Page 3 of Ties of Shadow

“Lady Aelia,” King Harold called. “Won’t you move down a seat so Lord Turnblat can sit beside Lord Brynett?”

I stood quickly, tucking my hair behind my ear in my surprise. I curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness.” I shifted down to the end of the table as Lord Turnblat and Lord Jerrund moved up into my father’s and my seats. I pulled the strands of hair I had left down in front of me, stroking them twice for comfort. I could eat here as well as there. My role was to serve the kingdom.

When I glanced back up toward Prince Leon, however, I was surprised to find Lord Brynett still staring, his jaw slack and his gaze fixed on my neck…or my ear. Did I miss something?

“My lord?” I asked, shifting in my seat as I bunched a bit of fabric between my fingers beneath the table. But he just pointed at my head with a furrowed brow. I brought a napkin to my chin and dabbed at my lips.

Lord Jerrund, who had just seated himself, turned sharply, acknowledging my existence for the first time in several months. “Egads, lass, are you sick? Cursed?”

My lips parted. Lord Jerrund was always a bit gregarious, but this was surprising. “I…no? I’m not cursed. What is it?”

“Your neck. What did you do? It looks like it’s rotting away!” Lord Jerrund leaned away, standing to gain distance. The entire table wasnow staring. Placing a hand upward, my fingers followed my collarbone up to my jawline, where I felt residual evidence of the shadow magic behind my jaw by my beauty mark.

I pulled my hand away, studying the blackness on my fingers, my throat tight. “Forgive me, my lord. I was in…in the garden…when the shadows fell.”

Lord Jerrund sniffed haughtily as he straightened his jacket and resumed his seat, unembarrassed by his outburst. “Your lady’s maid should be put out on the streets for missing such a thing. The inattention!”

Prince Leon cleared his throat, and the table fell to a respectful silence. “Perhaps so. Lady Aelia, go tidy up. Discuss this with your maid, or I shall have to.”

My cheeks flared as hot as a sunburn under the weight of his gaze. I rose, curtsied, and swept out of the room. Yes. Me and my maid. The prince knew I had no maid, but no one else did. My father and the king regent were convinced that I would be fine on my own. Fine indeed. I paced back to the room and studied myself in the mirror, turning my head unnaturally to find the spot. Of course, I had missed it. I had a small mark tucked into the natural shadow below my ear, a mole that arrived when I was seven. The mark had been covered by a smear of black acid rain and was now irritated. I closed my eyes, clenching against the wave of shame. So much for being quiet and unobtrusive. How could I embarrass the prince in this way?

Grasping a cloth and dipping it in the cold, sudsy bathwater, I leaned toward the mirror to scrub away all evidence of my foraging. The cloth darkened, and I rinsed it again, but a thin line, swirling around the dark center circle and up toward my ear, remained. How much shadow goo could hide behind an ear? The skin around it turned red as I scrubbed, but it persisted. I cleaned several more roundsbut made no headway; the cloth no longer darkened, but my skin refused to release the last bit of grime. With a grunt, I threw the cloth at the mirror. It was hopeless. Or maybe Iwascursed, and Lord Jerrund was right all along.

It appeared I would not be returning to dinner, so I slipped down to the kitchen through the servant passages to grab some food and some help. The bustling form of Chef was kneading the bread dough for the morning. With dinner well underway, the room bustled with staff carrying new dishes, leaving soiled ones for the washers, and rushing around in a frenzy. Chef’s hair danced to and fro over her forehead as she kneaded. I hated to disturb her. “Forgive me, Chef, do you have any oil I could use, please?”

Without turning, she pointed to a shelf. Grabbing a tall glass bottle, I doused a clean cloth and began rubbing anew. Her clomping steps warned me of her arrival. “Child, child, you have to leave the ear attached! Give the thing to me.” Taking the saturated napkin, she pushed my head, tilted it to the side, and threw my hair behind me. Then she froze.

With a frown, I turned toward her, but her face had paled to the shade of the flour that dusted her cheek. Shaking herself, she dabbed the area twice, then stepped back again. She coughed. “It’s only an irritated beauty mark.”

“So I’m not cursed?” I said, smiling to lighten the tension. Chef stumbled and nearly knocked against a nearby pot.

