Page 60 of Enslaved

I clutch the book to my chest, dropping my lashes to avoid his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t you?”

“Besides.” I shake my head and lick my lips. “It doesn’t hurt to ask, does it? I’m sure he will be reasonable.”

“I am sure he will be anything but.” The Prince takes a step forward and swipes the book from my hands. Before I can react, he sidesteps around me to slide it back in its place on the shelf. “Regardless, you won’t be able to talk to Ivor anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

“Did you forget? Tonight is Spring Summit. He will be quite busy at his own betrothal ball.”

I purse my lips, planting my hands on my hips. “That’s all right. I’ll speak to him after.”

The Prince spins on heel, crosses his arms again, and leans back against the shelf. “Need I remind you that a ball of this nature is likely to go on for days? Maybe even weeks. Once my fae kindred start making merry, there’s no knowing how long their revels may last.”

I frown. I don’t have days, certainly not weeks. Though time passes differently across the various realms of Eledria, I gather it’s been nearly two days since I bargained with the crone. I only have tonight, one full day, and the next night after before that great pain she promised will begin. I need to complete my mission first.

“Very well,” I say. “I shall simply have to interrupt. He will understand when I’ve explained matters to him.”

The Prince snorts. “You really think you’ll be allowed anywhere near Estrilde’s festivities looking like that?” His eyes rove over my frame. The dust, dirt, and grime caking my worn dress, my hair still thick with salt from my deep-sea plunge, my skin sallow, my whole frame sagging and exhausted.

I draw myself up straight. “Very well, Prince.” My voice is cold, imperious. I meet and hold his gaze, harder than I’ve managed since that terrible moment when I stared into his eyes, waiting for him to respond to my impulsive kiss. Waiting, waiting . . . only to be rejected. Only to have everything I thought had been building between us for days, weeks—even months—thrown back in my face and made to seem utter foolishness.

But I won’t let that moment ruin everything. I won’t let it leave me cowed and weeping and weak.

“You are Obligated to help me,” I say, pouring all the force I possesses into the words. “What would you suggest we do?”

He draws a long breath through his nostrils, his jaw hardening. But the longer he resists his Obligation, the harder it becomes. I know from experience. I have only to wait.

Finally, he lets out that breath. His lips pull back in a deceitfully easy smile, only just on this side of a grimace. “Well,” he says, tilting his head to one side, “for starters, you’re going to need a gown.”

Folds of iridescent lavender seem to shimmer with their own light, creating a sense of movement and life in the otherwise still cloth. The fabric was obviously spun from real flowers, using magic to turn silken petals into delicate filaments. Living flowers bloom across the skirt as well, and vines weave along the hem and fluttering sleeves. Adding to the overall effect, butterflies of the same hue flit around the skirts. They’re so realistic, I’m almost able to ignore the glamour-light trailing in their wake.

It is by far the most incredible gown I have ever seen.

“It was my mother’s,” the Prince says, holding it up for my inspection. “A bit out of date for current Aurelian fashions. But pretty enough, I should think.”

We stand in the dead queen’s old apartments, which are kept fresh and ready as though she might any moment return to this life and require their use. The Prince always claims them during his infrequent visits to Aurelis. No one stopped us from entering this time. The Prince marched right into his mother’s dressing room, rummaged through her bountiful collection of fine garments, and returned to where I waited in the main sitting room with this.

I stare at it, awed. Queen Dasyra had an affinity for plant magic, so it’s no surprise she would favor gowns of living blossoms. My stomach clenches even as I fight the desire to reach out and touch the beautiful cloth. “Do you have anything else?” I ask, not meeting the Prince’s gaze. “Anything not quite so . . . much?”

The Prince snorts and shoves the gown into my arms. “Into the washroom, Darling, and clean yourself up. I’ll not escort you anywhere begrimed as you are. Quick now, or we’ll miss all the fun.”

“I thought you said thefunwould be lasting for days?” I mutter but offer no further protest as I’m ushered to a half-open door. Though the idea of wearing Dasyra’s gown makes me uncomfortable, the lure of the washroom draws me like a fly to honey.

Carrying the dress carefully in my arms so as not to let it touch my filthy self, I step into the chamber and push the door shut behind me with my heel. For a moment, I lean back against the door and simply breathe. Breathe in the humid air, the sweet smells rising from the hot-spring bath set into the floor. Breathe in the perfume of Dasyra’s flowers, still living, blooming, thriving even five years after her death. I open my eyes, gaze around this space that once was hers. It’s like a secret garden and hidden lagoon all in one. The in-ground bath is so natural and surrounded by so much greenery and growth, one could easily imagine stumbling upon it in the depths of some enchanted grove.

I find a safe place to lay the gown. Then, fingers trembling, I strip out of my limp and pungent garments, grateful to leave them in a pile on the floor. My first step into the steaming pool makes me hiss and catch my breath, but I adjust quickly. With a sigh, I sink deeper down, not quite willing to immerse myself—not after my recent journey to Ulakrana—but happy to let the hot water wash away my aches and pains.

Despite the natural setting, Dasyra’s washroom is fully stocked with all the most luxurious essentials. I find soaps, lotions, creams, brushes, everything I could wish for to make myself fresh and neat. All the while I keep my mind focused on what comes next: on finding Ivor, on drawing him away from the ball for a few private words. Of what I’ll say, how he’ll react, what it will mean.

I absolutely will not think of that moment outside the tower. Of how the Prince had looked at me. As though he saw all the possibilities of the worlds in my eyes. Of how I had waited in glorious suspense, hoping, believing, longing . . .

I splash hot water in my face. Then, growling softly, I climb from the pool, wrap a towel around my body, and go in search of means to dry my hair. A little exploration reveals a Fire Bonnet: a five-petaled flower which, when coaxed to open, emits a steady, vertical, pinkish flame. Using a comb and brush, taking care not to singe any stray strands, I comb my hair until it gleams. I consider searching for pins to put it up but change my mind when I discover the gown is off-shoulder. I prefer not to display quite so much skin, but my loose hair may serve as a covering of sorts.

Once I’ve donned the gown and done up the row of buttons under the right arm, the butterflies dancing about the hem fly up suddenly to settle in my hair. It surprises me, but when I try to wave them off, they merely flutter and rearrange themselves into a living crown. They seem determined, so I leave them be and go in search of a mirror. I find one tucked between two silver-trunked saplings. Standing before it, I turn this way and that. I hardly recognize myself. Certainly the figure in the glass is a far cry from the salt-and-sand-caked gremlin who’d staggered through the door.

I grimace. Really, what had I been thinking, throwing myself at the Prince like that while in such a ridiculous state? No wonder he practically ran away screaming. Well, maybe not screaming. He didn’t even run away. I almost wish he had . . . anything would have been better than that expression of sardonic dismissal. Like I was nothing more than an amusement, a comical little curiosity. A diversion.

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