And the prince lets me go.
4
Sira is still asleep when I return to our shared bedroom.
The urge to rattle her shoulders until she wakes seizes me as I stand between our cots, my heart racing like a horse escaped from the barn.
But even if I do wake her, what would I say?
What can be done about the prince’s ...momentwith me? The hot feel of his lips on my neck, the kiss on my cheek, his wandering hand, the cool kiss of the dagger on my flesh...
Nothing can be done about any of it.
I suddenly take Sira’s warning more seriously now.
The prince has been watching me—and I was silly enough to think he was simply curious, maybe just about my illness, waiting for me to cough up blood and spray it all over his precious marble floors.
But all along, these two full weeks, he’s been watching me because...
He can’t stop thinking about me.
I rule his thoughts, I am camped in his mind.
And I can’t figure out why.
Defeated, I slip off my outer dress and bodice, letting them crumple to the floor, then climb into my cot quietly. No point in waking Sira. No point in telling her any of what happened. It will only rattle her.
Maybe I’ll tell Terry. She’s more on my level. She might be able to give me some tips to help me avoid lone moments with the prince.
I toss and turn for most of the Quiet’s remaining hours. But finally, I do start to drift in and out of troubled sleep; dreams, fuelled by the touch of the prince’s lips on mine, his hand sliding up my skirt, whisperingevateover and over—
Then drowning me in the pond.
When I wake, Sira is straightening out my dress that I left on the floor.
Sleepily, I roll onto my side and ball up my fists to rub my eyes.
Sira lays out the dress on the foot of my cot. “Best get up,” she tells me. “The bell will ring soon.”
I know she isn't wrong. Even though he stayed up so late, the prince’s breakfast will be served on time. He might sleep through it, leaving the meal untouched, but I should still be expected to tend to my duties.
As I whip the sheets from my body and force myself upright, I follow Sira with my sleep-heavy eyes. She makes her cot.
I ask, “What’s his name?”
She pauses, her back to me, hands on the edge of her brown sheets. “Daein. They all call him Dae,” she says after a moment. “Why?”
In answer, I shrug—though she can’t see it—and give an airy hum. “Just wondering ... that’s all.”
If she wants to pry any further, she doesn’t make it known.
We get ready for the day in silence, and I carry the weight of that kiss searing my cheek with me.
When I tremble my way into his bedchamber, I see that his sheets are folded firmly over the feathered mattress. It looks unslept in.
I chide myself for not checking the map before taking the tray out of the kitchen. But then, I naturally assumed he would be here.
I head back to the kitchen but when I get there and find the map, I see no hint of the prince, Daein, or his brother.