iron has punctured through the orchard earth. “As far as it goes.”

“You mean, until I find the source?”

“Exactly.”

I close my eyes, finding the shifting pool within. Each time it gets a little easier to locate. While I still need to concentrate to calm it, the waters don’t fight me very hard at this moment, perhaps because what I’m asking of it isn’t very complicated. I just want to observe. I find the iron shoot in my mind, tracing the curves and twists of it across the room, feeling the shift as it descends into the earth.

I follow it, and sense darkness close in around me, the heat leaching from the metal as it runs deeper. I shiver, the coldness seeming to seep into me, too, and I try not to feel claustrophobic as I sense the world pressing in on every side, the weight of ancient soil enclosing me.

But the further I follow the metal down, the more my impression of it begins to fade. I feel myself being pulled from it, like being tugged from one end of a tunnel to another. The distance between my mind and my body is too great. Soon, I can’t hold on to the metal anymore, and I feel my mind returning. Gradually, I become aware of the breeze in the trees, of Ruskin’s slow breaths beside me growing stronger.

I open my eyes, taking deep breaths. I hadn’t realized the effort it was taking me to go so deep.

“It’s too far,” I gasp, shaking my head. “The iron runs too deep underground; I can’t reach the source. Couldn’t even get near it.”

I feel the same sharp frustration I’ve felt a hundred times before when one of my experiments didn’t work. The moment of disappointment is quickly followed by the urge to try again—to find a way to solve the problem.

“It’s a great start,” Ruskin says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I’m so grateful for the comfort that I can’t bring myself to pull away. “We just need to build up your strength.”

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