Page 112 of The Ruins of the Heartless Fae

“No.” Kolfinna laughed; did he think she was important enough to meet the king casually? “Blár, most people don’t ever meet the king.”

“Not even during those stupid parades?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I never attended those things. Too many people.” Kolfinna smoothed down the front of her dress with trembling fingers.

Blár must’ve noticed her fidgeting because he said, “There’s no need to be nervous. The king has already gotten the reports of what happened back there. This is just a formality before he pardons your crimes.”

“Crime. I didn’t commit multiple crimes.” She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. “But I still haven’t talked to Fenris yet and given my side of what happened. What if they think I didn’t do anything to help? What if they think I’m not useful and then they kill me like Mímir said they would?”

“I gave a good report on you.” He shrugged and jerked a thumb at Magni, still critiquing the painting and Truda still fixing her hair. “I think my words weigh more than those two.”

Kolfinna averted his gaze and focused on the plush, velvety, red and gold rug splayed over the white marble hallway. The rich red color reminded her of Fenris, and she found her mouth dry once more. “Fenris said he would be looking at what the other Royal Guards said about me.” She shot a glance at Magni and lowered her voice. “He’s the only Royal Guard who survived.”

“And Eyfura.”

“Yes, but she’s still bedridden.”

“You saved her life. That counts.”

“I just … I’m just nervous.” Her frown deepened and she glanced at her stupid pink dress. Everything about the palace corridor looked elegant; from the vibrant painting of a beautiful queen that Magni admired silently, to the gold and glass chandeliers lining the ceilings, and the clear windows that streamed midday gold rays across the glittering marble floors—it was all too beautiful and too royal. She didn’t fit in at all.

In contrast, she looked ridiculous in her stupid pink dress.

“It”—her voice came out thick—“it doesn’t help that I look like a clown.”

He tilted his head to the side, and the sunlight made his eyes gleam an electric blue as he slid his gaze over her figure. “You don’t look bad and you definitely don’t look like a clown.”

“This dress is meant for someone tall and thin and beautiful.” Tears threatening to spill. “I look like a clown and it doesn’t compliment my figure at all. All those nobles will stare at me and think all these terrible things because I’m a fae, a commoner, a murderer,andI can’t even find well-fitting clothes.”

She expected him to comfort her, but he only looked amused. “They won’t think that.”

“Oh, they definitely will.”

“Okay, they probably will,” he said. “But I think you look great. And who cares what they think?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “And let’s say the kingdoespardon me, but what if everyone retaliates at that decision? And Blár, itdoesmatter what they think, because they’re the ones who run society, aren’t they? They have power, and I’m just a fae—”

“Hey, hey, calm down. You don’t look like a clown. Let’s just get that settled. What you do look like, is someone who’s wearing clothes that don’t belong to her. Like Agatha, from the children’s stories. You remember Agatha, right?” When Kolfinna stared at him blankly, he elaborated, “She steals other people’s clothes and eventually gets found out because none of the clothes she wears fits right, and she’s sentenced to an eternity in the king’s palace to serve as a seamstress for other people. You’re basically Agatha.”

Kolfinna’s expression darkened. Not these stupid stories again. She wasn’t sure if these children’s stories originated only in his village up north, or if they were common stories in Rosain. “That’s not funny.” She frowned as he laughed softly. “And what is it with your stupid stories about stupid girls doing stupid stuff and getting punished for them? It’s the same thing as the story about Gertrude you told me earlier.”

“I don’t make these stories up.” He raised his hands as if absolving himself from the story’s origin. “Take it up to whoever made them.”

“But anyway …” She was sure he was trying to distract her from the matter at hand, but nothing he could say would either comfort her or distract her enough. She had secretly hoped he would wipe her tears and tell her it would be all right, but that was the stupid part of her talking. Because she and Blár didn’t have that kind of relationship. After today, they likely wouldn’t see each other again.

Kolfinna ran a hand over her silk skirts. It was a pretty shade of pale pink, but that was the only good thing about the dress. The pit in her stomach grew as she imagined the people looking at her, pointing fingers, and chuckling behind bejeweled hand fans.

“Do I really look that ridiculous?”Her voice came out small enough to be swallowed up by the overwhelmingly embellished hallway.

“You look fine,” Blár said.

She swallowed and stared down at her feet again.

“Hey now, don’t look so dejected.”

Kolfinna squeezed her eyes shut to keep from seeing the image of everyone giggling at her. Or the more pressing issue: her potential death if the king didn’t think she deserved to live.

She snapped her eyes open when a weight fell around her shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat to find that Blár had draped his cloak over her shoulders and was now inches away from her. His fingers lightly brushed her collarbones as he fastened the clasp of his cloak on her.

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