Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(23)
“What . . . what was that?” she asks.
“Part of the queen’s enchantment,” he says. “They’re everywhere, these jars. If you tried to collect them all, you’d find still more would crop up, as though naturally occurring.”
Enchantment? Another riddle. He seems full of them, like so many imprisoned insects. Isbe used to collect fireflies too, with Gil when they were kids. She’d bring them back for Aurora, to light the secret passageway between their bedrooms. Aurora used to be disturbed by the way the bugs’ bodies would glow as though aflame, and then go dormant, one by one, until she realized they were suffocating. She always wondered what it would be like to light up from the inside, like some beautiful cry of warning.
They reach a broken wooden fence, then pass through a gate and down a dirt path. The last of the sun streaks the ruined castle in shadow as Heath raps a special knock on the door.
Aurora holds her breath. They are entering the home of the Night Faerie. . . . But it’s a young boy, no more than eight or nine years old, who answers. He’s dressed in a frayed tunic twice his size. He blinks out at them, his little face smudged with dirt. “Heath!” he exclaims with a wide smile.
Heath ruffles the boy’s head. “Flea. Be good and don’t let anyone know we’re here just yet, all right?”
“Too late!” The boy grins as what looks like the rest of his family appears in the doorway—a father, mother, and two older sisters, one carrying a baby boy in her arms, the other with a rounded belly suggesting her own child will come soon. All of them have a gaunt, skeletal appearance, with deep circles beneath their eyes.
“We were expecting you to bring home a deer,” the girl holding the baby says.
“Your family?” Aurora asks him, feeling self-conscious in her now-tattered cloak, which is still likely finer than anything these peasants have ever worn.
“Not exactly,” Heath says, then turns back to them. “This is Aurora. She’s—well, I’ll explain later.”
Aurora notices the wife and husband catch eyes.
“Well, come in, of course,” the wife says quickly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Actually, Greta.” Heath swipes loose hair out of his face. “I’ll have Wren bring Aurora’s dish up to the tower later. I don’t want everyone asking questions.”
The sisters stare at him. “The tower?” the older one asks.
The younger of the two has her mouth crunched quizzically to the left. “And what if we have questions?”
“Trust me,” he answers easily, “I’ve got more questions than you.” He pulls Aurora past them, through a large open hall in which a number of other peasants stop their chores to stare at her, then down a corridor and into a kitchen full of rich scents, where he grabs a bottle of something from one of the side tables. Then he leads her into a back room lit by torches. He hangs up the rope he had been carrying on his back. He helps her down a series of walkways, toward a flight of stairs.
But it’s all happening too fast, and his arm around her is both guiding her and making her dizzy at the same time. “Heath, I can’t stay here,” she manages. It feels good at least to say something firm, something definite. “I have to get back to Deluce. They need me,” she adds. The third prince will be waiting.
He turns to face her, placing a finger on her lips. “I need you.”
She’s too startled to reply, or even to understand what he means. Her lips tingle, and she tries to rub them with her sleeve to make the sensation go away.
At the top of the stairs is a tower bedroom that looks, to Aurora’s surprise and relief, much like a parlor she might have seen in the home of a Delucian baron or chevalier, except that a layer of dust covers the once-vivid red and purple brocades on the chairs and settees. A thick canopy hangs over the bed. One window has been thrown open to let in the springlike air. The fireplace is unkempt, ashes piled high. This could be any number of rooms she’s been in before, and yet it feels odd, like something is missing from the room, and the room itself knows it.
“This should do,” Heath says. “You’ll have privacy from the rest.”
“The rest?”
“We don’t have many private quarters. Some people live five or six to a room here.” He helps her into one of the chairs. “Are you comfortable?” He almost seems nervous, even though just moments ago he’d been all grin and swagger. “Here, let me see your ankle,” he says, pulling a stool up to her chair for her to place her foot on. Then he kneels before her and gingerly removes her boot, lifting the edge of her dress to reveal her ankle. He takes the bottle from the kitchen—some sort of fragrant oil—and dabs a little on his hands to rub into her bare skin.
She winces.
“It doesn’t look too bad, a minor twist,” he says. He begins to apply a poultice.
Her teeth grit together, sending pressure along her jaw to the back of her skull. She’s so tense she can hardly move. Finally she lets out a small cry.
He looks up at her in surprise. “I’m sorry, was I too rough? Are you all right? You look pale.” His hand goes to her cheek, and she reflexively jerks her head away. “Why are you afraid to let me touch you?”
“I . . .” How can she explain?
“Did I offend you in the cottage? I apologize for my rough behavior. I’m so used to defending myself, and it simply didn’t occur to me at first that you could be real.”