Page 47 of Enslaved

I glance back again just as we’re reaching the end of the garden. “Eyes forward, Darling!” the Prince snarls. Once more too late. Because Ivor too has paused under an arch and turned back. Which means he’s caught me looking at him. Twice.

Even from this distance, I see his mouth twitch in an almost-smile.

“Gods damn it, why are you encouraging him?” the Prince growls, yanking me after him through the garden door. The wyvern makes itself small and slinks after us into the palace halls. Household members walking by stop to give us odd looks, shocked at the sight of the feathery beast waddling in our wake.

“I’m not encouraging him,” I protest, conscious of how my voice echoes in these vaulted halls.

“You most certainly are. And believe me, Ivor doesn’t need encouragement. He’s more than happy to make an ass of himself all on his own.”

“Now you sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” The Prince halts abruptly, pulling me to a stop. I turn and meet his stormy gaze without flinching. “What makes you think I would be jealous of a cretin like Ivor Illithor?”

My throat tightens. What am I supposed to say? I hadn’t intended anything particular by the remark, but now it’s struck home, and I . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. The Prince stares down at me so intently. He’s not about to let me walk on without saying something.

I clear my voice and shrug one shoulder. “Because the king chose him over you.”

His brow darkens. He leans in closer. “And you think that matters to me?”

“Of course it matters.” I refuse to let my gaze waver. “How could it not? Lodírhal isyourfather. You are his only son and should be his heir. Ivor has taken everything from you.”

“Ivor has taken nothing from me I care about.” He draws closer still, until the hall, the arches, the windows, the walls around me are lost, and my world is made up of nothing but those eyes of his. Dark fire sparks in their depths. “Not yet at least.”

This is dangerous. There isn’t enough space between us, and yet . . . and yet last those few inches feel like an eternal gulf. What would it take to finally cross that gulf? Does either of us have the courage? We keep dancing on the brink, and yet every time the moment comes . . .

I close my eyes. In that one simple act, the power of his gaze is shattered. Wrenching away, I continue down that hall, not even seeing where I go, trusting my feet not to carry me into a wall. “Tell yourself whatever you need to.” My voice is light and thin. “It’s not my business.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” The harshness of his tone brings me up short. I stand, fists clenched, but don’t look back at him. “You make everyone’s business yours. Just not mine. Why is that do you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Then why else are we going to the library even now to look up some miraculous cure for Queen Seraphine’s ailing son?”

My mouth drops open. But I cannot speak. Neither a lie nor an explanation will form on my lips.

The Prince steps to my side, looking down at me. “I know what you’re doing, Darling. Thaddeus Creakle is a good soul, but I know he’s not the reason for this little detour. Besides, I can’t imagine you letting the matter go so easily. No, no, for once you’ve set your mind to something, you’ll see it through to the bitter end.”

I let out a short breath. Then, clenching my teeth hard, I gather handfuls of my skirt and stride on swiftly, leaving the Prince to follow in my wake. Or not. Just as he chooses.

I don’t care.

Golden light fills each passage as I hurry on my way. Every surface gleams, illuminated in that dawnlight aura which I used to take for granted before I was forced to pack my things and leave for the Doomed City. It’s so beautiful, so airy, enough to brighten even the most shadow-haunted heart.

Yet I find Aurelis has lost much of its former appeal. As I cross paths with the palace denizens—some familiar faces, some strangers, all coldly disinterested in me—longing grows in my heart for Vespre and the people I left there. For the children and Lir, Mixael, and Andreas. Even stern Khas and her stony guards, some of whom I now know by name. All those faces who, mere months ago, were frightening strangers to me. Now the mere thought of them fills me with homesickness.

But no! This can’t be homesickness for Vespre is not my home. It never will be. Home is with Oscar. Always with Oscar.

I won’t forget. And I won’t be foiled.

The Prince and his wyvern follow some distance behind me. I feel him there, though I refuse to look back again. Why doesn’t he just give up and leave like he should? Take the chance I’ve given him, escape his Obligation, and return to his city? I wish he would. I wish he would abandon me, leave me to manage on my own. Because that’s what I always do. I manage. No help. No support. Just me against the worlds.

It will happen eventually of course. He’ll tire of me, tire of trying to talk sense into me. Tire of trying to make me see things his way. Then he’ll drop me at last. And it will be such a relief when it finally happens. The suspense of waiting for the inevitable is much worse than the reality will be. Sure, it will hurt like the nine hells when he finally gives up. But I’ve been hurt before. I’ll push through.

What I cannot bear is this terrible, agonizing, tentative glimmer ofhope.This frail blossom struggling to bloom in my heart. This wish, this gossamer dream that maybe,maybe,he will be different. Maybe he won’t give up on me. Maybe he’ll stick with me through all the madness I’m putting myself through. Maybe he’ll even find the secret words to convince me to let go. To leave all this behind . . .

Gritting my teeth, I hurry on, determined to outpace both him and my own traitorous thoughts. At last I turn a corner and approach the library doors. Beautiful, golden, shining Aurelis Library, with its pristine shelves made of interlaced white branches, and its tall windows through which more golden light pours. And all those books. Lovely, leather-bound volumes of parchment and ink, none of which contain living nightmares eager to eat you the moment you crack their covers. For the first time since landing in the City of Dawn, the tightness in my chest relaxes just a little. A long sigh escapes my lips.

The familiar slumped figure of George Nobblin sits behind the reception desk. He looks up lazily when I enter. “Hullo, Mister Nobblin,” I say approaching the desk and smiling politely. He blinks, no spark of recognition in his eyes. He’s been serving out an Obligation for many long years now. The time in Eledria has dulled him; though I suspect he never was a sharp fellow to begin with. “Is Mister Creakle about?” I continue. “I’d very much like to speak with him.”

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