Page 52 of The Forgotten Prince

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Gwendolyn closed her fist about the shard of soap as Esme came strutting into the room, clapping her hands, her mood unquestionably lighter than Gwendolyn had witnessed from her in many moons. “Lovely,” she said in a sing-song tone, her gaze sliding to the bed, alighting on the Prydein gown. “I see you’ve found it!”

“What do you want?” Gwendolyn pressed.

Esme was not who she wished to see right now. In fact, she was the last person she wished to bandy words with.

“I came to be certain you found your mother’s gown,” she said conversationally. “As promised, I had it mended for you, and cleaned—and yes, it was me who ordered the bath as well.” She grinned a little wider, displaying a mouthful of porbeagle teeth. “After all we have endured, Gwendolyn, I thought you would covet a nice, hot bath.”

“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, though she could summon little gratitude. The journey had been too long and arduous, and she had encountered too many disappointments. Nor did she have the energy to share polite conversation with a murderous fiend. Ignoring her, Gwendolyn ducked beneath the water, soaping her hair, washing it vigorously, holding her breath for as long as she dared, hoping against hope Esme would leave before she reemerged.

She did not.

Much to Gwendolyn’s dismay, Esme remained, greeting Gwendolyn with a ready smile when she resurfaced. And then, without asking permission, she turned about, pouncing upon Gwendolyn’s bed, and settling herself atop it.

Naturally.

It wasn’t Esme’s way to beg for anything, nor was she ever sweet for no cause. She wanted something, Gwendolyn knew. The question was, what? Any other day, she might have more patience to ferret out the answer, but more than anything, at the moment, Gwendolyn longed to curl up in that bed by herself.

Well, not really by herself, but that was neither here nor there.

“Why are you here, Esme?”

“Please, Banríon Dragan. Do not be cross with me,” she cooed. And then, leaning back on the bed, she lifted one leg over a raised knee and bounced her bare foot as she continued to stare. Gwendolyn glared at Esme’s toes—never having really noticed them before. They were like her own, except for the nails, which were more like claws… perhaps a cat’s… and if only one dared to rub her belly, she would rip out their entrails. Gwendolyn blinked, shaking away the thought, blaming the mist for her jumbled thoughts.

Clearly, Esme had bathed already. Gone was any evidence of her blood lust, and she sat before Gwendolyn in the most diaphanous of gowns, one that revealed too much. And yet, like the mist in this Druid village, too little as well. Once again, Gwendolyn found herself curious over the differences between their bodies—not much, from what she could tell. Despite that, driven by curiosity—it was difficult not to look when Esme lay reclining on her bed with her legs in the air—Gwendolyn peeked at the shadow betwixt her thighs. For so long she had wondered over the differences in their anatomy—not so much regarding Esme’s. But rather, she wondered because she’d never once dared to peek, nor had Málik revealed himself.

If they wished to couple… was that possible?

Esme caught her glance and smiled coyly. Mortified to be caught peeping, Gwendolyn averted her gaze, rising from the bath. Eager to be dressed, she stepped out, and Esme produced a towel from beneath the Prydein gown, tossing it to Gwendolyn. “Here,” she said, and this time, it was Esme’s turn to gape. And despite Gwendolyn’s discomfiture, there was little she could say when, only moments ago, she had done the same. But honestly, she couldn’t count the number of times she’d stood naked in front of Ely, and Ely in front of her, but, somehow, that was different. Ely was like her sister. Esme was… not.

“You have… changed,” Esme said.

“Have I?” Gwendolyn’s laugh was quick and short. “You are the changeling, Esme!”

“Me?” Esme laughed now, too, but instead of sounding annoyed as Gwendolyn was, she sounded amused. Patting herself on the chest, Esme said, “I must wonder… do you even know what a changeling is, Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn’s frown deepened, incensed by the question. Of course she knew! For so much of her youth, they had examined her to exhaustion—with every inspection focused on her flaws—of which there appeared to be many! Her arms were too short. Fingers too long. Her hair like straw. Canines a bit too pointy. Skin too pale. The list went on, and on, and on…

“A changeling is simply an Elf, that is all. A Faerie.” Esme explained. “And therefore, you have simply called me what I am. Should this truly anger me?”

Gwendolyn blinked, her outrage silenced. She had never thought of it quite that way. It would be easy to see why some mortals considered the Fae countenance to be monstrous, but Gwendolyn never had. Considering her own trials, she had always felt there was beauty to be found in all creatures. And while so many times it had unsettled her to be treated so poorly by those who saw her as a “changeling,” the first time she’d set eyes upon Málik, she only ever saw the beauty in him. And no matter, she didn’t wish to defend herself, nor reassure Esme, nor confess that she had envisioned a changeling much opposed to the creature who now sat before her on that bed. Rather, she had thought them like… ghouls—hideously deformed, not with such delicate, ethereal features, even if her teeth were frightening to behold.

“Please go,” Gwendolyn begged. She wrapped the towel about her torso and stood, arms crossed.

“If you think about it,” Esme continued. “That is a stupid name… changeling. Don’t you believe so? And, truly, I must take issue with it because I—” She pressed a claw to her breast. “Have not changed one bit in my life. I am as I was conceived, no more, no less.”

Gwendolyn cast the Elf a dubious glance. “So, you were born fully formed?”

“Don’t be silly,” Esme said insouciantly, laughing, waving Gwendolyn away, with fingers like claws. “All creatures arrive in this world as innocent babes.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, unable to envision Esme as innocent. Indeed, as a babe, she would have crawled about on all fours, gnashing her porbeagle teeth and feeding on other children.

But, really, if she were in the mood to argue, she might point out the last time she’d spent any time alone with Esme in a bath chamber, Esme had seemed an entirely disparate creature. Gwendolyn no longer trusted her.

“Will you please get off my bed.”

It wasn’t a question.

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