Midas pops a kiss on the top of my head, but I’m too numb in shock to jerk away. “I’m not trying to punish you, Auren,” he says softly as he pets my hair, once more the benevolent master. “You need something to focus on so you can get back to being yourself. I’m giving you that.”
He’s betrayed me before, but this…
“As soon as you’re better and behaving like yourself again, I’ll reinstate Digby, and then everything will be alright.” He gives me an encouraging smile. “I promise. Everything I do, I do for you. You see that now, don’t you?”
My shaken eyes drag back up to his face. “Yes, Midas. I see.”
I see.
“I’ll have some food sent up. You’ll have a clearer head in the morning after you get some rest, and then we will get to work on turning some things gold, alright?”
He’s already tugging on his leash, testing to see if I’ll heel.
“Okay, Midas.”
A pleased, placating look crosses his face. “There’s my precious girl. I knew this is what you needed. You’ll be better soon.” He taps my chin. “Don’t worry about a thing. I always make sure you have what you need, don’t I? I’ll keep you safe,” he says earnestly, hand once more stroking down my hair. “I’ll even compromise with you. I’ll allow you to wander in the castle after dusk with a guard. But during the day, when it’s not safe, you stay put. More guards will always be posted outside your door. No one will get to you.”
“Just you.” The words slip out, unbidden.
His touch pauses on my head before falling away. “That’s right. Just me,” he murmurs.
It’s a promise.
It’s a threat.
It’s a line in the sand that keeps dripping through the hourglass.
“Goodnight, Precious.”
The moment he’s gone, with my bedroom door snugly shut, my skirts crumple with my knees, the fabric fanning out like a rippling lake as I land on the floor. Teardrops soak my lashes as I use my free hand to try and stifle the sobs that wrench out of me.
How could he?
How could he?
He knows that I’ve always had a soft spot for Digby. Felt comfortable with the gruff man who always watched over me. And all this time, I’ve been grieving him like I’ve grieved for Sail.
The thought of Digby being here at Ranhold this whole time and possibly hurt...
I have no idea how or when he would’ve arrived. No idea where he might be kept or if he’s okay. But Midas could be lying too, and that’s what’s so agonizing about this. I don’t know what the truth is.
My heart aches at the idea of him being punished, but I have to shove that thought away, or I’ll never stop crying. I should’ve expected a counter move from Midas, though I didn’t realize he’d stoop this low. It just solidifies everything for me. This is another barb in the collar that he wants wrapped around my neck.
Because Midas is right. Even if he is lying, I’m not willing to take that chance. So long as there’s a possibility he has my guard, I will have to play nice. I will have to play smart. Digby is my guard. My only other constant I’ve ever had, and I want him back.
After another ragged sob, I make myself take a fortifying breath to help push away the panic and hatred, because I need to think. The feathered anger beneath my skin helps to steel my spine, and my ribbons give me a comforting squeeze.
The Golden King wants to pluck my strings and make me sing. So I’ll sing. I’ll do just enough to ensure that he doesn’t hurt Digby.
Wiping my cheeks, I start to get to my feet, but pause when I feel the small book weighing down my pocket. I put the guard pin on the bedside table and then pull out the forbidden fae book. My eyes trace the elderwood, fingers running over the red leather that coats it, golden filigree and an ancient language meeting my touch.
The sound it makes when I open the front cover is the crack of a jaw yawning awake. It’s the sigh of a breath kept inside for too long, closed beneath parchment ribs.
There are no words in this book, no lengthy explanations of my heritage, my people. It wasn’t until this moment that I realized how desperate I was for that. Maybe I thought I was going to open this book and find all the answers to the questions I didn’t even know I had.
Instead, there are only painstaking illustrations painted on each thick page, some cracked or dusted away, the paint given up in its battle with time. No words, no long-ago fae coming up through the pages to give me answers about who I am or about my home I’ve forgotten so much about.
Somehow, the silence is made up for by the apology of paintings. As if the person who worked on this book couldn’t give me words but gave me something else.