Page 417 of Flirting with Darkness

Although…

I did find the king’s company amiable. At times.

My mind flashes to the stream we bathed in together. The way his lean, muscled body looked. How it felt when he took me against the tree.

And the fire.

Gods, I’d miss that unseen, infernal blaze heating me through.

I should feel better than this. This is what I wanted. What I asked for. I made it through the night despite the poison, and I’m not getting marched to an executioner’s ax.

I shouldn’t…

Shouldn’t miss him.

I shake off the memories, get out of bed, and step back into my routine. First, performing my morning ablutions.

Except I’m not drenched in sweat. And I don’t reek of…

What had that scent been? The king wasn’t a demon, so it couldn’t have been hellfire or brimstone.

I put it out of my mind and lay the ruined dress in the wardrobe's bottom with Friday’s and Saturday’s dresses and pull out Sunday’s dress.

At the basin I gently wash my face and neck, mindful of the scrapes and scratches the thorn bushes left me. Except when I finally gaze at my reflection in the polished mirror, there isn’t a single mark on my face.

Or neck.

Or the back of my hands.

Not a scrape.

How is that possible?

I rush back to the wardrobe and pull out my azure dress. It’s certainly dirty, but that may as well have been cellar dirt for all I could tell.

I sift through the fabric, searching. Inch by inch, layer by layer of silky blue material slips through my fingers. Yet there isn’t a rip or tear anywhere.

Have I gone mad?

I drop the dress, searching for calm as I pace back and forth.

Mother hates it when I pace in my bedchamber. It’s over her drawing room and she says it sounds like I’m cracking eggs over her head when I do.

But I can’t get my thoughts in order, can’t make sense of what’s in front of me.

So I look to what’s always brought comfort. My routine. I take a beat and start reciting my morning prayers as I slide into Sunday’s dress.

It’s lilac, the exact shade of the flower.

I tidy the small altars to my patron gods and goddess and then head downstairs for breakfast.

“Good morning, dear,” Mother says at the breakfast table. “Did you sleep well?”

I take my place at the table and portion out my cup of tea.

Mother continues before I answer. “You look rosy and in good health,” she muses over her eggs.

I can’t complain today.

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