Nobody's Goddess (Never Veil #1)(32)

I clutched my shawl and felt the sweat pour off my palm in waves. The black leather seat beneath me felt hot. The air was stifling. But I had to try. I had to breathe.

Halfway through the woods I felt queasy—my mind playing tricks, that whisper of my full name in my ears—but it soon passed. I straightened my shoulders. What am I so afraid of? He’s my man. He’ll be happy to see me. But that was just it. By going, I was acknowledging he was my man.

You can’t run away from this forever. I’d spent long enough trying.

The carriage ground to a halt too soon, the short trip made even shorter with the horses’ assistance. The door opened and I took a specter’s outstretched palm with my own trembling hand. It was cold, so cold, and I wondered not for the first time how these men could seem so lifeless and still be among the living.

The gates and then the castle doors opened as the specters approached, and I stumbled inside the thunderously shaking castle. Only once I was indoors did the earth settle. The castle wasn’t dark this time. Torches lit the entryway, revealing an empty room, the scene of our first meeting. Even with the slight warmth of the air outside, it felt cold in the castle, like a gust of frigid wind encircled it forever.

I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder. Shivering, I turned, expecting to come face to mask with the lord at last, but it was one of the specters. He stepped back and gestured up the nearby staircase. Other specters lined the stairway, each gesturing upward. I cringed at the strange, inviting yet somehow unappealing sight. But I straightened my shoulders, clutched my shawl tighter around my throat, and ascended the stairs.

The line of specters continued onto the second floor and up another stairway to a third. I lost count of how many specters there were, perhaps a hundred, red eyes bearing down on me, red eyes watching from the edge of the light, each with one foot in the darkness. By the time I reached the top of the second flight of stairs, I exhaled, relieved there were no more steps awaiting me. Instead, a line of specters gestured down a hallway, their red eyes watching. I followed the path set out for me, stopping halfway when a line of specters blocked my way.

“I’m here to see the lord.” Who are these men?

The four specters before me nodded and gestured to an open doorway. I let go of my shawl, rubbed my palms against my skirt to dry them, and stepped in.

The room was huge—far greater even than the cavernous entryway two floors below. But it was practically empty. I followed a long, thin, and threadbare black carpet thrown down over cobblestone flooring. At the edge of the carpet against the wall was a large black chair—a throne, no doubt, like something out of the myths about rulers called kings and queens, only they would have kept their throne rooms on the lower floors of their castles. Above the throne was a sword that glowed violet. A sword. Something I’d only seen in drawings for made-up tales about the kings and queens who wielded them. Something there was no use for in everyday life, so there simply was no need for our blacksmith to forge. Axes were for chopping wood. Knives were for butchering and cooking. But a sword? The kings and queens of tales used them to battle, and once men found their goddesses, they simply lost all interest in swordfights and adventure. And most women never had such interests to begin with.

Most women besides me.

This sword glowed brighter than the flames of the torches lighting the way. I’d never heard anyone mention that swords glowed in stories. There were no windows, so the glowing could hardly be a trick of the light. The only other thing in the room was a bookstand with a single, large tome closed atop it. The book of Returning, perhaps? Always conveniently in the Great Hall on a Returning Day.

“Well, Olivière. Welcome. I am glad to see you chose to make yourself so comfortable.”

I dropped my hand immediately, not even realizing I was leaning against the throne, reaching up toward the sword. I didn’t even remember walking those last few paces.

“Please. Do turn around. I assure you I am now prepared for your visits.”

I turned, the sword somehow forgotten. His presence drew my eyes with such force I couldn’t bear to look at anything else until I’d absorbed all of him.

He was cloaked entirely in black. Not only was his embossed leather jacket darker than a shadow, his folded hands were covered with what appeared to be smooth, black leather gloves. Instead of a mask or a beautiful face, a gauze veil dark as ink covered his head, the corners of the material tied closed with a somber broach on his left shoulder. Were it not for the wide-brimmed hat he wore atop the veil—which was just as dark as the rest of his attire, if perhaps a little more resplendent—he might have very well sucked all of the light from the room. As it was, the hat—a sort of metal, pointed hat—was glossy enough that it reflected the flicker of the torches’ firelight in small, spectacular movements.

He walked past me before I could speak, his close stride rustling my skirt. I moved back to give him room, and he sank into the black throne, crossing one black boot over and resting it on his knee. He brought the tips of his gloves together, his elbows resting comfortably on the armrests. “I had hoped to see you again much sooner.”

I swallowed and ran a shaky hand through my hair, tucking a chunk of it behind my ear. “I figured. I—I saw the carriages. I just needed some time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

I clutched my shawl again, as if that would somehow save me from the chill that hung over every room of the castle. I formed my words carefully. “I’m not yet old enough for a Returning.” It was true, and I wasn’t saying there was going to be a Returning. Not the moment I turned seventeen, anyway.