A Curse So Dark and Lonely: Chapter 15

I poke around the kitchen until I find a bowl and a spoon, then move to the cauldron hanging over the fire. A large ladle hangs from a hook set into the masonry. I scoop out a large serving, then pull a hunk of bread from the end of a loaf on the counter.

Images from the blood-soaked room threaten to replay in my mind, and I shove them away.

Instead, my brain is content to fix on what he said about asking Grey to behead him. How he was curious.

Yesterday, he talked about throwing musical instruments into the fire. This morning he mentioned impalement and drowning. And hundreds of women, all of whom failed to fall in love with him.

If he just had to find a woman to lust after him, he probably would have been free of this curse in a day. I can’t deny that he’s easy on the eyes. The high cheekbones, the dark blond hair that turns gold in the firelight, the brown eyes that reveal nothing. Muscle cords his arms from shoulder to wrist, and he carries himself with purpose. People are quick to kneel before him—but he’s also quick to expect it.

When he opens his mouth, though, he’s arrogant and calculated. There’s no shred of vulnerability or weakness.

In fact, if there’s any weakness, it’s the obvious frustration that he can’t just wave a hand and order a woman to love him.

Something about it all makes me immeasurably sad. I’ve been trapped here, separated from my family, for two days. He and Grey have been trapped here for what must feel like forever. They’re seeming less harmful, and more desperate.

That’s almost worse.

But love. I’ve never fallen in love with anyone, much less someone who snatched me right off the street. Mom always says she’s still in love with Dad, despite his mistakes, despite the fact that he left, and that makes me and Jake crazy. Their relationship sure isn’t a standard of true love. I know about Stockholm Syndrome. Even if something like that kicks in—if this line of thinking isn’t proof already—would that be real love? Anything else clearly isn’t enough to break this curse. He didn’t kidnap Corra, the poor girl from the village, but she couldn’t have loved him, or the curse would have broken. Maybe she loved the idea of being a princess.

They’ve trapped me, but this Lilith trapped them. And now apparently his entire kingdom is suffering while he sits in this castle, just letting it happen.

I tear another hunk of bread from the loaf.

This time, I hesitate with it halfway to my mouth.

Freya and her children stood shivering in the snow, thin as rails. Evalyn and Coale and young Bastian clearly struggled to make do with what they had, despite the fact that it’s the middle of winter.

I look around this kitchen with new eyes. At the shelves overflowing with food that no one is eating.

Then I shove the bowl away and go back to my room to fetch a satchel.

This time, it’s easy to find the trail through the woods.

I considered taking a different horse, but Will pricked his ears at me and looked eager to go out again. The saddlebags are double loaded with bread, meats, and pastries on one side, and tightly wrapped bundles of vegetables and hard cheeses on the other. I’m wearing a cloak and two sweaters, and I found gloves and a quarter sheet for the buckskin in the stable.

No one stops me.

Then again, I don’t ask for permission.

When warm sunshine gives way to snow-coated trees, I brace myself for frigid air, but this afternoon’s winter weather seems more temperate. Wind does not weave through the trees, and instead the sun beats down, causing a constant drip-drip-drip around us.

Just when I begin to worry I might be heading off course, I come upon the remains of Freya’s home. The building is burned to the ground, leaving a blackened stone chimney to stand sentry over a pile of charred lumber and ash. The bodies are gone; buried in the snow or burned in the fire. I’m not checking.

A hill looms ahead, and I remember that from there, it’s a straight shot to the inn. I’ll be able to see the entire road. I spur Will into a gallop and we sprint up the hill.

A horse-drawn wagon is coming up the other side.

“Whoa!” yells a man. “Whoa!” Two cream-colored draft horses shy and prance sideways. Slush and mud spray everywhere.

I wrench the reins to the side, trying to avoid a direct collision. The buckskin slips in the slush and nearly dumps me. The wagon gives a creak and a groan and nearly topples, but the man cracks a whip and the horses quickly yank it straight.

It doesn’t help his cargo. Several crates spill out of the back, falling into the wet snow with a splat.

Will champs at the bit and tosses his head, but I keep a tight hold on the reins. “I’m sorry,” I call.

“I didn’t see you.”

“You’re sorry?” the man growls. He loops the reins around a hook and jumps down from the wagon, his boots splashing in the mud. The hood of his cloak falls back, revealing him to be middle-aged with olive skin and dark hair. Shadows cling to his eyes and pool in his cheeks.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I grip the hilt of my dagger under my cloak in case this goes south, but he doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he storms around to the back of the wagon to stare at the fallen crates.

He swears under his breath, then reaches out to grab one.

It must be weighted poorly, because when he tries to drag it into the back of the wagon, he can’t get it over the rail. The crate clumsily slips out of his hand and crashes into the slush again. He swears again and this time it’s not under his breath.

As soon as I start to wonder why he’s not using both hands, his cloak spills back and I realize he’s missing his left arm.

I slide off Will’s back and go to the man’s side. “Here. I’ll help you.”

He ignores me and struggles to maneuver it over the railing. Again, it crashes into the mud. The wood cracks and breaks open at the corner.

“Silver hell,” he snaps.

I can appreciate that he wants to do it himself, but I’m kind of done with prideful men. I throw the cloak back over my shoulders and move forward to pick up the other one.

It’s heavier than I’m ready for. I can’t believe he’s getting these off the ground one-handed. I stumble in the mud and almost drop it myself.

But the man catches the other side, and together, we heave it over the side of the wagon, then go back for the others.

When we’re done, mud clings to our boots, and we’re both winded. I fight to straighten the cloak.

