Page 93 of A Chill in the Flame
“Hmm?” She didn’t look at him.
“Put some clothes on.”
“You’re such a prude.” Her eyes then landed on him, widening. Her hand flew to her mouth just as it dropped open. “You’re attracted to me!”
He closed his eyes and faced the ceiling again. “You’re a naked woman next to me in bed. And learning you wouldn’t murder me is pretty much your equivalent of a compliment. It’s not my fault that your foreplay is twisted.”
She punched him, and he smiled, keeping his eyes closed. “Go to bed, dog.”
“See you at dawn, witch.”
Forty-two
3:00 PM
15 hours and 45 minutes until execution
“Guests have arrived for you.” The servant knocked on Ophir’s door and called to her.
Ophir looked up from where she’d been relaxing on the bed. She wore gauzy, loose-fitting clothing that matched the fashions of the palace. Her dress was the same blue Caris’s eyes had been. Zita had treated her as an honored guest following their conversation, and it had taken no time to track down the fugitive in question. Ophir’s time in Tarkhany would come to an end.
She twitched in confusion, face bunching together, confident she’d misheard the young woman. She’d left her earpiece on, but the girl had been speaking the common tongue. “What guests would be here for me?”
The servant exhaled. “They’re from Farehold—arrived several hours ago. They’ve already spoken to the queen. She had them bathed from their travels and determined it appropriate that they hold an audience with you before tomorrow’s events.”
Ophir stood, dress so airy that it floated on a nonexistent wind in her wake. Outside the palace, people had been practically bundled against the sun, leaving little skin exposed to its scorching rays. In the shade, however, they remained in an ongoing state of near-nakedness.
Wearing gauze had been the norm since she’d arrived in Midnah, as had napping during the hottest times of the day, eating chilled, brightly colored fruits, and watching the strange, tall bird as it wandered around the palace as if it owned the place, skinny legs with knobby knees angled in the wrong direction, enormous black eyes always sparkling with avian curiosity as it looked for food. She supposed she would have let Sedit do the same, if it had been her palace. She hoped he was okay.
“Are you looking at the bird?” It was the same servant who’d refused to speak to her in the common tongue when she’d arrived. Ophir hadn’t been surprised that she’d come to check on the princess as she’d sat near the fountain under the setting sun. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
“Is he a pet?”
The woman made a half-shrug. “He’s more of a guardian. This type of bird is known for their relationship to snakes. They have a rather curious hunting technique. They strike with their talons before they peck.”
Ophir cast a nervous glance at her feet. “Are snakes a problem here?”
“In Tarkhany? Yes, of course. Cobras, vipers, mambas, all variety of venomous serpents. In the palace, however? No. And you can thank him for that.”
And so, she did. She silently thanked the tall, peculiar bird every time she passed the gardens. She wondered if she needed a bird on her side now that she was about to receive unexpected guests. Perhaps there would be snakes that needed stomping out.
She approached the middle of the room, each footstep slower than the one before until she came to a complete halt.Her time in Midnah had been so utterly removed from the horrors of Aubade that she’d nearly forgotten why she’d fled. A northern king, a white gown, a bridal veil, and a life in chains to duty awaited her. Anxiety was a cold, thumping thing as she waited to see who’d come to drag her back to Farehold. Her heart skipped arrhythmically as she looked for aid, wishing Sedit was there.
Sedit…
It was as if she’d looked in the mirror, then immediately forgotten her appearance upon turning her back. She possessed an emotional impermanence, born from a life of deeming herself the auxiliary sister, the unworthy heir, the failed daughter. But she was a motherfucking manifester. The truth of her power was as real and innumerable as the sands between Midnah and Aubade, yet her belief in her abilities was as thin and fragile as the gauzy gown she wore.
She became immediately self-conscious of how the cloud of fabric settled around her, hugging her curves, draping with such a thin, sheer covering that it peaked at her nipples, dipped with her navel, and pressed into the outline between her thighs. She hadn’t minded in the slightest while wandering about the palace, as everyone was dressed in similar garb within palace walls, but she wasn’t sure how it would appear to someone from her kingdom.
She clasped her hands in front of her and fidgeted with her fingers until an all-too-familiar face appeared at her door.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Ophir,” Harland practically cried in relief. He rushed to her as if to hug her, but her standoffish posture stopped him just short of the embrace. Instead, he snatched her hands from where they’d been folded delicately in front of her, scooping them into his own. His joyful reunion caught on a snag as his eyes dropped from her face and grazed over her practically exposed body. “What are you wearing?”
She shook her hands loose and took a step back, voice a mix between confusion and irritation. “You’ve come all theway to Tarkhany to ask me about fashion?” The truth was, it did feel good to see him. She’d felt very alone in the palace and would have taken anyone’s company. Berinth was already kept securely in shackles in the dungeon, and now all that was left was to dole out bloody, cathartic justice. It was the sort of thing Harland could be present for.
She looked over her shoulder. “Who did you bring?”
