Page 67 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“Stop ogling me, you perverted faerie.” I shove his chest.
His merry laugh is thin, forced, but I pretend not to notice as he clothes me in a gown of black velvet and ebony gauze, with thigh-high slits for easy movement. The bodice sparkles with ruby beadwork and cups my form perfectly. A sea of glittering black tulle frames my shoulders. Boots of dark-red leather, laced from toe to top, cover my legs to mid-thigh.
“I won’t thank you,” I tell him softly. “It’s not the Unseelie way.”
“Of course.” His jaw is tight. “Clara, I—” He’s fighting with himself, struggling… “Dearest, I—”
“Hush.” My fingers hover over his lips, without touching them. “Tell me after.”
“I will be watching you. I’ll be there, the whole time. If your disguise fails, I will do whatever it takes to protect you.”
“I know. And I’ll do the same.” But my stomach is twisting, crunching itself into brittle knots.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.” The words burst from him like the sun over a dark horizon, like a bright flame in the terrible night.
I can’t remember anyone else ever saying that to me. Not once.
Those words carry more weight than the ones he won’t say. They are light, and warmth, and strength.
And now I thinkImight cry.
“Ah, here we are!” Ygraine holds up two shiny black octagons. “The shield spells.”
I blink away tears. I can’t speak or I’ll start sobbing—but I smile at Fin, to let him know what his praise meant to me. His answering smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I leave behind my knives, but Fin keeps his in his boots. He’ll have to yield them at the gate, but I suppose he doesn’t want to take any chances between here and there. He stows my whip inside his other pocket—the magical one. Then he and I pick up our satchels, leaving behind any spells we won’t be allowed to bring into Mallaithe. Maybe they’ll help someone else, someone hapless traveler in this haunted land.
When we leave the tower, the black carnivorous vines hammer and scrape at the crystalline shield spells surrounding us. Judging by Fin’s face, he’s both astounded and intensely curious about the spellwork involved. But we can’t discuss it, because Ygraine and I have to go on ahead of him. We can’t approach Mallaithe in each other’s company.
The Hatter and I walk down the far side of the ridge, our protective dome keeping pace with us. I glance back once, but Fin is already out of sight.
A gnawing sense of loss and displacement begins to hollow me out—but then a pair of Heartless crash against our shield. Foiled but famished, they follow us, dragging their claws against the crystalline magic. Their presence is a blessing in disguise; it distracts me as Ygraine and I walk quickly through the black forest toward the city of Mallaithe.
19
The Rabbit takes me to a bathing room, locks me in, and tells me to wash up and prepare myself. I suspect he’s doing the same—cleansing his body from the signs of his most recent interlude with the Queen. I don’t like what he’s doing, playing this role with her. It’s awful… and rather noble, too.
When he lets me out, he’s dressed neatly in pure white again, and he’s wearing his brown rabbit-mask. After my bath, I dressed in the same clothes Caer gave me. I don’t have the luxury of hiding behind a mask, and it irks me that the Rabbit has placed that barrier between us. He’s refusing to discuss the way he savored me that night, with such passionate intensity. Refusing to acknowledge that the dreams he stole affected him somehow.
He takes my leash and walks me downstairs to the room with the silver tables. He doesn’t strip me bare this time, but he clamps my wrists and ankles into manacles.
He’s really going to do this.
Panic begins to swell in my chest—a screaming denial that I struggle not to voice. Instead, I ask, “Is the Queen beautiful?”
“Yes.” He tests the point of a tiny knife.
“I thought she must be. Men’s parts react to beauty, and you would need that reaction to please her, yes?”
“I do not react to beauty indiscriminately,” he says. “For me, arousal occurs when I admire the mind and personality of the individual. I would not be able to perform my role for the Queen without magic. I have these.” He reaches into some hidden pocket of his coat and takes out a small mint-green pellet. “It stimulates arousal in situations when I can’t achieve it naturally.”
“What’s in it?”
He rattles off a list of ingredients, among them gryphon semen and sluagh spit. When I grimace, his mouth quirks. “Magic is messy, vital, raw. Students of magic like me have developed ways to make it neater and more palatable. But it can be just as effective in its raw state, without any of the trimmings we add. For example, a blend of Fae cum, blood, tears, and spit, applied at the major energy points of the human body, is powerful enough to heal any injury.”
I’m disgusted, but intrigued, too. “I wish you could teach me about all of it.”
He approaches the head of the table, a pair of silver pincers in one hand and a knife in the other. “Your tongue first.”