The man swipes a forearm across his brow. “I suppose you think I owe you thanks, girl. You’re not getting it. I’ll lose a few coins for the damage—” He stops short as his eyes fall on the royal lion-and-rose insignia that’s settling into place over my chest. He blinks and takes a step back. The irritation falls out of his voice, replaced with a bit of wonder. “You are—I did not—”

“I really am sorry,” I say. “I don’t expect thanks. But if you wouldn’t mind me using the back of your wagon to get on my horse—”

“Of course.” He scrambles ahead of me to catch Will’s bridle. “Allow me, my lady.”

I grab hold of the wagon and pull myself onto the ledge. It’s not as precarious as clinging to the trellis, but it’s still a feat of strength and balance, and I always doubt my body. It takes my contracted muscles a moment to ease back into the saddle, but if he notices, the man says nothing.

Rhen was so confident as he flipped a silver coin to the innkeeper’s son, and I wish I could do the same thing now. I have no coins to offer.

But then I remember the saddlebags. “Are you hungry?” I say. “I have plenty of food.”

He frowns and shakes his head quickly. “I cannot take food from a lady traveling alone.”

“I’m not traveling far.” I unbuckle a saddlebag and pull out some meat pies wrapped in a stretch of cheesecloth. They’re still warm. “Here.”

He looks dumbfounded, but he takes them, pulling them close to his body. “Thank you.”

I pick up the reins. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a step closer. “Forgive me.” He hesitates. “I should apologize. I did not expect a lady of the court to be traveling without protection.”

“I don’t need protection,” I say.

A man’s voice calls from behind me. “Are you certain, my lady?”

I whirl in the saddle—but I recognize his voice now. Rhen. And Grey. Their expressions give away nothing. No anger. No humor.

“Did you think we would not come after you?” Rhen says.

I force my expression to stay equally neutral. “You said I wasn’t your prisoner.”

The man with the wagon looks utterly astonished. He glances between me and the men. “Your Highness,” he says, his voice reverential. He drops to a knee right there in the slush.

“Rise,” says Rhen. His voice is low and controlled, which I’m beginning to learn is a better clue to his mood. He’s more heavily armed than last night. A sword hangs at his hip, and a full quiver of arrows is strapped to the saddle near his knee. Under the cloak, his entire chest is covered in leather, with buckles at his waist, the lion-and-rose insignia embossed in gold over his heart.

He was handsome yesterday, but that was nothing on this. All he’s missing is a crown.

Then again, that might make me forget that he’s got an ulterior motive in coming after me. I hate that my heart flutters, just a little, sending warmth to my cheeks. “Do you have another one of those coins?” I say. “One of this man’s crates broke when I ran into him.”

Rhen’s eyebrows go up, but he sighs and nudges his horse forward.

The man shoves himself to his feet and shakes his head fiercely. “No—no, my lady.”

He holds up the wrapped meat pies. “The food is more than enough.”

Rhen pulls coins from a pouch on his belt anyway and extends his hand. His forearms are covered by metal-and-leather cuffs, laced all the way to his elbow. “Will two silvers cover the damage?”

The man swallows. He looks at the coins held between Rhen’s fingers, but does not reach for them. “You have my thanks, but there was little damage.”

“For your trouble, then,” says Rhen.

“With all due respect … I cannot accept that.” He glances between Rhen and Grey again, then to me. He looks like he wants to pinch himself. “I take half a year’s time to earn that amount, Your Highness.” He pauses. “I would be thought a liar or a thief.”

“Why?” I say.

The guy looks like he wishes he could just climb back on his wagon and ride off.

“No one has seen the royal family in years.” He looks away and there’s shame in his expression. “I can barely find work as a porter. No one would believe I came by such coins honestly.”

Grey rides forward and pulls a small bag from a pouch at his waist. “Here. Twenty-five coppers. Can you spend that?”

The man blinks. “Yes—but—”

Grey tosses him the bag.

The man’s hand is occupied with the food, and I’m worried the coins are going to sail right into the mud, but he’s more agile than I expect. He snatches the pouch out of the air with the same hand that’s holding the food.

He offers a clumsy bow. “You have my thanks. Your Highness. My lady.” Then he backs away to climb into his wagon.

He’s barely seated before he’s clucking to his horses, driving them down the hill.

I wish I could follow right behind him. The weight of Rhen’s gaze is almost painful. His expression is full of disapproval and his tone matches. “The longer I know you, the less I see your acts as those of bravery. Did you forget the attack from last night?”

“Did you forget your people are suffering?”

His jaw tightens. “You speak of things you do not know.”

“I think I’ve seen enough.”

His expression darkens like thunderclouds rolling over a summer sky. He says nothing.

Grey speaks into the silence. “You mentioned that you are not a prisoner. Does that mean this is not an attempt to escape?”

“Of course not.” I pat a saddlebag. “I’m bringing food to Freya and her kids.”

“You’re bringing food,” Rhen echoes. “To the inn.”

“It seemed like they were already short and we dumped five more people on them.”

He looks incredulous. “But why would you not ask?”

I draw back and stare at him. “Ask? Are you kidding me? When you’ve got a kitchen full of food that’s going to be replaced every day—”

“You misunderstand.” He puts a hand up. “Why would you not ask for assistance?”

Oh.

“I didn’t think you’d do it,” I say quietly.

He stares back at me. I wonder if he’s going to ask why.

Looking at his expression, at the trace of resignation that flickers in his eyes, I don’t think he needs to.

“Very well,” he says finally. He turns his horse away.

“You’re letting me go?” I might fall off this horse in shock.

“I’m escorting you to the inn,” he says, as if I was too stupid to figure it out. “Unless you have changed your mind?”

I sigh and turn my horse to follow.