Page 47 of Cursed Crowns

Shen leaned back on his heels and stood up. “I don’t remember you being this annoying,” he said, sliding his dagger back into his boot.

Kai’s eyes danced in the moonlit dark. “A lot has changed since you were home, little cousin.” With that he turned over and, within seconds, was snoring again.

Rose stared down at him. “I’ve never known anyone to fall asleep so quickly.”

“We should get some sleep, too,” said Shen, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.” He stepped over Kai, and rounded the other side of the bed, where he kicked off his boots and stretched out on the floor.

“Here. Take a pillow, at least,” said Rose, tossing him one before crawling under the covers and settling in the middle of the bed, with Elske curled up at her feet.

“Good night, Rose,” said Shen quietly.

“Good night, Shen.”

Rose slowly inched her way across the bed, and casually let her hand drop, as if she had done it by accident. It hung limply for a moment, and then she felt the warm touch of Shen’s fingers as they threaded through hers. He pressed a kiss against them. The heat of it rushed through her body, until she wanted nothing more than to tug him up onto the bed and let him kiss her properly. Endlessly.

But if she couldn’t have that, then she would have this. Her hand in Shen’s and the gentle rhythm of his breath as he fell asleep right next to her.

When his grip loosened and his hand fell, and Rose was sure he was asleep, she leaned over the edge of the bed and peered down at him, grateful for the moonlight that slipped in through the window.

In his sleep, Shen looked peaceful. Rose let herself admire hisfeatures, the strong line of his jaw and the soft curve of his lips, the shadow of his lashes against his cheeks.

Then Elske farted, the thunder of it startling Rose so much she nearly rolled out of bed on top of Shen. She scrambled back to the middle and squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to fall asleep. Shen was right. Tomorrow was a big day.

17

Wren

Night fell in the capital city of Grinstad, and still, Wren received no word from King Alarik about her proposed bargain. His soldiers had locked her in a room on the fourth floor of the palace, where she had been waiting impatiently since morning. She may have been a prisoner of Gevra, but her cell was a surprisingly luxurious one.

The bedchamber was almost the same size as Rose’s room back at Anadawn. A crystal chandelier dangled from the corniced ceiling, the walls adorned with navy wallpaper that shimmered faintly in the flickering light. The gold furniture was so ornate Wren had hesitated to sit down at first, the couch and matching chairs piled with tasselled cushions of ivory and silver. The bed sat squarely in the middle of the room, framed in gold and covered with a sweeping canopy. The duvet was as tufty as a summer cloud, scattered with at least ten matching pillows and a fur throw, for good measure.

Wren had rifled through the armoire in the corner to find it filled with expensive outfits, fur-lined cloaks, and soft winter scarves, plus an entire rack of velvet and lace dresses that would make Rose squirm with envy. Now who on earth did those belong to?

A large window looked out over the snow-capped Fovarr Mountains,where jagged peaks pierced the low-hanging clouds and valleys fell away in yawning shadows. Roaming beasts howled at the waning moon, while nighthawks flitted across the indigo sky. And yet, despite the icy mist that clung to the spires of Grinstad Palace, the bedroom itself was surprisingly warm. It was a shame there was nothing to do in it. Wren’s boots marred the white rug as she paced back and forth, waiting for Alarik’s decision.

She wasn’t foolish enough to think Banba was close by, enjoying the same luxury as her. She needed to get out of this room and see her. Her patience frayed with each passing hour, her gaze pinned to the door handle, willing it to open. But the soldier on the other side was silent. She wouldn’t have known he was there at all if his wolf wasn’t snoring so loudly.

Wren’s fingers began to itch, but without the root of her magic, she was powerless. Tor had confiscated her pouch of sand, and the rest of it was in her satchel, which had been discarded in the courtyard. She had searched the room for something to use—a new kind of earth—but the king was two steps ahead of her. There were no flowers on the dresser. No wood in the fireplace. She opened the window and stuck her head out into the chill. The palace walls were smooth to touch, no ivy inching up the stonework, and not a trellis in sight.

“Would it kill them to try to plant something in this giant ice block?” she muttered as she slammed the window shut. She turned her attention to the wardrobe, rifling through dress after dress, looking in vain for an iron button, or even a pin. “That clever brute.”

She crossed the room and banged her fists against the door. The wolf yelped, startled from its slumber. “If you’re not going to let me out, at least feed me for goodness’ sake. I’m famished!”

She sank down to the floor and kicked her legs out. To her surprise, dinner arrived shortly. Perhaps she had some power here after all. The kitchens had delivered a rich beef stew, with a child-sized spoon. No knife.

Wren knocked on the door again. “This stew is as dull as dishwater. Could you at least bring a little seasoning?”

A few minutes later, after Wren had practically licked her plate clean, the door creaked open and a small jar of salt was rolled inside. Wren snatched it up, grinning at its pink hue. Fools. This was rock salt, pure as the day it was mined. Here, in her pampered cell, it was more precious than gold dust.

She set aside her new morsel of earth as she got changed. Her tunic was ragged, and her trousers were filthy from her brief time in the courtyard of beasts. If she was going to snoop around Grinstad Palace, it was in her best interests to try to blend in. Better to look like a noblewoman than a thief. She chose a teal dress with pockets from the armoire, admiring the silver beading along the neckline as she shrugged it on. It was simple, yet beautiful. But who on earth was it for? It wouldn’t fit Princess Anika’s generous curves, and, even if it did, Wren highly doubted the prickly princess would share her clothes with her guests. Or indeed prisoners.

She wrangled her hair into a fishtail braid and scrubbed the dirt from her cheeks. Then she stuck the jar of salt into her pocket and knocked once more on the door.

“What now?” said the soldier wearily.

“You may clear my plate,” said Wren haughtily. “You can hardly expect me to sleep in a room stinking of stew?”

The soldier muttered a Gevran curse.

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