Page 51 of The Cornish Princess
“Not much.”
“Why?”
“I—”
Gwendolyn didn’t know. Perhaps she was unsettled, nerve-wracked by the simple truth that she must facehimthis morn. To be certain, it had nothing to do with having sneaked into Mester Ciarán’s laboratory to ask him a few questions. The man had tasked himself with performing a posthumous examination, to see if he could determine the true cause of the First Alderman’s death, but it was an impossible feat, with Bryok’s flesh already so smelly and rotten. Bloodless and grey, as though he were drained of all blood, his extremities were already turning black, particularly the fingers and toes. Even so, Gwendolyn had a robust constitution, and aside from the awful smell, she wasn’t the least bit fazed.
In fact, the physician had had a bowl full of prunes in his laboratory, and because she loved them so much, she’d sat, eating them whilst Mester Ciarán explored his cadaver.
“So eager as you must have been to join me this morning, you mustn’t go without breaking your fast.”
“As if you care?” Gwendolyn said.
“Oh, I do,” he argued. “Immensely.”
But there was nothing at all sober about Málik’s expression, and Gwendolyn doubted he spoke true. She rose, brushing herself off, and, satisfied that she was unharmed, the crowd dispersed as well.
Málik, too, rose from his haunches as Gwendolyn moved to retrieve her practice sword. “If you’ll pardon me,” she said. “I am done for the day.” And, only because it gave her some measure of confidence to assume her position of authority, she added, “As for you… you should plan to visit the pool, else you’ll find that mine is not the only spew you’ll wear today.”
Sadly, it was the worst thing Gwendolyn could find to say, and it fell far from the mark, which annoyed her all the more.
She couldn’t escape quickly enough. Not daring to look back, she ran toward the palace, passing Ely as she came out into the courtyard. “Gwen!” she said. “I heard—”
“Nothing happened,” Gwendolyn snapped.
“But—”
“I am fine!” Gwendolyn said again, and then she quickened her pace, unwilling to explain, not even to one of her dearest friends.
“Gwen!” shouted Ely again.
But Gwendolyn still didn’t stop, and she was relieved to hear someone calling Elowyn’s name—her mother, she believed, although Gwendolyn didn’t wait to find out.
ChapterEighteen
She could hear the cur moving about her antechamber.
Did he finally intend to move in? More’s the pity, because it wasn’t merely his right to do so—it was also his duty, and the thought sent needles through her gut.
Only remembering the mocking look upon his face when he’d glimpsed her practice sword, Gwendolyn wondered: What in the name of the Mother Goddess was she thinking?
Perhaps she’d simply not trusted herself to keep from running Málik through?
Certainly he brought out the worst in her, and she was mortified by the impassioned response she so oft had to a creature she oughtn’t even notice.
Except she did.
Gods.
From the first.
Whatever thrill she’d felt over meeting Málik that first day, it wasn’t shared. She sighed, remembering the cold Winter afternoon he’d ridden into Trevena.
His arrival had so much intrigued her. After all, how long she’d yearned to meet a true-bloodfae—someone who could corroborate the stories of her crib-side visitation.
He’d arrived wearing only thin black leathers and a simple cloak, his manner of dress so odd, considering how cold it was outside. From the ramparts, Gwendolyn had watched him canter through those gates, horse and rider moving as one, the two black as night against the Winter so white, with his bastard sword strapped to his back, and his silvery hair billowing behind him. From Gwendolyn’s vantage, it had been nearly impossible to distinguish snow from hair, as it swirled about him—until he’d neared, and then, the very first time he’d peered up to meet Gwendolyn’s gaze, his eyes were like anicebournesea, chilling her to the bone.
Even now, they had the same effect, no matter his mood, and yet at first, not even his sharp, pointy teeth had disenchanted Gwendolyn.
