An Enchantment of Ravens(50)

She grasped my hand. “Oh, are you certain? Absolutely certain? I just can’t bear the thought of you being lonely up here all by yourself.”

I smiled. “I won’t be lonely. I can hear everyone down below, and I’m so tired I’ll fall asleep instantly.”

“You’re wonderful.” Lark clasped my hand to her chest. “I knew we’d be the best of friends. I’ll see you tomorrow, Isobel!” And she released me and pelted from the room.

I shivered, stuffing my hand into my armpit to warm it. Then I put my clothes down on the covers, sat, unlaced my boots, and slipped beneath the blankets—a fine goose-down coverlet with soft sheets beneath. For some time, I watched the doorway. When Lark didn’t reappear I stole my hand out to feel around in my dress pocket. I held my breath as I blindly searched the folds, imagining what might have happened if a fair one had discovered the iron. But presently my fingertips bumped its reassuring shape, and I twisted beneath the sheets to slip it into one of my stockings in the dark.

Conversation and laughter drifted up from below, almost comfortingly human. Yet I could not, would not fall asleep. Above and all around me, Gadfly’s smile shifted subtly in the winking firefly glow. At the periphery of my vision, the changeable light made his eyes seem to move, and sometimes even blink. I had the feeling of being watched without the luxury of knowing for certain that it was only a feeling. And it occurred to me I hadn’t checked under the bed—a childish notion—but it wasn’t difficult to imagine a fair one lying down there in the dark, spidery fingers folded over his chest like a corpse, smiling to himself as he prepared to leap out and surprise me . . .

Wishing it were safe to wear my ring, I clenched my hand so tightly my nails dug dents in my palm.

It felt like over an hour passed; it might have been less. Something clattered loudly in the hallway.

“Wretched teapot!” Rook’s voice exclaimed in vexation.

Just like that, my fear melted away. My chest shook with laughter at the image of Rook staggering, drunk and affronted, through the labyrinth’s crowded hallways, being assaulted by falling teapots. “Rook,” I whispered, trusting he would hear me, “are you all right out there?”

A mortified silence. Then, coolly: “I haven’t the faintest idea why I wouldn’t be all right.”

“That’s true,” I said. “You slew a Barrow Lord, you shouldn’t have any trouble with a kettle.”

He came into the room, wrestling with Gadfly’s green waistcoat. When he’d gotten it off he cast it aside onto the floor like a piece of rubbish. Then he strode right over and, in one smooth motion, insinuated himself into the bed next to me, facing me, under the covers, with the bold and unselfconscious vanity of a cat sitting down on an open book.

I lifted myself on an elbow. My skin prickled with the awareness that his bent leg was almost touching mine—that I could feel his body heat across the narrow space beneath the linens. Recalling my state of dress, and my dangerous thought from earlier, I drew the blankets close.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You can’t sleep here.”

“Yes, I can. In fact, I must. I can’t let any harm befall you, so it’s best I stay close.”

“You could offer to sleep on the floor, like a gentleman.”

He appeared horrified by the suggestion.

“And I’m not certain you’re in any state to protect me,” I went on, sensing a lost cause. “Just now you were almost assassinated by a teapot.”

“Isobel.” Rook looked at me gravely. “Isobel, listen. The teapot is of no consequence. I can defeat anyone, at any time.”

“Oh, is that so? That’s the truth?”

“Yes,” he replied.

I grappled with exasperated fondness. Despite how annoying he was being, I found it shockingly difficult to resist smiling. “Then you must be very drunk.”

“I am not. There may have been a lot of wine, but I’m royalty, you know. I’m the autumn prince. Therefore, I’m only a little drunk.” With that he closed his eyes.

“You can’t sleep here. You really, really can’t, it’s too—”

The room’s leaves trembled as someone came racing up the hallway. “Oh, no,” I groaned. “Quickly, get under the bed, or transform—”

Wind lifted the covers, and a soft, slithery maelstrom of feathers caressed my arms. When it settled Rook crouched indignantly in raven form among the tousled bedclothes, wings akimbo, as though his body had transformed automatically on my suggestion without his agreeing to it. Before he could change his mind, I snatched him beneath the covers and clasped him against my stomach.

Right as I finished, Lark peered around the doorway. She stared at me for a moment while I pretended to sleep, then giggled and raced away again.

“No,” I said, when Rook began struggling. “If you’re going to stay, you must be subtle about it.”

He kicked his legs and nibbled my fingers, trying to free himself so he could transform again. I saw that more extreme tactics were necessary.

“What a pretty bird you are,” I crooned.

His struggling slowed, then stilled. I felt him cock his head.

“What a lovely bird,” I repeated in a syrupy voice. “Yes, you’re the loveliest bird.” I stroked his back. He made a pleased muttering sound in his breast. Soon his smug silence indicated that he was quite content to remain as he was, so long as I continued my praise.