Page 65 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

We’re supposedto pray to the Golden Moon Goddess on the Solstice but I don’t feel much like praying to her—or to any of the gods. They can just enjoy my presence here in the tower and know I’m doing my stupid, ridiculous duty to them. I flick through Riza’s letter.

And then Nurse’s.

A thought occurs to me and I pick up Erynne’s letter from the stack and read through it again.

No one has mentioned the war.

There’s not a single mention of the fleet of ships that were waiting in the harbor last solstice for a good wind. No mention of their arrival to Darkfell lands or how the conquest is going. If the Fellians are fighting back or if they have been completely destroyed. I’ve seen just how large the Liosian army is and I can’t imagine the war is going well, even if Fellians can blend with shadows. How very curious that they didn’t say anything about it at all.

Could it be because they’re afraid Nemeth would get the information? That seems the most likely reason. If so, I’m a little hurt that Erynne and Riza and Nurse don’t trust me enough not to blab about state secrets. Am I not here in this wretched tower because I love my country?

Hurt, I look to the stairs, but there’s still no sign of Nemeth. He’s been down on the first floor for a while now, and I worry that he’s getting the same abrupt treatment I did. I put on my slippers and grab my skirts so they don’t rustle, tiptoeing down the dark stairs without a light, counting until I get to the thirty-fifth out of the forty steps. Then I sit, straining my ears to hear.

There’s a low murmur of conversation, and I can’t pick out their words. They must be speaking Fellian, because the cadence of their voices is unfamiliar to me. Then, someone laughs.

A moment later, I hear Nemeth’s booming voice join in. He laughs, too, the snake, and I frown into the darkness. Are they just standing at the door and chatting as if they’re having a cup of tea? Catching up on gossip while I was treated like a prisoner by my own people? I’m irritated, and sitting on the steps and hiding as I listen in isn’t helping things. When they laugh again, a stab of hurt radiates in my chest.

Nemeth’s people clearly love him. They’re pleased about his duty as the Royal Offering.

Mine won’t tell me about the war and treat me like I’m some sort of beggar when they come to give me supplies. I’m sure there’s a reason behind it, but resentment stirs in me just the same.

Chapter

Forty

Nemeth is down there for hours, and I get tired of sitting on the stairs, listening in to a conversation I can’t understand. They seem to be jovial enough, and I wonder if they’re teasing him about me.Stuck with the fat, cursed princess? Shame about that.

The thought irritates me and I head upstairs. I fold up my letters and put them aside, because their contents no longer bring me pleasure. Instead, all I can see is what theydon’tmention. Other than the baby and my sister, I realize that no names are given. When they mention someone at court marrying, it’s a “certain someone with a forked beard,” not “Bernard Athelhorn, Lord of Silver Thorpe.” They’re hiding information from me because of my situation. It bothers me, so I decide to put them away, into my trunk upstairs where I keep my knife and the secretive things I don’t want Nemeth to see, like the worn out bloomers I wear when I have my period and the supplies for such things.

My trunk is just where I left it, but I’m a little anxious each time I open it, worried that this time, my knife will be gone again. That Nemeth will have lied to me and stolen it. That he’s somehow figured out its magical properties and wishes to use itagainst me. But when I open the small, gilded trunk, my knife is there.

I pick it up and set the letters inside. “I missed you,” I joke.

The knife doesn’t respond. It’s either disagreeing with me or didn’t realize it was a question.

I bite my lip, thinking. Should I keep it with me or put it away once more? I stare at it, hoping for inspiration. I’m afraid to ask it anything. I’m afraid to hear the answers, because I’m powerless to do anything about them. “Is Erynne well?” The question comes out of me grudgingly, and I flinch, waiting for the answer.

To my relief, the knife shivers in response.

I sigh, some of the anxiety disappearing. “And the new baby? Has it been born yet?”

No answer.

“Is it a boy?”

No answer.

I smile at that. A girl, then. I hope she looks just like Erynne. Lionel will be annoyed that his second child is female, but he can just suck on eggs as far as I’m concerned. I cross my legs and sit in front of my chest, gazing at the innocent-looking knife in my hands. “Is Nurse well? Nurse Iphigenia?”

Again, the knife shivers.

I smile once more. “And Riza?”

Silence.

The urge to vomit rises in my throat. “Is Riza alive?” I whisper. The knife shivers, and I let out a deep breath. All right. Riza is alive, but she is not well. “Is she sick?”

No response.

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