The Sinuous Bargain of a Cowardly Prince (book one, The Shadowed Throne Chronicles)

A week has passed since I’ve seen that conniving little fairy and his princely sidekick. After our spat, the two had disappeared. Not even Bernadette knows where they’ve gone. The last I saw of Ramiel was in his chambers, where I’d wept disgracefully. Fortunately, though, I’ve been preoccupied with more pressing matters to be curious about where they’ve gone.

“Your left hand, dear,” the head maid corrects me with an even tone. Her stout hand hovers over to my right arm, gently pressing it to my back so I can’t use it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s that beneath Bernadette’s façade of smiles and gentleness, she’s as flexible as petrified oak.

Why the left hand, and not the right? This seems like an awfully specific thing to care about.

I obey, flipping my non-dominant hand palm-side-up on a large, thin square of fabric. It’s about double my forearm length and has been dipped at the edges in a dark dye. My elbow sits just below the middle, and my fingertips barely reach the upper third.

The pill still hasn’t lost its effectiveness. It doesn’t drain my magical supply, but I still fatigue easily, meaning I’ve grown weak in a very short time. Even Pluto would fare stronger than me now...

“That’s it, nice and steady,” Bernadette whispers. She keeps her hand on my right arm, pinning it to my back. The woman has an oddly powerful grasp that doesn’t match her frail image. Her gaze is intense, glued to my arm on the table.

I turn my hand up, swoosh my fingertips in the shape of a crescent, and bunch up the top third portion of the fabric.

“And... now,” the maid orders, as though this simple task requires precise timing.

I suck in a breath and hold it as my left hand moves awkwardly to the right, pinching the wrinkles of fabric and drawing them diagonally across the wooden table. I drop it at the corner to make the fabric triangular. Then, I step back to survey my work.

It’s... crooked.

Bernadette sighs and then releases my arm, which drops catastrophically to my side, defeated.

“Can I please try again?”

Bernadette studies me through silvery eyelashes and her lips scoop up on the edges when she sees my determination. “Dear, you’ve tried enough for today. I’d rather you focus your energy on improving your castle etiquette than worry about folding tablecloths.”

“But—”

“Ether,” she interrupts politely, her smile never wavering. Pity swims in those dark grays, guilting me into swallowing my protests. “You’re quite a fast learner. You will undoubtedly master the art of folding. It doesn’t have to be today. Have patience.”

I’ve never been known to disappoint, not after receiving top marks in my studies and being respected by elven folk—from other villages, even—for my innate ability to manage a pithy supply of magical energy. Which is why something as simple as folding clothes isn’t about to break my reputation.

I heave a sigh and she looks at me, arms bent outwards at her waist. One of her eyebrows climbs up her forehead while the other angles over her eye.

“Are you always so stubborn?” Her words cut like ice, but her voice is still warm. My eyes flash away from her. “Or perhaps, your mind is elsewhere?”

“No,” I answer reflexively, making the maid chuckle. I may be stubborn, yes, but my mind is perfectly concentrated on—

“Ramiel is quite handsome,” Bernadette continues, “it would come as no surprise to me if you fell in love at first sight.”

An infuriating heat fills my cheeks and expands to my ears. Bernadette has been mentioning the cowardly prince more often, hoping to get a rise out of me. At first, it didn’t do much, but now I’m beginning to foster a hatred for names starting with “R.”

I’m realizing now how foolish I’d been for gawking at Xavelor, a prince with no face but an attractive legacy. Now I’ve been forced into serving his useless brother.

Her hand rests warmly on my shoulder and I meet her gaze. Grossly loving, filled with both understanding and pity. Since leaving my village, my emotions have been increasingly misinterpreted to a frightening degree. I’ve never had to spell them out for anyone before, either. I usually wear my emotions on my face, in my eyes.

“He may be handsome, but he’s no one I’d fall in love with,” I say, stiffening my jaw. My fierceness doesn’t seem to bother the feeble maid. Instead, she lifts a hand to my other shoulder and gives them both a light pat. Her face has amusement written all over it. Ugh.

“I know that, dear. You’re just endlessly fun to tease.” She releases me, and her smile suddenly slips. Without it pulling on her cheeks, she appears weak and old. Gray skin and little bruise-colored crescents shade her under-eye. Is she sick? How had I not noticed?

I open my mouth to speak, but she silences me with a weak laugh.

“You must be tired, dear. Let us go to the kitchen to eat.”

My storage of magic was last let out when I pitied the starved trees that led us into the palace. Since then, I’ve managed to control the currents as they twist about my inner being, warring with the fairy pill’s toxic spores. I can feel that the battle is nearly won, and I’ll come out the victor. Soon, I’ll have more control over my magic supply.

Not that I ever doubted myself, of course.

Bernadette nudges me with her elbow. Her eyebrows lift in the direction of my stew pot, the viscous liquid within churning and popping like an infected spot of sap. As maids, we are only allowed unmilled or incomplete grain from nearby farmlands, while the milled grain is used in breads and other bakery items meant to be explicitly enjoyed by royalty.

