Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
There’s a low murmur of conversation, and I can’t pick out their words. They must be speaking Fellian, because the cadence of their voices is unfamiliar to me. Then, someone laughs.
A moment later, I hear Nemeth’s booming voice join in. He laughs, too, the snake, and I frown into the darkness. Are they just standing at the door and chatting as if they’re having a cup of tea? Catching up on gossip while I was treated like a prisoner by my own people? I’m irritated, and sitting on the steps and hiding as I listen in isn’t helping things. When they laugh again, a stab of hurt radiates in my chest.
Nemeth’s people clearly love him. They’re pleased about his duty as the Royal Offering.
Mine won’t tell me about the war and treat me like I’m some sort of beggar when they come to give me supplies. I’m sure there’s a reason behind it, but resentment stirs in me just the same.
Chapter
Forty
Nemeth is down there for hours, and I get tired of sitting on the stairs, listening in to a conversation I can’t understand. They seem to be jovial enough, and I wonder if they’re teasing him about me. Stuck with the fat, cursed princess? Shame about that.
The thought irritates me and I head upstairs. I fold up my letters and put them aside, because their contents no longer bring me pleasure. Instead, all I can see is what they don’t mention. Other than the baby and my sister, I realize that no names are given. When they mention someone at court marrying, it’s a “certain someone with a forked beard,” not “Bernard Athelhorn, Lord of Silver Thorpe.” They’re hiding information from me because of my situation. It bothers me, so I decide to put them away, into my trunk upstairs where I keep my knife and the secretive things I don’t want Nemeth to see, like the worn out bloomers I wear when I have my period and the supplies for such things.
My trunk is just where I left it, but I’m a little anxious each time I open it, worried that this time, my knife will be gone again. That Nemeth will have lied to me and stolen it. That he’s somehow figured out its magical properties and wishes to use it against me. But when I open the small, gilded trunk, my knife is there.
I pick it up and set the letters inside. “I missed you,” I joke.
The knife doesn’t respond. It’s either disagreeing with me or didn’t realize it was a question.
I bite my lip, thinking. Should I keep it with me or put it away once more? I stare at it, hoping for inspiration. I’m afraid to ask it anything. I’m afraid to hear the answers, because I’m powerless to do anything about them. “Is Erynne well?” The question comes out of me grudgingly, and I flinch, waiting for the answer.
To my relief, the knife shivers in response.
I sigh, some of the anxiety disappearing. “And the new baby? Has it been born yet?”
No answer.
“Is it a boy?”
No answer.
I smile at that. A girl, then. I hope she looks just like Erynne. Lionel will be annoyed that his second child is female, but he can just suck on eggs as far as I’m concerned. I cross my legs and sit in front of my chest, gazing at the innocent-looking knife in my hands. “Is Nurse well? Nurse Iphigenia?”
Again, the knife shivers.
I smile once more. “And Riza?”
Silence.
The urge to vomit rises in my throat. “Is Riza alive?” I whisper. The knife shivers, and I let out a deep breath. All right. Riza is alive, but she is not well. “Is she sick?”
No response.
“Wounded?”
No response.
“Lost? Sad? Tired?”
None of these questions get a response, and I’m frustrated by my inability to close in on the proper questions. I’m filled with a vague sense of worry and I want to fling the knife away again. It feels willful to do so, but what use are these answers? They fill me with grief and anxiety, not comfort. “Is Balon well?”
No answer.
“Is Balon alive?”
No answer.
I swallow hard, blinking back tears. I suppose that’s my answer. He hasn’t returned because he’s dead. Poor Balon was so young, too. “Was it sickness?”
No answer.
“The same problem as Riza?”
No answer.
“Is…it the war?”
Yes.
“Did he die in battle?”
Yes.
Oh. I had no idea he joined the war. I thought he’d been considered too young. That his father didn’t want him gallivanting off when he was the heir. It seems he changed his mind. “Is King Lionel alive?”
Yes.
Figures. I stare down at the knife, unhappy.
“Candra?” Nemeth calls up to me. “Are you hiding? Come and see what was brought.” His voice is cheerful, his mood a happy one. He doesn’t need to know that I feel as if I’m a cake that has suddenly sunk in the middle. There’s no need for both of us to be miserable.