hadn’t told anyone about that day. This certainly wasn’t how I expected Eldas and Willow to find out.
“Put him here.” I point to the stool I healed him in last time. “Tell me what happened.”
“We… Well, we…” Sirro glances between me and Eldas as he continues to bring Harrow forward.
“Whatever happened, I need to know.” I can only imagine the debauchery they’ve been up to. “I can assure you the king will be much more cross if you don’t tell me what’s going on and something terrible happens to his brother.”
“You do not speak for me,” Eldas says, perhaps mostly on instinct. I stick out my chin and glare at him. “But the queen is correct,” Eldas relents. I press my mouth closed to keep it from falling open in shock. He admitted I’m correct without prodding. “And I am most interested in why my brother is in this state. Willow, you may leave.”
“Luella, do you need—” Willow tries to ask but Eldas won’t let him get a word in.
“Luella clearly does not need help if she is healing him again.” The way Eldas says the last word tries to knot my stomach, but I suppress it defiantly. I’m not going to regret helping a man in need. “Go, Willow,” he barks.
Willow glances at me and hastily departs. Hook growls at Eldas’s tone, and likely because his belly scratcher was just sent running. I’m too focused on Harrow to worry about Hook or Willow right now.
“Tell me, Sirro,” I say and look the man right in the eye. There’s only you and me right now, I want to say. Ignore the mighty Elf King standing right next to you. “What’s wrong with him? What did he do?”
“We were out at Harpy’s Cranny,” Sirro starts, still glancing at Eldas.
“Harpy’s Cranny? That no-good—”
“Eldas, enough,” I interrupt the king sharply. “Sirro, look at me; what happened?”
He takes a deep breath. “Last night we went to Harpy’s Cranny, the four of us. Aria was celebrating because she just got a part in the Troupe of Masks and found out she’ll begin touring with them before springtime rites, starting in Carron in a few weeks. There was faerie mead and I remember dancers…” Sirro shakes his head. “I don’t…”
“You’re doing great,” I encourage. “Did he just have mead?”
“That’s all I saw. But he did go off with Jalic at one point? Maybe Aria? I’m not sure. I think that happened. Jalic was interested in some sweetchime I had. I gave him some earlier in the day. Perhaps they did that?”
“Sweetchime?” I’ve never heard of it.
Eldas grimaces. “It’s a pathetic substance that some say enhances the effects of alcohol. They hear chimes and laughter and dance with the spirits under the full moon on it.”
“It’s harmless. Or, I thought it was. You don’t think there maybe was something more, do you?” Sirro says worriedly.
The sight of Aria in the alleyway with the horned fae returns to me. I can’t let the fae’s attack on me prejudice me against Aria. If Eldas still hasn’t uncovered anything there—and I’m somehow certain he would tell me if he had—then I won’t worry. “I’m sure it’s just too much,” I lie and start for the conservatory.
“You may leave,” Eldas commands Sirro.
“But Harrow—”
“Out!” One word sends Sirro scampering. I can almost see frost crackling along the glass of the conservatory as Eldas’s rage increases. I ignore it for the time being.
Once more, I go through the steps of making a remedy for the ailing prince. Once more, I add a leaf from the heartroot and other herbs to detoxify. I don’t know what sweetchime does, but if there was anything else that Harrow took then he can use all the help he can get cleansing his system. I also add in a few other herbs that come to mind based on my readings of the past queens’ journals. Eldas hardly watches me. Instead his arm is around his brother, supporting him as he teeters on the stool.
“What happened before?” Eldas asks as I bring over the concoction. “The last time you healed him.”
“He looked much the same. Of course, I couldn’t get any solid information from him.”
“Of course,” Eldas mutters. Worry is plastered across the king’s face, a frantic and pained expression I’ve seen once before—when he thought I was in trouble.
Harrow is barely responsive as I lift the mug to his lips. “Come on, drink.”
Eldas’s eyes flash blue. A chill whips through me like a winter’s gale. Harrow shudders and