Page 155 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
No one falls in love that fast.
She grabbed the vase of hyacinths on her breakfast table and sent it flying across the room. The glass shattered against the wall, and the crushed purple flowers dropped in a wet bruise to the floor. But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t stop the lightning crackling beneath her skin. She yanked the cloth from the table, and dishes crashed to the floor, untouched pastries rolling like dead soldiers across the carpet. It still wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t rage that consumed her, but something deeper and more painful. A devouring despair was eating her alive.
She searched for something else to throw, destroy, something to block out the voices in her head, and spotted the wardrobe. Her chest heaved, and she lunged at it as if it was a living beast, and threw open its doors. Dusk closed in around Tyghan, the palace grounds blinking alive, but he saw and heard none of it. The rest of the world was a blur as he beat a straight path to Bristol’s room. Their discussion was not over.
Quin and Melizan both warned him not to go, to give Bristol time, but Madame Chastain was right in this instance. Time would not fix this problem. It would only allow it to fester like a dirty wound. He had to clear the air with Bristol. Give her context to events that had happened. She had heard Kierus’s version first, but she would hear his version last. He turned the corner to the hallway that led to her room, and his steps slowed, then stopped altogether. The hallway—
Its full length was littered with items he recognized, like a raiding troop of wild things had passed through, scattering them helter-skelter. His shirts. Boots. Trousers. Halfway down the hall, his knives—all three—were stabbed into a mirror frame. Jackets, combs, belts, every personal item of his that had made its way into Bristol’s room these past weeks was flung out like things so foul, they had to be disposed of immediately.
Amid the bedlam, something else caught his eye. Something small, sparkling, and green. He walked closer and knelt. It was one of the emerald earrings he had given her. He remembered kissing each of her earlobes before he gave them to her. He picked up the earring, cupping it in his palm, remembering her saying,Your love is more precious to me than any jewel.
Apparently not anymore.
He looked around for the other earring, but it was lost somewhere under the mounds of mayhem. He shoved the lone jewel in his pocket and walked toward her door.
This wasn’t over yet.
Bristol’s thumb throbbed. There was no question that she had broken it after slamming the wardrobe door shut during her rampage. She could go to Olivia or Esmee to have it healed, but then she might run into someone, and there were at least a dozen people she wanted to avoid. And maybe the throbbing was a good thing, something else to occupy her because she was tired of thinking. It hurt too much, far more than a broken thumb.
She stretched out, perched at the end of her bed, wishing she could fall asleep, wishing she hadn’t broken the flask of wine on her table. Wishing she had two more just like it. Every time she closed her eyes, a new voice would creep in, making her question everything she had ever believed about her life.
Come away, child.
Her mother pleading with a four-year-old girl. What was so dangerous about that tree? What did her mother fear? That it was a portal that would take Bristol away? A goblin that might eat Bristol whole? A king’s hunter who might whisk the unsuspecting child back to Elphame? Or was it simply all the secrets that Bristol might unlock?
That long-ago afternoon was a collage of blurred memories, her mother’s lips pressed to her temple, the strange words she whispered against her skin, the frayed edges of secrets they held, her mother’s desperation making her careless.Spells. She was casting spells.If only Bristol had been old enough to make sense of it all.
She felt her mother’s grip around her again, tight and full of dread.She sacrificed everything for you.Leanna Keats had never been good at expressing her feelings, not like her father, who had a tongue of honey and optimism. But with her mother, there was always the watchful eye, somehow grabbing her three daughters’ hands at once, like a hen’s broad wing around chicks, and pulling them closer. She always feared dangers they couldn’t see, the dangers her mother couldn’t forget. Bristol remembered the many times she and Cat tried to wriggle free from her clutch. Even when they camped in a meadow, her mother always walked the perimeter first before any supplies were pulled from the van or fires were lit. She’d claim she was gathering stones for the firepit or checking for snakes, but until she signaled Bristol’s father, the girls weren’t allowed more than an arm’s length from the van. What had she really been searching for? Lurking fae?
Her parents were killed in a goblin raid.And then on the heels of that, her uncles had abused her and chained her to a post. Were those the nightmares her father had to wake her from? He sang to her, repeating the same few stanzas from a poem as he stroked her head until she fell back asleep. Those were the fears that Kormick bound her with.
Bristol was just getting used to the idea of her mother being fae, the secret settling into her bones, but now she had to grasp that her mother was regarded as a monster, too—Kormick’s monster. And yet . . . her father was called the Butcher of Celwyth, a title that, at one time at least, had commanded respect and awe. Some even called him the wonder of Danu.I killed many. I did as I was told.Her father served one king, her mother another, one regarded as an esteemed knight, the other reviled as a monster. The fae world was a poisonous pot of contradictions.
Two sudden raps on the door broke the silence of her room. She sat up, her heart beating faster. Two more quick raps. Impatience. The rap of a king.
“I’m busy,” she called.
The door flew open, and Tyghan stepped in.
Bristol swung her feet to the floor, ready to take up a weapon. “Get out of my room!”
Tyghan surveyed the damage, his expression growing darker as he viewed the shattered glass and the overturned table. His nostrils flared. He looked as formidable and dangerous as he had the first time Bristol laid eyes on him. “Until yesterday, this wasourroom.”
“That was yesterday.”
His hand swept angrily out toward the hallway. “And that? What does that mean? Everything is over between us just like that?”
She rose from the bed. “Just what was between us, Your Majesty? From the moment we met at the Willoughby Inn, it was all a charade. More like a cheap carnival con. Sleight of hand. Reel the mortal in. Make her take the prize.”
“You’re not mortal.”
“Half. Or do you want to pretend my father’s half doesn’t exist? Wouldn’t that be convenient? Oh, but then there’s my mother’s half. I guess you lose all the way around, since you hate them both. Now I know why you were always so angry at me when we first met. You hated me too, didn’t you? You hated me because I reminded you of them.”
“I didn’t hate you. I was wary. A lot has happened since that first day at the inn.”
Her brows rose. “A lot.Such a lovely euphemism. You mean all the times we fucked? I guess we can chalk that up to Beltane, can’t we? A season of mistakes.”
