My heart pangs again, a painful jolt against my rib cage. That low, feverish ache in my abdomen—the one that began the moment I regained consciousness and found him there, mere inches from me on the bed, waiting for me to awaken—intensifies until I can scarcely sit still. “Penn—”
“You need to rest. And I need to get down to the Great Hall. I’m late for Vanora’s dinner.” He is still not looking at me. “The servants will be up soon with a tray of food for you. When you feel strong enough, they’ll draw you a bath.”
“Okay,” I whisper, hardly knowing what else to say.
“Sleep here. Don’t risk climbing the ladder to the spire. You’re still too weak.”
“Okay.”
“Help yourself to the books.”
“Okay.”
“I will see you in a few days.”
“Oka— Wait. Did you say a few da—Wait!” I cry, but he’s already crossed to the far side of the chamber and stepped through the door. It clicks shut firmly at his back.
Glowering at his high-handed exit, I slide down into the fluffy mass of pillows stacked around me. As I burrow beneath the blankets, I’m annoyed to note that they smell like Penn. Spiced smoke, dark fire. I am even more annoyed to find that there is a part of me that quite likes being here, in his bed, breathing him in with each inhale, my senses engulfed by his lingering presence.
My head is awhirl with thoughts of Enid—for though he told me of her untimely death, it was in but the vaguest of terms. I stillhave questions. More than I can put words to. Yet they are already slipping from my tired mind as the waves of exhaustion I’ve been battling since the second my eyes peeled open lull me back beneath their thrall.
Tucked safe and warm beneath the blankets, I allow my eyes to slip shut and fall into a deep slumber. If I dream at all, I do not remember.
I am keptabed for three endless, excruciating days.
My maids, Keda and Teagan, are lovely women who do their best to keep me happy and healthy as I slowly regain the strength my failed training session sapped away. But even the most kindhearted prison guard is still resented by their prisoners. Especially as the penal sentence stretches on without reprieve.
By the end of the first day, I am physically recovered—the ache gone from my bones, the cold prickle of power gathering once more within my chest, only the slightest hint of fatigue lingering when I overexert myself. By the second afternoon, I am chafing to be released from my increasingly dull confinement. By the third morning, I have abandoned all attempts at civility in favor of brooding in sullen silence—except when asked a direct question, at which point I become so curt and churlish, it is enough to make me flinch.
I tell myself that my general grouchiness has nothing at all to do with the absence of a certain cantankerous prince. For Pendefyre has not shown his face even once since I first awoke and found myself in his bed. I wonder where he is sleeping—and, in weaker moments, whom he might be sleeping with, as Vanora’s serpentine voice snakes an ugly path through my head.
I do hope she’s not another one of your whores. The last one made such a spectacle of herself when you grew tired of her charms.
It does not matter whose bed he sleeps in. It is no business of mine. Yet I am unquestionably irritable as the days creep on without a visit from him—a sensation that only intensifies when I realize I can no longer sense his presence through our bond. Not a flicker, no matter how long I sit on the settee by the fireplace and cast out my senses in search.
Just when I was beginning to grow accustomed to the invisible tether between us, it’s vanished with an abruptness that makes my eyes sting unpleasantly. I narrow them into a scowl—rage is a safer emotion than anything else I might be feeling—which I then direct at the empty spot on the desk where a gleaming black battle helm once sat beside a bandolier of slim, lethal blades.
Keda, ever observant, notices my dark look and promptly informs me that the prince has left the city on official business.
“No doubt seeing to some of the Fyremas preparations,” she breezes, running a boar-bristle brush through my hair in long strokes from the crown of my head all the way to the ends where they fall against the small of my back. “It’s only a fortnight away. The whole castle is in an uproar getting everything ready. I’m sure the prince is as busy as the rest of us.”
“When will he be back?”
“No rightly idea, miss. Don’t fret, it’s nothing unusual. He’s often away from the keep settling trade disputes, or consulting with Commanding General Yale in the northern provinces, or attending diplomatic summits in other kingdoms…”
“Oh.”
“Now that he’s returned, His Highness will be resuming most of his responsibilities outside the capital. More than before, I’d guess, seeing as the queen has no heirs and Her Royal Majesty does not often stray far from the keep, being of advancing years and failing health. We won’t be seeing much of Prince Pendefyre around here for a while, I reckon.”
The news makes my heart clench in a completely unwarranted manner. I try—with questionable success—not to sound too crestfallen when I ask if he’ll be back for the festival.
“Most certainly,” she assures me. “He never misses Fyremas.”
“What is Fyremas, exactly?”
“Did your old kingdom not celebrate the equinox, Lady Rhya?”
I shake my head.