“Well, it is full of rocks,” I noted.
“Door,” he said, and I reached down to turn the handle.
“Whereas I am made of flower petals and sunshine,” I informed him loftily.
He whistled, long and low, turning in a circle to take in my bedchamber. It’s a lovely room, crafted to be the sanctuary of kings and queens. Ringed in nearly a full circle by open, arched windows, it sits on pillars sunk into the sea, so it seems to be an island, floating between ocean and sky. My ladies had made up the bed in black silk, scattered with white and gold flower petals, the candles in the sconces round the room now burning low and amber.
“Pretty,” Con said. Then went to a window, still carrying me, and peered out. “Not very defensible.”
I had to laugh. “You should know by now that Calanthe’s defenses are not in being a fortress.”
“No,” he agreed. “You going to tell me about those?”
“Yes,” I replied, matter-of-factly. “Tomorrow. We’ll have to start making plans for Anure’s reprisal. But not tonight.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough.” He laid me on the bed of petals, his hands wandering over me in rough and gentle caresses. I arched into it, purring with pleasure. “Are you too sore?”
“Let’s find out.” And I drew him down to cover me.
By the time we slept, we’d thoroughly eliminated every bit of tension. I curled into him, as if I’d always trusted the bulwark of his body, and he wrapped around me. I fell asleep to the sweet sense of his lips against my forehead.
32
“Arise, Your Highness. The realm awaits the sun of Your presence.”
I struggled from the depths of a sleep so profound and dreamless, I couldn’t quite make sense of the whispered words. I blinked at Ibolya, who bent close to the bed, her face concerned. Then I glanced at the sun, risen quite high, and the slumbering bulk of Con beside me. Then back at Ibolya. She was the only one in the room.
“The Glory?” I asked quietly.
“Waiting outside the door. She’s so excited, but we weren’t sure…”
And clearly, Tertulyn hadn’t been there to advise or she’d have been the one waking me. I sighed for that. She’d have to be found today, and I’d have to ask her difficult questions. I didn’t look forward to that conversation. All these years she’d been my best and closest companion. I buried the sting of betrayal that she’d abandoned me on one of the most important mornings of my life.
I only hoped that her absence didn’t bode a far worse betrayal.
Con stirred. Then leapt from the bed, stark naked and looking about wildly for a weapon he didn’t have.
Ibolya lowered her gaze, heroically keeping a straight face. “Good morning, Conrí,” she said. “I apologize for startling you.”
He relaxed fractionally, though his fingers still curled, twitching for a weapon to grasp as he scanned the otherwise empty room. Finally his gaze rested on me, bemused and chagrined.
“I didn’t think to warn you.” I didn’t say that I’d never expected to sleep so late. I sat up fighting against the unaccustomed tangle of the long hair wrapping around me. The glue had loosened in the night and the wig sat askew. I tried to straighten it, wishing I’d warned him about that, too, but we’d had so little time for explanations. He narrowed his eyes, noticing. I sighed mentally. I’d been bold about declaring that he’d have to know my true nature, but facing the moment of telling wasn’t so easy to face. Such a lovely night. The best I’d slept in years, maybe ever.
But morning always arrives to start the day again.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“There’s a morning ritual,” I explained. “My ladies and a young woman from the villages, our Morning Glory for the day, attend Me as I wake.”
“Oh,” he said, as if understanding—and clearly not understanding at all, still frowning at my wig. It no doubt looked absurd.
“It’s a special honor,” I continued, wanting him to focus on something else. “And something of a religious superstition. If I refuse her, she’ll think she wasn’t acceptable. It’s very important, today more than ever, to demonstrate to the people of Calanthe that all is well, that their queen is in good health and happy.”
He gave me a long, inscrutable look. “And are you?” His was voice gruff from sleep, and something else.
“Of course.” I produced a serene smile.
He didn’t like that answer, but I didn’t know what else he expected me to say, with Ibolya standing there. I had no script for this. What did women say to their new husbands the morning after the wedding night? Certainly nothing for the ladies-in-waiting to hear, no matter their discretion. Mutely, I maintained the smile, making it clear I wouldn’t say anything more on the subject.
“Should I send the Glory away, Your Highness?” Ibolya asked hesitantly into the silence.
I raised my brows at Con. He didn’t look happy, but he shrugged it off. “You said it’s important.”
“Let’s proceed as usual then, Ibolya. Get Conrí some clothes. Once he’s dressed, the Glory can come in.”
“I brought Your head scarf, Your Highness. So the Glory can have it?”
No help for it. I sighed in truth and pulled off the wig, not looking at Con. “Take this then.”
Ibolya hastened away, slipping out of the room and closing it behind her. Still not looking at Con, I wiped the head scarf over my scalp, cleaning away the residual glue and oils of sleep.
“Lia?” Con asked, sounding dangerous.
In this thing I turned out to be a coward. But I forced myself to turn and look at him, still standing on the far side of the bed. His eyes roved over my bald head, confused and angry.
“Yes, Con?” I asked, smoothly polite.
Ibolya knocked lightly and opened the door.
“Give us a minute,” Con barked.
The door closed again with a resounding snap. I raised my brows at Con. “You needn’t frighten My ladies.”
He set his jaw, glaring at me. “Who shaved your head? Tell me now.”
“Maybe I’m naturally bald,” I retorted. I should’ve planned how I’d explain. Unable to sit still under his incredulous stare, I got out of bed. When Con and I had settled this, I’d get back in bed and start over. I stretched, my body protesting, aching in new and strange places.
“Lia.” Con was in front of me, laying hands on my upper arms. For such a big, rough-looking man, he moved fast and quiet. “Only slaves have shorn heads—is that what happened to you?”
“No,” I assured him firmly. I’d been so concerned about him finding me ugly, I hadn’t thought that’s where his mind would go. He sounded outraged on my behalf, so ready to race out and defend me that I felt I needed to be careful with him. Reaching up, I put some order to his long and tangled hair. He looked particularly ferocious with it tumbled around his face. And particularly enticing. I only wished the same could be said of me.
“I’ve had to shave My head since I was a little girl, for good reasons,” I replied. “That’s why I wear wigs.”
He seemed taken aback, searching my face. “What reasons?”