Bring Me Their Hearts(74)
“You aren’t angry with me?” I quirk a brow.
“Of course I am,” she insists. “Becoming involved with one of Gavik’s raids, getting shot—you’re lucky he didn’t discover what you are right then and there.”
You’re not afraid of death. Gavik’s voice lingers between my ears. I shake him out and get up, closing the distance between our seats on the opposite ends of the long table. I sit beside her and lean in as close as I know she can stand.
“Fione thinks Gavik killed the princess.”
“I know.” Y’shennria nods. “She told me that a year ago.”
“What do you think?”
The older woman sighs. “He was certainly capable of it at the time, and he truly did hate her. I think if Fione is right, and manages to prove it to the king, Vetris could change for the better. But I believe she’s playing the most dangerous game of anyone in this city.”
“Even more than me?”
Her mouth twists. “A game requires you to enter of your own free will. What you’re doing is a battle.”
“This is the first battle I’ve been in that requires so many silk dresses and faked smiles.”
“Pray that it never requires more than that,” she says softly. The whitish scar tissue on her neck is freed to the air, her dress uncharacteristically low-cut. She isn’t bothered with hiding today. The urge to tell her about the uneasy alliance I’ve struck with Fione and the prince in taking Gavik down nags at me. Fione promised me time alone with the prince. It’d be the perfect opportunity. But then I remember how insistent Y’shennria is on the Hunt being the time I strike, and no other.
After breakfast, Reginall comes in and announces there’s someone waiting for Y’shennria and me in her study. We shoot each other befuddled looks and head upstairs. I glance at the fire-calendar on the wall. Seven days? Is that really all I have left? Time is slipping from my fingers, slipping away the more I’m distracted by unimportant things like a parade dance or human food. I can’t become one of those girls Y’shennria has no faith in—human girls. She values me for my monstrosity, after all. And yet I’ve changed since stepping foot into this city. I’m an insufferable jokester, but I’m not stupid. I can tell I’ve grown weaker. My resolve slips away like sand every moment I spend with the prince, with Y’shennria, with the human illusions of food and dances. Comfort, after so many years in the woods, has begun to soften my edges.
I can’t surrender to it. But neither can I resist it. I have to act, the sooner the better. So I keep the secret of my alliance to myself, and pray to the gods I don’t regret it.
I straighten my shoulders and walk into the study only to see Malachite there, legs splayed out as he slouches on a settee. His long ears nearly touch the headrest of the low cushions, silver hair mussed. The pupils of his bloodred eyes narrow as he sees me, smiles crookedly, and stands.
“There you are. I was beginning to think you hated me.”
“How could I hate that face? Especially when it always looks as if it’s swallowed a particularly fat canary.”
“Are you calling me smug, Zera?”
“You will address her as ‘milady,’” Y’shennria sniffs, reaching for a scarf with which to cover her throat. Malachite laughs, then stops at the strict look on her face.
“Right. Sorry, ma’am.”
“Milady,” she corrects icily. He flinches, and I smother a laugh at how much he looks like a little kid being chastised.
“Uh, anyway—this is for you.” He hands me a folded note, and I take it.
Our mutual acquaintance from last night has invited me to a watering party on the western lawn, and I’d hate to go alone. Blackmail me this time, won’t you?
A watering party, Y’shennria explains, is when—during hot summer days—nobles gather to drink and play outdoor games in the shade. She approves my pale, primrose-green and primrose-petal-thin outdoors dress, laced with little seed pearls in hypnotizing spiral patterns. Malachite offers to ride with me in the carriage, and while Y’shennria insists it’s improper, Malachite counters that it’s for my safety. They stare each other down, his bloodred eyes just as stern as her hazel ones for a moment. Finally, she relents.
“Take care of her, Sir Malachite. She’s very important to me.” Hearing her say that has my unheart in my throat. Y’shennria leans into the carriage window as if to hide herself from Malachite’s gaze. “Be careful. Ensure you act injured. The archduke will not soon overlook a missed flinch from your wrist.”
“Don’t worry. I learned from the best, didn’t I?” I smile, and Y’shennria snorts, though it isn’t a disapproving one at all.
“I suppose you did.”
Malachite climbs into the carriage with me, and Fisher nicks the horses into a trot. Malachite’s legs are so long I have to squeeze into the opposite corner to avoid touching him.
“Are all Beneathers as tall as you?” I grumble, not intending to say it so loud, but he hears it anyway and laughs.
“You’ll be happy to know most of us are rather short,” he says. “But once in a while a Beneather is born strangely. It doesn’t pay to be my height underground. My forehead’s gotten to be great friends with nearly every single rock in Pala Amna.”