Page 32 of Cursed Shadows 3

There is no doubt that thetutwas meant to stop me from leaving the kitchens.

But only Daxeel can command me.

I hesitate on it a moment. My hands clutch the rim of the cold, porcelain plate, ready to set it down at the table and join her as she’s indirectly ordered, but the stiffness of my legs are unmoving, as though they will only cooperate with me if it’s to turn around the bench and walk me out of the kitchens.

“I see you share my habit of a bite before bed,” she drawls, lifeless, and lifts her hand to gesture to the wooden chair across the table—a signal to sit. “I do not like that we have this mutual practice.”

The stone floor is cold against the soles of my feet.

I welcome the sharp, chilly nips as though it’s a pain I deserve, or at least one that offers enough of a distraction from the writhing of my stomach.

I force my legs to move—and they grudgingly take me to the table.

I slink into the chair opposite her.

Still, she doesn’t look at me.

Melantha pours out two mugs of poppy tea, the steam wispy enough that I know it’s cooled in the pot that’s been left on the table for however long.

The slaves must do this before each Quiet, prepare some foods and teas to leave out for Melantha.

Stiff on the chair, my toes flex, then curl, flex, then curl, under the shield of the table. I do loathe small talk. And with Melantha, I have not the faintest clue how to start it.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘Do you like it here in Kithe?’

‘Are you afraid that all your children are going to die by the end of the month?’

My mouth flattens on my weak ideas. I keep to silence.

Melantha butters her bread slice. Just that act alone reminds me all over again of that effortless bludgeoning energy of hers, like she herself is a mallet.

I start to pick at my nails.

The unease in my gut, like snakes have taken up residence and formed a pit, means my snack goes untouched.

“Agnar will come for the final passage,” she says, and it’s all too casually conversational for my comfort. “It is doubtful he will reside in Hemlock, but he might visit this home once or twice.”

I eye her closely, the way she smears a black paste over the buttered bread, a bitter paste that stinks of those kars and their thick smog in the human lands.

My mouth turns down at the idea of General Agnar in this house.

General Agnar is her husband and Daxeel’s father, this I already know, but the lull goes on a moment too long, and I think she expects me to play this game of chat with her.

“Your husband?” I prompt.

She lifts her inky eyes to me. “Agnar is not to be spoken to. He is not to be acknowledged,” she tells me, and there is a warning in her tone, like a blade’s edge before she adds, “and not to be sassed. That will only accomplish bloodshed.”

Mybloodshed.

In answer, I nod.

There is no snark to my expression, no moody pout to my lips.

She doesn’t command me for the sake of it, she warns me.

I note the difference.

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