when I consider the conversations that are always humming through the streets of Vernon. But here…it’s nothing like that. No gossip. No carriage wheels or automobiles. Just vast empty silence. Calm, dense wilderness.
Dangerous wilderness, I remind myself, forcing my wistful feeling away.
I pull my investigation back to the garden, startled when I catch sight of movement. Squinting through the frost, I try to peer closer, then abandon this window for the other. There I’m given a better view, and I see a figure standing at the far end of the garden where overgrown brambles surround a small courtyard. A fleck of red hints at a rose hidden beneath the snow. Near this splotch of red, the figure takes a seat on a stone bench. I can’t tell for certain, but the broad-shouldered build and dark golden-brown head of hair make me wonder if it’s the alpha—this supposed king fellow. Whoever it is sits hunched over, head low, elbows propped on his thighs. Could that be…defeat in his posture?
I narrow my eyes, squinting—
His head swings to the side, toward me, and I quickly dart away from the window and behind the wall. My breaths quicken, pulse racing, although he couldn’t have been looking at me, could he? For several moments, all I can do is close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. Once I’ve recovered my composure, I slowly creep back to the window, keeping most of my body out of sight. But when I return my gaze to the courtyard, there’s no one there. I release a sigh, but my relief is short lived. His absence is likely more condemning than if he’d still been there, for it suggests he truly had spotted me and is on his way to tie me back to the chair. Or worse.
I bite my lip, eyes darting around the room. No escape. No weapon. I think of securing myself back in the chair and pretending I haven’t freed myself, but my change of clothing foils that guise. And there’s no way I’m putting my wet clothing back on.
Sure enough, footsteps sound outside the door.
My heart leaps into my throat.
Left with my only defense, I give myself to the count of five to feel afraid.
One.
I inhale deeply and throw back my shoulders.
Two.
I stride to the center of the room and plant myself there, arms crossed.
Three.
I lift my chin and pull my lips into a haughty grin.
Four.
The door handle turns. I narrow my eyes and hide behind my false persona.
Five.
In storms the alpha, stomping with his foot and his staff, a snarl on his lips. The same two fae as before—the dark haired male and the elderly female—flank him, pulling up close behind.
I march forward to meet him halfway. “You have some nerve locking me in here without a fire. I demand you remedy this at once.”
He halts and retreats a step back, nearly stumbling as he eyes me from head to toe. “You dare make demands of me?”
“If you’re planning on holding me for ransom, you should probably make sure you stay true to your word.”
He blinks a few times as if I’ve grown a second head. “Excuse me?”
“In the letter you were writing to my father, you stated I was unharmed. But you lied. I was left in a cold room in sodden clothing without a fire. If fae can’t lie, what do you call that?”
His hand flies to his chest, and a grimace begins to twist his features. “You are fine,” he says through his teeth. “You found dry clothes.”
I pop my hip to the side. “No thanks to you. I had to free myself to find them.”
He closes his eyes as if overcome with excruciating pain. My confidence falters as I watch him, his face screwed tight as he grasps his chest. Is this what happens when fae lie? They’re punished with physical pain? But who punishes them? Some mysterious force…or themselves?
“I didn’t send the letter,” he says in a rush. “I lied to no one. No one!” At that, his features begin to smooth, his ragged breathing growing even. When he opens his eyes, he burns me with a glare. His words come out like a growl. “You’re unharmed.”
“Until I have a proper fire, I fail to agree with you. I’m in danger of hypothermia.”
“Blackbeard,” he says, and the male fae takes a step forward. Keeping his eyes on me, the alpha says, “Do you still have the unfinished letter?”
Blackbeard—a most uncreative name, if you ask me—removes a piece