Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,39
forward. “We are those most loyal to His Majesty and suffer the curse at his side. We are ready to face death if needed.”
“Pah! Don’t listen to him,” says the king. “Blackbeard may have stayed out of loyalty, but these other wolves were from my pack. The weakest ones. Too injured, too old, or too young to survive in a new pack. They stayed with me out of lack of better options.”
Gray rolls her eyes. “That’s not all true, Your Majesty.”
“Oh?” The king turns in his chair to smirk at her. “How would you have fared in a new pack? They’d have berated you for looking so old.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “I’d have done just fine, thank you very much. I’m still spry in my wolf form.”
The king shakes his head and returns to looking at the flames.
I am curious why Gray looks old when the others look so much younger. How does aging come into play for immortal beings? And will all of them die alongside the king if the curse isn’t broken? The thought sends a pang of worry to my heart, but I force the questions from my mind.
“Regardless of whether you had positions in the king’s household before,” I say, “we must all take up work from this point on to make the manor presentable.”
A few of the fae wear scowls at that, but others, like Blackbeard and Gray, seem encouraged.
“I’ll draw up a list of positions and set about filling them. Now, where are the ledgers tracking the king’s finances?”
Gray points to a bureau near the wall of windows. “You’ll find them in the drawer.”
I approach the bureau, which appears far more frequently used than the one in my room, with several papers strewn over the top, two pens, and even an old quill. I see two half-finished copies of the ransom note to my father, both scratched over with a haphazard slash of ink. My stomach drops at the sight, reminding me of the most dreadful task to come—one I must take care of at once.
“How do you send or receive correspondences?” I ask. “If none of you can leave the boundaries of the curse, how do you deliver letters or get want ads in the paper?”
“Bertha takes them to town,” Blackbeard says. “And she always checks the post for anything received.”
“Bertha…the one who makes the bread?”
He nods.
“But you don’t know when to expect her back?”
Blackbeard opens his mouth, but it’s another voice that answers, muffled as if stuffed full. “She’s already here.” I look toward the parlor door, where I find Micah peering around the doorframe, cheeks puffed as he chews what must be an enormous bite of bread. “She came to bake more bread for our prisoner.”
The king releases a grumble. “Might as well have her make a full dinner.”
Micah’s eyes brighten, but he quickly feigns nonchalance. “I’ll go let her know.” He prepares to take off, but I start forward.
“Wait!” I call after him.
Micah pops his head back around the doorway.
Before I can speak, the king rises from his chair and makes his way to the door. “Just bring the old bear up,” he says with an irritated sigh. “I’m sure Miss Bellefleur has a job to offer her, or some such nonsense. In the meantime, I’ll go find some new corner of this shithole where it’s supposed to be quiet.”
By the time I have my letter finished, signed, and sealed, Micah returns with Bertha. Even in her seelie form, she’s a bear of a woman, with a wide, dense build. Her skin is the color of raw honey and her hair is just a shade darker. She’s dressed in a simple brown dress covered in a stained apron. I meet her in the middle of the parlor, which emptied of the other fae shortly after the king left.
“You must be Bertha,” I say.
She greets me with a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you must be this prisoner I’ve heard about. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” She emphasizes the word prisoner as if she’s referring to a harmless game played by unruly children.
Come to think of it, that isn’t too far off.
“She’s not our prisoner anymore,” Micah says. “She’s our house steward, whatever that is. Is there more bread in the kitchen?”
Bertha nods, and the boy scampers off, leaving me alone with the cook. “House steward, eh?” she asks.
“Yes, and my name is Gemma Bellefleur. I hear you’re a cook and provide food for