Page 33 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
Seth’s casual mention of sponsoring the Spring seeds during the Yule pageant sets a chill down my spine. That age-old barbaric tradition of parading young women like trophies, to judge their worth based on lavish gowns and pretty faces, never sat right with me. If he’s so comfortably woven into that world, it doesn’t bode well for how he truly views women or marriage.
We backtrack along the same path we used on arrival, night creeping in fast. The healer strides ahead through the maze, her small figure full of purpose. Seth and I walk shoulder to shoulder behind her, the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath our boots falling into perfect synchrony.
“How did you get involved in the pageant?” I ask.
“My mother didn’t want anything to do with Wintermere after Iris’s death and tasked me with it.” Seth wraps the wool blanket tighter around his broad shoulders as we reach the castle gates. “But Elio was equally annoyed with her, so my seeds never made it far. Until Lori.”
“That woman is no Spring seed,” I clip.
“You’re right,” Seth chuckles softly, like this is all part of some heartwarming inside joke. “She’s one of Damian’s spiders. I schemed to get her enrolled in the Yule Pageant so she could spy on Elio for me, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
I nudge his shoulder with my own. “So you have a knack for making convoluted deals with desperate women.”
He bumps me back. “But with you, it feels new again. And I’d never use that word—desperate—to describe you.”
“What would you use?”
He stops for a breath, and I glance at his face.
“Ravenous,” he murmurs to the chilly breeze, and the word slithers through a tight, jarred crevasse in my soul.
That I am.
The guard from before nods in greeting as we pass the gates. Beyond them, the city is now dark and still. The snowy streetsahead twist downward in curves, their paths lit only by the mystical glow of blue Nether oil flames flickering on every porch. Dozens of chimneys release white smoke to the sky, the heavy fumes swallowing the twinkle of spiraling snowflakes.
Tundra feels smaller at night. The street narrows on our way down the slopes, the townhouses huddled closer together near the heart of the city. Their snow-capped rooftops cast long shadows on our path.
A few locals pass us by, their hurried footsteps confident and without thought, their faces half-hidden beneath scarves and hoods. I’ve never seen this part of Tundra, never ventured beyond the shops nestled outside the castle gates. Royal Fae usually travel between different parts of the kingdom using the sceawere, and it’s bizarre not to simply step into one mirror and out of the next. The coming war will force the rulers of the continent to reinvent their entire way of living.
The easy banter from before has given way to an insidious silence, and I steal another glance at my companion. The mischievous prince who trespassed into my shop is gone, replaced by a brooding Storm Fae.
Tundra’s main sanctuary rises at the center of town, its dark stone walls covered in droves of twisted, leafless white vines coated in frost.
Leona slows before the large doors and presses her hand to the wood, activating some kind of hidden mechanism. With a low groan, the ancient wood stirs and cracks open just enough to allow us entry. Seth and I follow a pace behind her, our shoulders brushing.
“You didn’t have to come along, you know,” I whisper without missing a step.
The frost-carved runes etched into the doors shimmer as we pass through the threshold, and Seth huddles closer. “I know.”
I wait for him to add some justification. Maybe say he came to maintain the illusion that we’re becoming fast friends, laying the groundwork for whatever comes next. But he remains strangely quiet.
The healer leads us past the waiting room and welcome counter into a large area in the back that’s sectioned off into a dozen cubicles by tall partition screens. She guides us to the nearest one. A simple chair is set up near the cubicle’s entrance, and I tip my chin toward it. “Stay here.”
Seth’s mouth curls down. “I have to tell them about Luther’s wolves. It might help.”
“You can tell them from this side of the screen.”
I’m not sure if he’s being nosy or just doesn’t like being left behind, but I sure as hells don’t know what to do with the caring look on his face.
“Oh, alright.” He sinks into the uncomfortable seat, and I hand him my fur coat before following the healer to the other side, Percy perched on my shoulder as we enter the cubicle.
The healing room is a striking blend of modern and traditional fixtures. A deep sink stands beside a sleek white countertop, and a special ever-burning lantern—no doubt enchanted by the Sun Court—casts light rivaling the brightness of a cloudless day. A cushioned leather examination table, designed for the patient to sit on or lie flat, takes up most of the space, flanked on either side by a myriad of drawers in various sizes.
Leona removes the makeshift bandage she secured earlier and cleans my wound again, then hikes up my sleeves to examine my cupid scars. This woman has the keen eye of a healer, and my skin tingles under her scrutiny.
“Don’t mind them,” I say quickly.
Her rich brown eyes search the depths of my soul. “Do you know what caused them?”
