Page 14 of Healer to the Ash King
The bastard put me on the same hall as him. I’m going to be living next door to the Ash King.
Goodbye to any hope of sleeping soundly during this competition.
“I will send you a maid,” says Mistress Effelin, bustling out of the room. “My apologies for the delay, my lady.”
“It’s no problem. I don’t need a maid—”
But she’s already hurrying away, muttering something about towels and soap.
I venture into the bedroom, my shoes squishing on a thick, soft rug. Immediately I set my bag down and slide off my shoes. I’m used to going barefoot all day, and my toes are crying for relief from the unrelenting leather. I won’t pass up the chance to soothe my tired feet in this plush carpet.
The instant my soles sink into it, I release a soft squeal of delight.
And then I see the bed.
It’s beautiful, with satiny, scrunchy, rose-colored covers trimmed with tassels. And there are so many deep squishy pillows. I fling myself face-down onto it, thanking the Heartsfire aloud.
“You should be thankingme,” says a familiar voice. “I take it you like your room.”
I sit bolt upright in the bed, tendrils of hair tumbling over my face.
The Ash King is leaning against the wall of my room, his silky robe parted in a V, showing the slopes of his chest and stomach.
“How did you get in here?” And then I remember myself and gulp, “Your Majesty,” with a clumsy half-bow.
With his thumb, he indicates a door nearby, half-concealed by a damask curtain.
“There is a door from my room to yours?” I ask. “Why?”
“This room used to belong to my father’s mistress.”
Startled, I survey the room quickly. There’s nothing openly scandalous about it—it’s a luxurious, well-appointed room for a lady. In our kingdom, sexuality is not shamed as it is in other lands. Virginity is not so highly prized, sex work is accepted as needful, and open marriages or polyamorous groupings are common. Still, I can’t help feeling that my presence in this room is inappropriate at best and dangerous at worst.
The Ash King watches my reaction, with his chin tilted down and his eyes still gleaming deep red, like twin fires built far back in the recesses of a dark cave.
“My lord,” I say, as calmly as I can manage. “Are you sure it is appropriate for me to be here?”
“Perhaps not. Yet here you will stay.”
“But people will think—that I—that we—” I swallow. “They will think you favor me in some illicit way. What if they’re uncertain about trusting their daughters’ health to me? They might fear that I have designs on the throne and that I’ll sabotage the contestants to get it.”
“Do you have designs on the throne?” The Ash King folds his arms.
“Of course not.”
Again the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You say that as if it’s the last thing you’d ever want.”
“Because itisthe last thing I’d ever want. My lord.” The honorific is an afterthought, but he doesn’t seem to mind my lack of decorum. “You don’t know me. What if I’m an assassin?”
He smiles. It’s brief, like a lightning flash. Gone in a blink.
“You, an assassin. The girl with the muddy knees and the tangled hair, who came from the field in her underthings—”
“Those were not my underthings,” I gasp.
He looks at me sharply, and I press my fingers to my mouth. I interrupted the King.
“Your pardon, Majesty,” I breathe.
