Page 52 of Cursed Shadows 5

But there is little choice. There is work to be done.

I am slow moving in my lethargy. But around Eamon, there is no slacking allowed.

‘This is life, now, Nari,’ he murmured those cruel words to me just last Quiet as we huddled around a sooted fireplace. ‘We have no servants, no monies, no security. If we do not work, we do not eat, we do not live.’

So we work.

Eamon tackles the ceiling, cleans a portion with the long duster, then washes it with the rag tied to pole, then dries it with a towel tied to a pole, then paints it.

I find his work is not envious. My arms ache at the thought of it.

My labour is restricted to the floorboards.

I am a spider, crawling around the floor, under tables, around stacked chairs, scrubbing the wood raw with my bucket of soapy water and the coarse brush in my blotchy hand.

Then a chime pauses me.

The gentle ringing song is followed by the thudding of bootsteps, slow and uneasy, and the groan of the door.

“Not open!” Eamon snaps from out of my line of sight. Probably still at the bar, maybe on it, maybe behind it.

Since I’m tucked under a row of three tables pushed up against the windows, I can’t see—can’t make out much of anything beyond stacked chairs.

“I am not here for a beverage.”

The unfamiliar voice furrows my face with a frown.

I crawl out from the dust balls and tables.

The dewy soap residue clings to my hands, flat on the slick floorboards.

Eamon’s voice comes, “Then what is your business here?” There’s an edge to his voice, one that stiffens me—and turns my movements slow.

I am careful as I slip out from under the final table, slow to rise up from my crouch. I land my gaze on the brown leathers of a litalf male.

The litalf warrior says, “I’m looking for a Narcissa Elmfield.”

For reasons I don’t quite understand, I think fleetingly of the Sacrament.Narcissa Elmfield. I’d never heard my full name so often before that wretched tournament.

My jaw clenches at the reminder of the passages, the snow of a mountain splashed with blood quick to sear into my mind.

I blink the image away and tilt my head as I eye up the intruder.

His face is muted, one that can’t be recognized because it’s so unremarkable for a fae.

I wipe my hands on a paint-spotted piece of cloth. “What do you want with her?”

His gaze swerves to me.

He blinks for a beat, as though he hadn’t seen me tucked away over here, but of course he had, he just didn’t see me as more than a shadow slave, a peasant, someone not worth a second glance.

He looks me up and down for a beat, considering me. Almost feels like he’s sizing me up, assessing my weight and skill in challenge. “I am to deliver a message.”

Father…?

Something lodges in my throat. A ball wound and weaved from all sorts of clashing emotions, somewhere between hope and dread.

I take a step closer to the strange male. “From my family?”

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