Page 85 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

Fussing with my hair, I manage to smooth it as much as possible and then work it into a clumsy set of braids that highlight the pronounced cheekbones and the stark, unhealthypaleness of my skin. I look even worse, somehow. I dig through the cosmetics on my table and find a bit of rouge and apply it to my cheeks, but I end up looking more clownish than ever.

“Happy wedding day to me,” I mutter, giving up and wiping my cheeks clean. At least with the scrubbing my face is enduring, I’ll have a ruddy glow.

Giving up, I move away from the mirror and begin to pace. I know I’m stalling. I don’t know that I want to hear about Erynne. What if she knows of my intent to marry Nemeth and will stop the next food shipment? What then? Can I back away from what I want—to marry Nemeth—for my own good? And if I don’t…?

Biting back a frustrated whimper, I pull my knife sheath from its place nestled deep in my cleavage. I free the blade and roll it in my hands, gazing down at it. A thousand questions surge in my mind, but I don’t put voice to them, and if the knife picks any of them up, it’s not indicating so.

I hesitate a moment longer, and then ask, “Are you there?”

The knife shivers.Yes.

Here goes nothing. “Does Erynne know of my plans to marry Nemeth?”

Silence.

“Would she approve?”

Silence.

All right, then. That’s answered. It’s not a surprise, either. My sister is blindly loyal to the kingdom, even if it’s run by an absolute twat like Lionel. I think for a moment, trying to determine the best questions to ask. “Does my sister have a knife like you?”

Shiver.

“Does she know I love Nemeth?”

Another shiver. Oh no.

“Is that why she asked me to kill him?”

Shiver.

“Oh, ugh, truly, Erynne?” I make a face at the knife, as if it’s the one deciding things. “Must we all be martyrs to the Vestalin name like you?”

The knife gives a confused shiver, as if it doesn’t entirely understand the question but wants to respond anyhow.

That response just irritates me more, though. Meryliese devoted her entire life to preparing for the tower, only to die. Erynne is queen, but is miserable in her marriage, and her husband is a warmonger. And apparently I’m supposed to have a horrible fate as well? I don’t think so.

“Has Erynne been asking about the poison?”

Shiver.

“Does she know I tossed it?”

Silence. No.

“Does she know I won’t use it?”

Shiver.

I consider this. “Are they planning to punish me for not killing Nemeth?”

Silence. No.

That’s good at least. “So they yet plan on sending food to me? For next year?”

Shiver.

It’s enough for now. I can’t ask if it’ll happen—the knife won’t know the future—but if they are intending upon continuing to feed me, that’s the most I can ask for. I consider things a moment longer and then roll the blade in my hand again. “Did my sister send those men to break in?”

---