Page 28 of The Queen and the Half-blood
Alone. She didn’t close her eyes again. Instead, she reveled in the strangeness of it. A queen’s time was never her own. To have some solitude was an even greater luxury than a bath. Picking up a cake of fine lavender soap, she lathered a soft cloth and began to wash. The gentle splashes filled the alcove, as did the pungent, woodsy scent—so different from the sweetness of rose.
Her wrist started to sting then, and she examined the fresh scab. It was healing well enough, although she’d taken care to hide it from Mirren when she helped ready her for the bath.
Turning her wrist over, she tried to banish the wound—and the blood oath—from her mind. She didn’t want to think about her impending handfasting. She wished to enjoy some peace.
She sighed then, letting the tension of the past days ebb from her.
She’d done it. Taking back Doure had required a sacrifice on her part—one she didn’t wish to dwell on—but her council, and her people, would come to realize she’d made the right choice.
Mor would think twice before pushing south now.
Lara’s eyes fluttered shut once more. This space, high up in the broch, was an oasis of calm. Outside, her army of Marav and wulvers were repairing the gates and ensuring the fort was secure, while the servants she’d brought from Duncrag were making themselves at home in the kitchens and preparing a feast for the evening.
She and Alar would break bread together for the first time.
The reminder punctured her bath-time bliss like a thorn, and her eyes snapped open.
Curse it, the prick kept intruding. She wasn’t allowed any respite, it seemed.
She wasn’t looking forward to having everyone’s eyes upon her while she sat with her betrothed upon the high seat. Nonetheless, it was necessary after the bargain she’d struck.
“Enough,” she muttered. “Don’t let him ruin your bath.”
Soaping up her hair, she massaged her scalp before ducking under the water to rinse it. Then, wringing the water out of her hair, she pinned it to the crown of her head and leaned back against the rim once more. Drowsiness settled over her.That’s better.
“Shades, it’s chaotic out there.”
Mirren shoved aside the hanging and entered the alcove. She carried a tray with a ewer and a pewter goblet, her cheeks flushed from the climb from the lower levels of the broch.
Bree followed at her heels. “That’s right … you can’t walk two paces without running into a wulver.”
Florie entered then, a large basket of linen in her arms. “Aye,” the lass muttered. “They’re everywhere!”
Setting the tray down near where Lara still reclined up to the neck in the tub, Mirren shuddered, a hand lifting to the small dull-grey protection amulet that hung around her neck. The Hag’s staff.
“Iron won’t protect you from wulvers,” Bree replied with a glint in her eye. “Nor will salt … they aren’t like the other faerie creatures.”
Mirren swallowed. “What works against them then?”
“The same things that work against any Marav.” Bree paused then, casting Lara a sidelong glance. “Although, we shouldn’t be talking about such things. They’re ouralliesnow, remember?”
Spearing a piece of dried fruit with his eating knife, Alar watched the High Queen pick at her meal. “Enjoying the Shee fare?”
Her chin kicked up, those penetrating pine-green eyes settling on him. Of course, they both knew that wasn’t what he was really asking. What he really wanted to know was whether she was regretting their ‘arrangement’ yet.
Of course, she was. He’d given her what she wanted—but now, she’d be hoping there would be a way out of this.
There wasn’t.
The night before, after they’d sworn the blood oath, he’d left her tent with a sour taste in his mouth. He’d gotten what he wanted, but in doing so, he’d also made Lara promises—ones he hadn’t yet shared with his brothers and sisters.
“It’s different from what I’m used to,” she replied stiffly. “But tasty enough.”
An array of dishes lined the long table upon the high seat. They bore a selection of cheeses, fruits, custards, poached fish, and light, crispy bread. Two slaves bearing dull-grey iron collars stood discreetly at the back of the high seat, jugs of wine in hand.
There were four people seated at this table, but only one of them was eating with relish: Bree, the High Queen’s warder. When they’d taken a seat at the table earlier, Bree had scowled at Alar—as had the chief-enforcer who joined her—but now thefood had her full attention. Her gaze was eager as she helped herself to one of the pale custards garnished with violet petals, a dish no one else had dared to sample.
Taking a mouthful, she sighed with pleasure. Silence fell at the table, and when Bree realized everyone else was looking her way, she frowned. “What?”