“What?” she laughed with too much air. “Who would say such a thing? It’s only a mark, like the one on my arm. Hard-earned and lovely, they are.” Her eyes pierced me as she turned back. “All the same, better leave it alone. Let it heal.” She tapped her hands against the table. “Is that why you left the dinner?”

Nodding, I twisted the rag. “Lord Jerrund and Lord Brynett saw that I missed some of the shadow filth from earlier. Made a scene.” I tossed the rag into the laundry basket. “And Prince Leon told me to get my maid to fix it.”

Her face softened with empathy. “Ah, dear girl. Prince Leon has a hard job, you know. Saving face in front of his father and people. I’m sure he didn’t want to upset the Mastersons.” She took some food from the ready dishes and made me a plate, wrapping the rolls before passing it back. “You’ll be alright. But head back up to your room for now. Tend to your da when you’re done. Keep your hair down so you don’t go messing with it.”

She paused and placed a hand on my cheek with a confused expression before turning me bodily and pushing me out the door. “See you in the morning, lass.” The door clicked shut behind me.

I stood on the other side of the door, reeling, blinking into the shadows of the spider-filled servant hall. My necklace glowed weakly in the dim light. What in the sunny lands was that? Returning to my room, I sat at my bureau, staring at my reflection and wondering what kind of beauty mark could cause the steady chef to stumble.

Chapter three

Father First

Later that evening, the tea platter shook under my grasp as I turned the corner toward the herbalist’s room. The stories I told the lords weren’t a complete lie. My father was researching ways to cure the queen. But he was also decidedly unwell…and nearly as volatile as the Shade himself.

The teacup vibrated noisily against the metal kettle. Taking a calming breath, I reminded myself that I had been here before, had borne up under his displeasure before, and that it would be okay. I’d drawn my hair forward with loops of curls and braids, hiding the beauty mark as Chef had instructed, but I ached to rub at it again. I shifted the remnants of the herbs the washers had readied from my search that day. They looked truly pathetic.

Rallying my courage, I stepped into the room. The candles had burned to the bases, all but a few snuffed out in their own wax. I pulled a fresh one out of my apron pocket before resting it on the tray as well. His snoring preceded him. The potion-making glassware lay scattered around him as he slumped in his seat, his cheek smeared on the table, with a puddle of drool seeping off the edge and onto the floor. The liquid swirled with the amber drops that fell from the bottle, tilted in his hand. A white stellate scar spread spindly legs across his wrist justpast the cuff of his shirt—evidence of his cursed bond and his attempts to destroy it.

My cheek pulled back in disgust at the scene. The savior of the queen, the healer of the wounded, passed out and drooling on the floor, saturated in despair and alcohol. He had power because of his magic and his skill with herbs. Even though lately, I had been the one making a lot of the potions for the queen. I had been the one to clean up his messes and hide the truth from the others. But I pressed my eyes shut and shoved the bitterness down. This was my father. He loved me, and I loved him. I would help him as I always did. I would be helpful, quiet, nice. Setting the tray down, I tidied the table before him, shifting his glasses away to be a bit more out of reach. Then I stepped back.

“Father,” I called from a few feet away. I had learned not to approach immediately. “Father.” A bit louder. He didn’t stir. I bit my lip, pulled the tips of my hair, and stepped behind him. Reaching forward, I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Father, it’s me, Aelia.”

He roared to a drunken awareness, swinging and flinging his arms as his glazed and unfocused eyes darted about the room. I was not far enough back. A hand flew back into my stomach, knocking me into the table behind me. I tripped over my skirts and fell to the ground. Gasping, I tucked myself under the table like the coward I was. Tears filled my bottom lids as I gulped for breath, my arms holding my stomach. Long moments later, the muscles released, and I could inhale fully, albeit shakily.

Hostile, bloodshot eyes suddenly appeared before me. He had crouched so his round face hovered mere inches above my own. His acidic breath exhaled remnants of the mead he favored. Glancing down, he grasped my wrist and, with a push of his loamer earth magic to heave the stones beneath me, pulled me out from under the table. Iscrambled to my feet, keeping my eyes on the shifting floor—his magic was as drunk as he was—and gave a slight curtsy.

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