“Can you smother the fire, dear?” Bernadette coos.

I bend down to the stove door and peer inside at the flames licking the stone walls, searching for a crack to escape through. Magic wells within me, and for a brief moment, I feel as though I might be able to conjure something. This rush of adrenaline—the satisfaction of replenishing my supply after a seven-day fast—is very persuasive.

Surely Bernadette wouldn’t mind if I took a shortcut.

My hand shoots out, and I concentrate on forcing a morsel of magic to my fingertips. As I urge the little particles from within my chest outward, a familiar tingling sensation whips through my veins. Cold and hot, freezing and burning. All at once, the rush of magic engulfs my bloodstream and I’m suddenly back in the forest, feet perched atop a branch, eyes focused on something cowering just beyond where the sun reaches.

Pricks of ice sparkle from my fingers, tiny snowflakes dancing their way into the embers. The magic overpowers the flame almost immediately, moistening the wood in the hearth.

Bernadette’s hand claps my shoulder. “Was that...?”

I turn my head up at her and I know from her reaction that the grin on my face is overly cocky, but I don’t care. I haven’t felt this whole in more than a week.

My body is suddenly greedy for more.

Have some self-control, Pluto’s alto voice twangs in my memories, drawing back to when we were just children. He’d scolded me then, as I feel he does now. But he’s right. The pull I feel to use my magic isn’t from the pureness of the forest, it’s from the dark energy constantly lulling in the background, tempting all who desire it.

“Magic,” I say simply to Bernadette. Warmth returns to my fingers, melting away the glittering frost that had settled on my skin. “But it’s dangerous to use here.”

The old maid clicks her tongue. “If only I were younger, I’d have you teach me, too!”

I look at her, at the purity in her eyes, and for a second, she looks centuries younger. Before I can stop, a laugh, or rather, a snicker comes from my throat hot and quick and ugly and unnatural. The old maid’s expression morphs to one of complete shock, and my hands fly to my mouth in embarrassment and horror.

Her dark eyes flood with worry, her jaw bobbing up and down like she wants to say something, but I know she’s already glimpsed my pitch-black irises that spate with fear and distrust. It’s ironic—the color now swarming my eyes often causes non-elven folk to flee—when I’m afraid, I make others also.

I stumble backward and latch onto a table, then spin away from her so she can’t see the hideous reflection of my quivering soul.

“Ether, what’s the mat—”

"No one wishes to be taught by one of our kind,” I hiss, covering my eyes defensively. “Especially not a human.”

“Oh,” is all she says. A second of silence ensues, then she walks around the room, the soft taps of her flat shoes brushing the stone flooring. The feet of a chair grind against the ground as she takes a seat at the small dining table. “Come and eat, then.”

My heart descends. She seems to understand. Gulping, I move my hand from my eyes and take a deep breath. Hopefully this brings my pupils back to their normal caramel brown.

One more breath, and I turn around.

Two bowls are set across from each other, steaming with hot, flavorless porridge. The cream-colored granules wink at me as the thick stuff cools down, still bubbling slightly from the stove.

Bernadette’s eyes are on me as I pull out the chair opposite her and sit. My stomach growls, and I mentally curse it, for I know it desires magic but Bernadette will take it as a sign to stuff me with useless human sustenance.

Before she can pressure me to eat, I grab hold of the short wooden spoon laying next to the bowl and dip it into the mush. Then I shove the bland food into my mouth and swallow.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, heat working its way up from my chest to my throat. “I promise not to do that again.”

“What, laugh? Or nearly frighten me to death?” The maid’s tone is light, but nothing about my error should be so easily forgiven.

I bow my head over my bowl and the steam rises, making my face moist. “I’m sorry.”

“Dear, I don’t mind if you laugh. I never understood why something so ridiculous was outlawed in the first place,” she huffs. “Now, I have some good news for you.”

My back straightens and I continue eating, quirking an eyebrow to encourage her to continue.

“Ramiel is—”

Suddenly the door to the kitchen bursts open and our moment of solace is ruined. A tall, handsome brunet fills the doorway, a wide grin stretching over his cheeks. The dimple to the right of his mouth winks at me—it’s impossible to miss. The prince wears a black tunic and pants, his hair raggedly tumbling over his face.

The fellow accompanying Ramiel avoids eye contact with me. He’s back in his very regular, nondescript clothing, his hair cropped and his eyes a boring brown. For a second, I might actually prefer his natural form.

“I’ve returned,” the prince says softly. He looks to Bernadette, who’s turned around and already welcoming him into her arms. A smile lifts her cheeks to little round points, tears gushing from her dark eyes.

“Welcome home, dear. But wherever did you go?”

Now the prince looks at me, his green eyes seeming to focus on mine like they’re the only thing he sees in the world.

Then, he looks back to Ronan, who looks a lot less happy to be here, and nods his head in my direction.

Ronan tosses him something, and Ramiel catches it with ease. When he turns back to me, his smile grows impossibly wider.

He raises an arm: clutched in his fist is the largest Tallup I’ve ever seen in my life.