Page 59 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

Below it, all I could think to add was:I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring this trouble on you. I’m so sorry.

Before I could change my mind, I slammed it shut and went to the door, striding past Koryek and heading towards the Tower of Winter.

I knocked several times, the beat of my fist growing harder each time, but no one answered. He still wasn’t home.

Taking a deep breath, I opened his door, seeing nothing but darkness. No Bane lurking in the shadows; nothing but the large, empty bed and the thousands of skins on the walls.

I crept inside and walked to the edge of the bed, and finally laid my journal on it. I gave the cover a pat and left, hoping he would come back tonight—hoping he would see my apology.

A small part of me wanted to curl up in that enormous bed and wait for him, but that might be too much a reminder. If he came home and saw me, the unwitting instrument of his friend’s doom, that might only drive a further wedge between us, when it was already difficult to overcome his nature and my communication.

I would trust in the journal to explain myself, and hope that he came home tonight to read it.

Safely re-locked in the Tower of Spring, I shed the velvet for cotton and curled into my own bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows,staring up at the rose-carved posts. Comfortable in the safety of bed, my heart finally began to slow to a normal pace. The knife plunging towards me, the shock of realizing I was about to die—all of it began to seem distant, already a dream.

Everything would be fine.

He would come soon.

When he knockedon the door the next morning, I rushed to answer it, leaving Ellena cursing behind me as my stays came entirely unlaced again.

Hair still dripping, hope swelling in my heart, I yanked it open, hands already signing—Bane, you’re home—and stopped dead in my tracks.

Miro smiled down at me. “I’m glad to see you survived the warm welcome,” he said, lips twisting. “They're positively archaic people, aren’t they? I’m surprised they don’t live in the wallows with their pigs.”

I stared at him, my tired brain feeling like it was grinding through mud to make sense of his presence, but Miro didn’t allow me to stand in silence for long.

“We’re beginning your portrait this morning, my lady.” He raised a brow, looking me over. “Wear something suited to your station.”

I shut the door without another word, returning to Ellena glumly. She was rougher this time as she tightened my bodice, lips pressed flat. I preferred Yuli’s gentler touch, though I’d be happiest of all not to wear these clothes that needed another set of hands to get on.

When I was more presentable, I swallowed a sigh and opened the door once more. Miro nodded with satisfaction at the sight of scarlet brocade. “Now that’s proper for a lai.”

Slateless, paperless, I kept my hands at my sides as he led me away. There was no point. Not even Ellena would speak for me; she trailed behind us, doing a poor impression of a chaperone.

To my surprise, he brought us to the Bloodgarden. By daylight, the mystery and pools of shadow became the fairy tale it’d promised to be; I touched a rose as we passed, its lush petals like velvet on my fingertips. Golden motes drifted through the bars of sunlight, casting a warm glow on everything they touched.

Miro had brought out a chair and an easel. I sat in the chair at his command, and stiffened as he touched his fingers under my chin, lifting my head, and began arranging my hair over my shoulders.

“Settle,” he murmured, bringing a lock forward over my shoulder. “I’m not hurting you.”

By the Light, if only I had the ability to bite my tongue and hold back a deluge; I couldn’t say anything to him he’d understand. I didn’t want his hands on me at all.

When I was arranged to his satisfaction, he took up his place behind the easel, a stick of charcoal in hand. I focused on some point over his shoulder, examining the lushness of the roses around us. Ellena pulled a bud free from a stem and began dismantling it, dropping bits of unformed petal to the ground as she watched Miro under her lashes.

“Loosen up your shoulders a bit,” he told me, squinting as he peered from the easel to me.

I tried to listen to his instructions, pasting a “dreamy” smile on my lips and fearing it looked vapid, and straightening my back, which couldn’t get any straighter with how tight the stays were.

“Wait.”

I wanted to scream. Miro turned to the bloodroses behind the easel, and pulled a small knife—my backdidstraighten then, my heart skipping a beat—but he simply cut a red rose free and tucked the knife away again.

On the sheer strength of not wanting to disappoint Bane any further, I held still as Miro tucked the rose behind my ear.

“That’s better.” His knuckles grazed my cheek; it took every last drop of willpower I had not to pull away.

He finally returned to his charcoal and the paper, sketching out rough, broad lines.

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