Page 19 of Jailer to the Death God
Shit.
The pleasure is not fully satisfying, but it’s still strong enough that I barely manage not to gasp aloud.
The Queen collects the book in both hands and backs away, tilting her head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I say hoarsely.
“I’m going to call for some food. It won’t be much, because the kingdom is practically starving, but it’s better than nothing.” She walks over to the wall and opens a concealed cupboard, pulling out a cone-shaped device whose tapered end connects to a thin metal tube that disappears into the wall. She rings a little bell and then speaks into the cone, probably communicating with a servant.
Meanwhile I debate what to do about the stickiness in my trousers.
When she’s done speaking through the communication device, I ask, “Do you have any clothing I can wear?”
“Can’t you change your clothes like you change your form?” she counters.
“I could. Until you bound me. Now I can do this—” Rising, I switch to my jade-skinned form with horns, and I let my dark wings unfurl, nearly knocking over a vase in the process— “but I can’t change my form any further than that, or alter my clothing.”
I don’t miss the admiring look she casts at my wings, and I arch them slightly, letting a ripple run through the glossy feathers. But she doesn’t comment on their beauty.
“Very well,” she says crisply. “You may check in my father’s dressing room. Don’t touch my brother’s clothes at the front of the closet, but there should be some old clothes of my father’s in the chest at the back. You can try those. Mind you, they’ll be too short in the torso, the arms, the length… We’ll have to get some clothes tailored for you. You’re very tall.”
“I am.” I step nearer, towering over her, letting my gaze run down the length of her body. She holds the book against her chest.
“I’m going to change the sheets in the other room,” she says, breathless, and practically scurries away.
Wincing, I tug at my leather-bound crotch and head for her father’s closet.
9
There is a kind of grief that is acceptable among humans. Eyes glistening with sorrow, a slow trailing of tears, a few heartfelt sobs. But to collapse entirely? To scream and roar and groan the agony of one’s heart before others? No, that is not permissible, because it makes others uncomfortable in their lesser sorrow, in their helplessness. Your grief interferes with their placid sympathy. They feel as if you are doing wrong, somehow, by unsettling everyone.
That is the kind of grief I have shown to Arawn. Despite my studied control, he has seen me cracked open, bleeding tears, has witnessed the implosion of my soul.
I hate him for seeing it.
When I enter my bedroom and explore the state of the bed, I discover that its cleaning will require more than a simple change of sheets. Which leaves me with a problem—where am I to sleep? At this hour, the few healthy servants will be tending others or sleeping themselves. I can’t trouble them for a deep cleaning of my bedding and mattress tonight. And I would hate to ask them to prepare another room. Most of the rooms in this wing have been closed up, their linens appropriated for the use of the sick. Another problem related to the plague—it generates an unfathomable amount of soiled laundry.
I need Arawn with me, so I can keep an eye on him. It seems the only solution, then, is for him to take my father’s bedroom—the one my brother used during his brief rule—while I take one of the sofas. He would never fit on a sofa—much too tall.
After stowing the ritual book in a drawer, I enter my dressing room and switch my robe for a long nightdress. It’s one of my favorites—an exquisitely soft pink material with delicate white embroidery along the low neckline. The sleeves are made of lace; they skim along my upper arms and then flare out at my elbows, trailing nearly to the ground in a luxury of delicate craftsmanship.
I look at myself in the tall mirror on the wall. I’m pale as death, my blue eyes glazed with weariness. The flush from my bath is fading, leaving me sallow and sad. I am a shadow of the beautiful princess I once was.
A terrified squeak from the next room startles me. I hurry out into the parlor, just in time to see Arawn rescue the food tray from the nerveless fingers of a kitchen maid. He’s wearing different pants, but he’s still shirtless, in all his jade-skinned, black-feathered, horned glory.
“Shit,” I say. “Hessie, you can’t tell anyone about him, do you understand? You must say nothing.”
“That’s the—that’s—” She lifts a trembling finger. “The death god. The death god!”
“Yes, yes, hush! He’s here to help us, but you must not speak of his presence in the palace.” Dread weighs my heart, because this fluttery little maid doesn’t seem very capable of keeping dramatic secrets.
“Shall I kill her?” offers Arawn.
“Gods, no!”
He shrugs. “You seem keen on guarding my identity, that’s all. And this one doesn’t appear to be gifted with self-control.”
“I—I can keep secrets,” gasps Hessie. “Truly I can, Your Majesty, I can!”
