Page 28 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

That prick.

I’ve changed my mind. We can’t be friends. I’ll take his glowing orb, but he can go straight to the Gray God’s death pits and stay there. He’s made it clear that he’s got the upper hand, and that he’s not afraid to lie to me. Carefully, I carry my new globe inside my quarters, pleased at the light that shines over everything. I shut the door once more and crawl back into bed.

A short time later, there’s a low tap at the door. “Candra?”

I don’t answer.

Chapter

Nineteen

After that, Nemeth doesn’t pursue friendship with me. It suits me just fine. The days pass, and as they do, we avoid each other. If I hear him heading down the stairs, I make sure to keep my door closed. I spend as little time in the kitchens as possible, only going down when I have to cook something or to make my medicine. If I wash up, I make sure to never get undressed, lest he think it’s an invitation. I’m making it quite clear to him that I’m not interested, either.

For months, I don’t see those green eyes in the shadows.

I’ve learned a way to keep track of the passing days. Each time I rouse from sleep, I ask the knife if a new day has arrived. Through a process of yes and no questions, I’m able to determine the date, and I make counting stitches along the hem of my oldest chemise. Riza sent a sewing kit with me, and while it took me a long time to figure out how to get the thread to stop coming out, I’ve mastered a simple stitch enough that I can use it to keep track of time.

I count the days, because it’s something to do.

Balon doesn’t return for three weeks. Then four. After five weeks pass, I figure he’s grown bored of visiting me and stop checking for him.

The storms pound against the tower many times after that first night, and I put a pot on the floor to catch the drippings of water. I move my bed to the far side of the wall, and head up into the storage area above to move the wood away from the dripping spot. I don’t go to check on Nemeth as the storms crackle and thunder overhead. I don’t care if he’s frightened or unnerved by their ferocity. I hope he breaks and busts his way out of the tower, and then I can return home and saysee? I wasn’t the problem.

One morning (at least, I assume it’s morning) I wake up and my breath frosts in the air, and my teeth chatter with cold.

Winter has arrived.

On All Winter’s Feast, I will have been here half a year.

Half a year, and my food supplies are looking pathetic indeed. I’ve counted out my medicine components, making sure I have enough for the weeks that follow, and I should be fine. I should have enough to carry me through to the new year, when fresh supplies will be brought to me. That is both troubling and a relief. I’m glad, of course. The medicine is paramount. But that means that they probably brought me with enough food supplies, which means I’ve squandered them, somehow. Am I eating too much? The loose fit of my corsets (and the constant growling of my stomach) tells me no, I’m eating less than before.

I’ll just have to be smarter with my food. For all I know, Nemeth has been stealing from me all this time. I have no wards on my food like he does…and he’s not afraid to lie to me about it.

So I spend two days moving my foodstuffs out of the root cellar and into my quarters. I don’t know if it’ll do much good seeing as how Nemeth can slink through the shadows, but it makes me feel better to know I’m watching over them. I keep my light lit at all times, even when I sleep. It’s comforting to know I have it, to be able to open my eyes andseemy surroundings instead of feeling about in the dark.

Wood for a fire remains a problem, though, and continues to be an even bigger problem as the weather turns colder. The tower, cool in the summer, is like ice in the winter. It’s miserable, and no matter how many layers I put on, I can’t seem to get warm. I end up sleeping fully clothed, my hands covered in socks, with every blanket piled atop my bed, and I still wake to my teeth chattering.

The beloved glowing orb that Nemeth gifted me is truly wondrous, but it doesn’t give off heat. Winter brings new problems when I wake up to my medicine frozen in its vial. I warm it by tucking it between my breasts, but without fire, my existence is growing increasingly miserable. Keeping my food stores isn’t a problem—I barely have the energy to gnaw on my half-frozen vegetables, much less to make a fire and bake something like my book advises. I spend my time scouring the storeroom upstairs for things to burn, but everything there is either moldy with age, made of metal, or I’ve already burned it.

I turn towards my sled.

I’ve kept it by the door, as it’s too big for me to move upstairs on my own. It’s as large as my bed, and so heavy that tugging on it only makes an offensive scrape across the floor. I’ve been saving it, determined to use it as a measurement. If I need to burn the sled, it’s an indication that I’m in dire circumstances and I need to do something drastic.

It looks like that time is now.

I have two doses of my medicine left before I need to make another fire. Three, if I’m stingy. After that, I’ve got to make a fire. Last time, I burned one of my dresses because I was out of wood, but it burned down so quickly I had to end up burning another, and I know that won’t continue to work. I’ll be running around naked before the end of the month.

And besides, the ribbons and bits of fabric are what I’m using for tinder, since my box is long empty.

Downstairs, I approach my sled with one of the heavy pots from the kitchen. Most of the trunks were fairly easy to take apart—bang something heavy on one side until the fittings come loose, or use a knife to pull out the nails. The sled is of a heavier make, though, and I’m intimidated by it.

I set my light down carefully a safe distance away, then try to turn the sled on its side. One of the runners might be easier to take off than pulling apart the entire thing. It takes me a while to turn the heavy thing over on its side, but once I manage to flip it, my back smarting, I run my fingers over the wood, feeling for joints or nails.

Nothing.

Hmm. I tilt the sled onto one side and then let it crash backward to the floor, wincing in anticipation of the tremendous crash. It makes a crash, all right, but the entire thing stays in one piece. I’ve heard one of the knights brag that our woodworkers are the finest in the land and I’m finding out, depressingly, that this might be the case. I hammer at one of the runners, then the other. I try to loosen planks. I wedge my knife into a crack and try to widen it.

Nothing gives. Nothing budges, and at the end of an afternoon, I’m covered in sweat and all I’ve managed to do is dull my knife and give myself a backache. The sled is as solid as ever.

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