“Thank you, Your Highness.” It doesn’t sound nearly as contrite as I mean it to.
Zander’s eyes break from his page to snap to me.
I duck out quickly behind Elisaf. Tony was right. My smart mouth will get me into trouble one day.
One by the statue.
One circling the gazebo.
At least two pacing the lengths of the exterior wall, disappearing into the cedar abyss.
Are the royal castle grounds always so guarded at night? Or is it because of the recent attack?
Or maybe it’s because I’m out here.
I wrap my bedsheet tighter around my shoulders as I play spot the guard in the tranquil garden below. The air has a slight bite to it now that the sun has been replaced by a moon—the common moon, I’m guessing—that is three-quarters full and offering a mere fraction of the light that the blood moon did. I don’t mind the darkness, though. I’ve been outside all afternoon since returning to my rooms, so long that my cheeks feel tight from the sun.
Can elves get sunburns?
I have so many questions still, but I hesitate asking. I would think that under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t make sense for me to be struck with amnesia and suddenly forget what it means to be human, to believe myself to be a cat or a bird, so why would I forget what it means to be elven?
They all think I’m elven, so elven I need to be. I will get my answers somehow.
My attention wanders to the main section of the sprawling castle, to the balcony where Zander stood earlier today. Is he there, somewhere within the shadows? More than likely he’s below, beyond those doors where people filter in and out and the sounds of laughter and violin notes carry.
He handed me several clues to a grand, confusing riddle, and by his own admission, he did it because he’s finally entertaining the idea that I’m not lying about my memory loss. That’s another tiny step of progress.
At this rate, maybe my feet will touch grass again by next year.
One tucked under the trunk of that leggy oak.
That guard is watching me intently. Is the bow in his grip, arrow nocked, simply to send a message? Or does he think I’m about to swan dive off the balcony?
His undivided attention taints my enjoyment of the night air. I head back inside, leaving my doors wide open for fear they’ll somehow lock if I shut them. I’m far from tired, though there is little else to do besides go to bed.
I tread lightly over and take up my usual spot, in front of the door, my cheek pressed against the cool floor.
Ten steps, with that slight hop.
Elisaf is working again tonight. Knowing his name brings me comfort, some tiny thread to grab onto. Does Zander address all his guards by their first name, or just this one? That he might treat his staff as people rather than nondescript pawns would make the hateful prick slightly more endearing.
Suddenly the footfall pattern breaks with a twirl and a two-footed slide, as if its owner broke into a dance.
It’s so unexpected, I can’t contain the snort of laughter that escapes me. “How did you know I was here?” I call into the silence.
It’s a long moment before Elisaf answers. “You breathe as loudly as a daaknar, Your Highness.” There is a teasing lilt in his voice.
“I doubt it. Have you heard one of those things breathe?” The memory of its grunts and snuffles stirs a shudder through my body.
“If I had ever been that close, I wouldn’t be guarding your door tonight.”
“That’s what they tell me,” I murmur, more to myself. “Did you grow up in Islor?”
“No. I am from the far southwest of Seacadore originally. But I have been here so long, I now consider this my home.”
I hesitate. “Didn’t the king tell you not to speak to me?”
“The king told me to guard you with my life and ensure you do not escape. He didn’t expressly forbid me from speaking to you.” There’s a long pause. “Rest well, Your Highness.”
I smile. It’s a dismissal, but a pleasant one. “Good night, Elisaf.”
Chapter Twelve
The man tending the rosebush yanks his hand back with a yelp. Tugging his glove off, he sticks his thumb in his mouth to quell the sting.
I guess fist-size roses come with dagger-size thorns.
Probably human.
After a week of watching the daily happenings of the royal garden from my balcony, I’m beginning to suspect that most if not all the staff at the castle are human. There’s nothing definitive, no box to check. It’s a gut feeling, and my gut doesn’t usually lead me astray. The nobility who stroll the pathways have a certain natural arrogance about them, the same natural arrogance that people raised with money and privilege exude at the high-society events I’ve robbed. But there is something more to them—an eerie calm, as though they do not ruffle easily, and a grace in the way they move. It could simply be a matter of breeding.
Or it could be that they’re not human.
The gardeners work tirelessly from dawn until dusk every day, perfecting cedar hedges and plucking errant grass that sprouts between the intricately laid stonework, pausing long enough to bow to the garden’s patrons. It’s mostly women who frequent the royal gardens during the day—in elaborate silk and chiffon gowns. Some hold parasols to shelter them from the hot sun as they spend their afternoons admiring the blooms. Sometimes, if they’re close enough, I catch drifts of conversations. Not enough to understand, but enough to know they’re gossiping about court members. Few have noticed me up here, but those who have watch cautiously as they pass.
The atmosphere in the garden shifts once the evening settles in, when lively instrumental music carries through open windows and three women dressed in garb identical to Wendeline’s sweep through, the lanterns igniting as they pass. The first night I watched them do it, my mouth gaped, allowing a bug an opportunity to fly in and choke me.
Men in formal coats and women in flowing dresses venture out, and couples of every combination disappear into the park for so long, one might worry they’re lost. But I hear the odd sound—a laugh, a cry, a moan—and they always reappear eventually, often checking their buttons and adjusting their skirts.
These frisky revelers have provided the bulk of my nightly entertainment since Zander ordered my balcony door unlocked—and each night there are more of them than the last. But during the day, I’m equally enthralled with watching blades clash in the distant sparring court, the speed and footwork jaw-dropping. I find myself holding my breath as their boots pivot on the compacted dirt, especially after the other morning when a sword sliced through a man’s thigh. No one panicked as he hobbled off, so I assume it wasn’t serious, or it happens often. Either way, there was a lot of blood, and I heard Wendeline’s name being called.
“You’ve caused quite the stir in the court.”
I startle at the familiar voice and spin around to find Annika standing in the doorway to my bedchamber. The last time I saw the king’s sister, I was launching anything I could find at a hellish beast to distract it from tearing her apart. I haven’t seen so much as a hint of her since. That she is here now … unexpected delight stirs in my chest. “You’re out.”
“Of my prison. Yes, for a few weeks now. Though my brother is still ‘extremely disappointed in my betrayal.’” She mimics a deep voice before rolling her eyes. She steps out onto the balcony, the skirts of her sapphire-blue dress swishing around her ankles. Her blond curls reach her waist in a cascade of plump corkscrews that seem impossibly springy under such weight. “Wendeline said she healed you as best she could?” Her voice is measured, reserved.