Page 5 of Of Rime and Ruin
“Begone,” he murmurs as he moves the stones in small, rhythmic circles. “Spirit, be still within this mortal husk. With flame and stone, I expel the darkness. Begone with you, dark spirit! You are not welcome here!”
The heat nears unbearable, and I close my eyes, pushing through. Pushing it all away. The anger. The fear. Until nothing is left but shame.
What have I done?
“We’ll get you right again,” he says.
The kettle screams. Hinges creak and the door swings open, followed by pattering feet and hissing skirts.
“Oh, deary me.” It’s Deirdre, my housekeeper, carrying a tray of porridge.
She rushes to the hearth and retrieves the whistling pot. My temple throbs as silence resettles.
“I thought I heard someone rustling about in the middle of the night. Thought it might be a frostcat.” She eyes the mount above the hearth, shivering at its snarl.
Lucas stiffens in the female’s presence, and the stones press into my skin. “So you brought it porridge?”
Her eyes twinkle. “Naturally.” Deirdre’s room abuts the healer’s office, and she has the sharp hearing of a glosswhale. No doubt she heard us through the wall.
“Bah,” says Lucas.
Deirdre ignores him. “How are you feeling, Sire?”
She makes quick work of the tea, pouring and steeping. One sugar cube.
“I’ve been better,” I say, accepting the mug. The liquid singes my tongue. With every cell of my body aflame, the knot in my stomach finally dissolves.
She watches me, those attentive eyes missing nothing. “Midnight swim?”
The healer grunts as he passes the stones over my shoulders. “Don’t rile him, Deirdre. Unless you want to be on the receiving end of that icy wrath.”
The mug creaks in my grip.
“Shush now,” the housekeeper hisses, swatting Lucas away. “I’ll take it from here.”
His stones leave my skin with a hiss of pain. “This ismyoffice.”
“Go sit in the corner, then. He needs a gentle touch, and you’re in no mood for this, Lucas. Look, you’ve burned him again.”
“Spirits never respond togentle,” Lucas grumbles, stepping back. “Might as well thaw the Rime by blowing on it.”
Her gaze pins me. “Sit,” she says. I sink into the chair. She hefts the bowl of porridge, fishes out a lump with her spoon, and lifts it steaming to my mouth.
“I’m not a mewling guppy, Deirdre,” I complain. “I’m the fucking Frost King.”
“Watch your language, love.”
We both know the routine. These are the instructions my mother left behind—heat to quench the anger, bran to stave the hunger, darkness to calm the fight.
Deirdre smiles, and I open my mouth for the spoon. With a swoop of her hand, she catches a drip of milk on my lips and dips the spoon into the bowl.
“Your mother would have wanted me to take care of you, Your Majesty. Goddess rest her scales. This is the oldest trick in your book, and if it works, why change it?”
My mother left other instructions, too. Locks on the doors and bars on my window. Keep everyone else far away from me. But we don’t mention those. They’ve never worked.
Deirdre is no easier to sway than a frostcat. Beneath that motherly expression is a will of steel. Either way, this will end in porridge.
So I accept her coddling. With each swallow, I resettle in my skin. Rooted once more in time and place.
