Page 66 of I Summon the Sea

Then she tackles my long, soaked hair.

It’s kind of brutal, her strength unexpected, and I admit I relish the pain as she works her way through the knots. I want her to pull on my hair, scratch my scalp. Punish me.

I only made it here because Jai helped me. Because he willed it, throwing himself into the trials to save my ass.

It burns worse than my raw skin.

And Arkin’s asinine, romantic conclusions don’t convince me. Jai is after something, and that’s the only reason he helped me. What could it be?

“One might think you haven’t combed your hair in a lifetime,” Daria mutters, her voice trembling only a little. She sounds better now. Work seems to calm her down. “It’s so tangled I’m tempted to cut off half of it, but it will be so pretty once it’s brushed and dry, despite its color.”

In the cooling water of the tub, I wrap my arms around my folded legs and let her work through her fear—and mine. Each punishing tug, each snag the comb hits, grounds me more.

I’ll be okay. I’ll dress up and step out of here perfumed and coiffed, yet again pretending to be someone I’m not. And I’ll play the role just fine.

I can do this.

Eventually, Daria seems satisfied that my hair is as knot-free as she can make it and gets up to unfold the bath sheet for me. Wrapped in it as if inside a cocoon, I stand by the tall window, gazing out at the expanse of sea and land. The hills and mountains are faint smudges at the rosy horizon, and behind them flows the Circle Sea, marking the edge of the world.

Closer up, outside the window, gambol draks and seabirds, chasing one another in ever-widening circles, their colors flashing bright against the iron sky. I lean closer to the thick glass, framed with thick iron, and tap it with my fingertips. It vibrates like a gong, like a mermaid’s song.

Such an expensive material, glass. Only found in palaces and the occasional rich manor, hand-crafted with the added use of earth spells, unlike the windows of poorer houses which are made of latticed woodwork and animal hides.

The light slants through, distorted, playing on my hand.

Then a winged, pale shadow passes outside, so close it startles me into taking a step back.

A darakin.

It flies by once again, its colors white and gray, its wings like lace. It screeches the next time it flies by, and with a trembling hand, I grab and haul the heavy drape over the window, plunging the room into darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Fortunately, Daria hasn’t found many clothes that fit me.

It’s odd to think of it as a stroke of luck, I suppose—but it does mean that the fitting session is relatively short.

Still, my mood is dark by the time the last item of clothing has been discarded on the ever-growing pile of garments I won’t be wearing. The few items on the good pile will await the seamstress’ arrival so she can fix them for me.

The only dress that fits me well enough to wear right now is a pale gray silk with fitted sleeves and bodice, the skirt long enough to drag on the floor.

Daria thrusts it against me, brow creased, obviously unhappy with it.

No pants?I try to get Daria’s attention as I mouth the words over and over.Pants?

How am I going to run around the palace in this dress? I’m used to freedom of movement.

She’s getting stressed all over again as she gathers the unusable dresses and bodices. “The fae women tend to be taller than us, and the winners of the trials are usually men. They didn’t think to provide many gowns for human ladies, and now it’s too late to create a garderobe for you. I’m sure that theseamstress will fix you a gown for the ball, at least. I’m so sorry…”

She doesn’t need to apologize. It’s not as if this is any of her fault, but I’m coming to realize that Daria, sweet as she is, is under constant stress to perform perfectly in her duties.

I wonder if she’ll be punished the moment she fails even in the smallest task, let alone in preventing me from drowning in the bathtub and keeping me alive. She’s a human in a fae palace. It wouldn’t surprise me if they hanged her for it.

Once she’s stopped muttering, I beckon for her to help me into the gray dress. She buttons up the sleeves and pulls the ribbons at the back of the bodice, securing them.

At least the silk is soft and warm and has a stretch to it that I enjoy.

“Spidersilk,” she says, “very expensive… Some lady must have had it commissioned and then disliked it.”

---