Page 72 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
I remain where I am, unmoving. Skirts rustle, and heels tap on the black stone as the Queen descends toward me. With the toe of her scarlet shoe she nudges my chin, lifting my face. “What’s your name, Seelie?”
“Elowen, your Glorious Eminence,” I reply. “I crave the honor of painting your portrait, of attempting to capture the grace, power, and dread beauty of the Unseelie Queen.”
“Pretty words, and a pretty face,” says the Queen. “I am in need of a court painter. Let us see what you can do, Elowen.” She bends, cupping my chin and speaking in a sweet, confidential tone. “If you disappoint me, I’ll eat your heart.” Her smile is stunning, but her gums are unnaturally red.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply.
She straightens. “Bring the Seelie girl an easel, some parchment, and paints! She shall sit on my dais and paint my portrait. Hatter, off with you to your workroom. I need a new hat for tomorrow’s game of croquet.”
The thought of Ygraine leaving frightens me, though I keep my face smooth and expressionless.
Everything will be all right. I have the spells Fin gave me, hidden in my rings. And he’ll be here soon. He has to be.
As Ygraine curtsies and recedes into the crowd, the cat-eared Fae who has been playing cards with the Queen twists around on his stool and looks straight at me.
This must be the Cat I’m supposed to charm. He matches Fin’s description—silky black hair to match his black ears, a lithe, lean body, and purple eyes. But he doesn’t seem languid or relaxed, which I expected from Fin’s critique of him as lazy and needy. No, this Cat is tense, like a coiled spring—rigid with anxiety, or purpose, or both. Which might make my job of seducing him a bit harder.
Since I met Finias, I’ve grown far more comfortable with my sexuality. I’m still not as open about it as Louisa—I don’t joke or comment publicly about such matters. But I’ve learned all the things Fin likes, from sultry expressions that arouse him to little smiles that make him melt and declare me “adorable.” I can adapt that knowledge for my seduction of the Cat.
As the Queen resumes her seat on the throne, I venture a small, cautious, admiring smile in the Cat’s direction.
His mouth widens in response, a toothy grin twice as wide as Fin’s. My god, he’s horrifying. But I force myself to smile more freely at him. I even sink into a slight curtsy and trace my lower lip with my tongue.
The Cat turns his attention back to the Queen, but not before I saw his slitted pupils widen.
So far so good.
Moments later, I’m seated on a tall stool, a few strides from the throne, within full view of the Queen and the entire Dread Court.
Never have I painted a full portrait in front of a large audience—much less an audience of creatures who would want to eat me if they knew I was human.
I feel exposed, stripped bare and placed on a cold, lonely pinnacle above a teeming sea of monsters. If I should waver, and tumble from this perch, they will devour me.
I force myself to breathe slowly, rhythmically. I’m glamoured, protected—they think I’m Fae. And with the charm-infused hat Ygraine made me, everyone who looks at me will instantly find me more likable.
For now, I’m safe. All I have to do is keep my eyes on my work.
I examine a bottle of paint. Its scent is slightly different than I’m used to, but it’s familiar enough—the strong odor of oil and pigment. The brush I pick up is even more reassuring—smooth and slim between my fingers. The parchment is thick and creamy. Several sheets of it are clamped to the easel’s frame.
These tools are mine. I know them, and I understand how to use them. I simply have to block out everything but the Queen, while I create the kind of portrait she wants. Because this isn’t only about replicating her visage exactly—it’s about revealing her truth to her own eyes.
As I begin to sketch, the cat-eared Fae continues his game with the Queen. His movements are uncannily swift. There’s an almost desperate energy to the way he throws down each card.
“You’re not playing well tonight,” the Queen says. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the stakes.” She glances aside at a courtier in a big bonnet decorated with raven plumes and dead roses. “Dixlen, kindly repeat the stakes to which Caer agreed.”
“If Caer wins seven of thirteen hands, her Majesty, the Queen of Unseelie, will send additional troops to patrol outside the Calamity Gate tonight. If he loses, there will be no reinforcements.”
“If you lose this hand, Caer, you lose the bet,” says the Queen.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Cat replies. There’s something hollow in his tone. I don’t understand what’s going on, but the gate they’re referring to is the one Ygraine and I used—the one Fin will have to pass through soon, if he hasn’t already.
I continue sketching the Queen’s outline with a slim graphite stick, while keeping an eye on the game. Papa used to play cards and dice with friends sometimes, but this game isn’t one I’m familiar with.
The cat-eared Fae draws another card and hesitates, his tail lashing.
“Not a good one, I take it?” says the Queen.
He lays down the card on the little table between them.
