Page 4 of Between Fear and Favor

Chapter 4

ELORA

“Would you like some water?”I asked, hovering over Cyran’s shoulder with the pitcher I’d fetched from the kitchens. I could have easily filled his glass without asking, and he wouldn’t have questioned it thanks to the stuffiness of the library. But I wanted him to say something. I wanted to hear his voice. It was rare he spoke these days, and I wondered if it was possible he’d lose the ability altogether if I didn’t force him every now and then.

I still didn’t know why I wanted to interact with him at all. After what he did to me, after hekilledme, I had wanted to stay far away from him. It was only when he’d planned to leave Vesta that I’d had regrets over how I’d handled things between us. But did that mean I forgave him? Did that mean I was ready to trust him again?

Did I want to be his friend after everything? How could I be friends with someone who’d carved the pale scar stretching across my throat?

He said nothing, dismissively wiggling his bejeweled fingers at me. I recognized the glint of a ruby—his sister Ismene’s ring was too small to properly fit past his first knuckle.

I sighed, torn over my feelings. Kindness and compassion were all I wanted Cyran to experience, and yet I wondered if I should give it to him. Or if I even could.

We were floundering in our grief. He’d lost his sister to Declan’s rage, and I’d lost Theo. Because of my mother’s choices, I lost my best friend.

Common sense said we ought to seek comfort in one another. But how could I seek comfort in the man who killed me? It shouldn’t have felt as complicated as it did. It should have been simple. But so much of my life in the past half year had gone from fairly simple to extraordinarily complex.

I knew Rhia valued forgiveness, and it was possible I only existed thanks to her. Should I have been doing my best to please her? Giving Cyran my trust and not harboring our past against him would be an ultimate act of devotion to the goddess.

It seemed it didn’t matter what I wanted, though. Since arriving at Crown Cottage, Cyran barely spoke to me, sinking further into despair and solitude. Gods, I didn’t even know what to do with my own sadness, let alone Cy’s.

“Are you getting hungry? I know I am,” I said. Grimacing at my desperation, I set down the pitcher. Why did I have to fill every silent moment with incessant rambling? It was something I’d learned from Mama. It was just me and her so often, she talked constantly to fill the quiet. I swallowed, pushing the ache of nostalgia down. Maybe one day I’d forgive her, and we’d enjoy a quiet moment in a sun-drenched kitchen together. Maybe one day, I’d think of her without anger stirring deep in my belly. But it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“You can take a break, Your Highness,” Reminy said, pulling off his spectacles. With three books stacked in front of him, the top of his head was barely visible. Truthfully, he was so slight and calm that I often forgot about his presence. “I’m sure this is quite dull for you.”

I plopped into a seat at the table, making sure I was in Cyran’s line of sight. I felt pitiful, not sure if it was worry for him or longing for a distraction that made me eager to speak to him. Probably both, if I was being honest with myself.

Pulling over a book from Cyran’s stack, I glared at Reminy as I flipped through the yellowed pages. “Because I couldn’t possibly find history interesting?” I asked, channeling my grandmother’s imperious manner.

“Because yesterday you asked, and I quote, ‘How could you possibly find my great-great-great grandfather’s defecation habits interesting?’ when we found the record of your ancestor’s privy audiences,” Cyran answered. With a slight tilt to his mouth as he teased me, I was certain his expression counted as a smile. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said so many words in a row. And, though his statement irritated me, there was a lightness in my stomach over his chiding tone.

Gently shutting the ancient text, I glowered at the prince, hoping he’d look me in the eye.

I missed him. I missed the way things were with him before he hurt me. Was there an amount of apologizing that I could consider enough? Could I truly look past it enough to return to how we were?

“I still don’t know why such a custom existed,” I grumbled. The slight exhalation of breath which came from Cyran might have once been a chuckle—before all the sorrow. I still considered it an improvement.

Reminy stood, reorganizing the books on the large oak table. Shivani had instructed the limited staff who tended Crown Cottage to drag the enormous piece of furniture into the library in a moment of frustration. Though the man ran the bookstore in Astana, and clearly knew how to treat books with care, even I had been surprised when Reminy stacked them so high in front of my grandmother. She’d insisted on bringing in a larger table to ensure proper treatment of the tomes.

Running a hand through his dark hair, Reminy cleared his throat. “I believe the romance collection was substantial. The Queen Mother is known for her love of them. Perhaps you could?—”

“Are you saying a simple girl shouldn’t concern herself with?—”

“You know that is not what he means,min viltasma.”

My eyes widened just as Cyran’s hazel gaze met mine. My lips parted, and my heart sped up. He hadn’t called me by that name in weeks. The familiarity in it, the fondness of his tone, made it hard to breathe.

“Perhaps you should eat, Elora,” he said, rushing to speak as if he wanted to cover up the last thing he’d said. I blinked, almost shocked by his continued speech. “You’re quite grumpy when you’re hungry.” The tips of his ears turned red, and his cheeks darkened. Was he embarrassed? Had he not wanted to use those words for me?

“Dine with me?” I whispered, aware that I sounded pathetic. Cyran swallowed, but before he could answer, the door to the library opened.

“I’m surprised to find you here, Your Highness,” Thyra said, tossing her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. She’d taken to leaving it unbound and wearing more formal garments since we’d been at Crown Cottage. Not one for a dress, today my guard wore trousers and a light blue tunic, embroidered with tiny yellow flowers. When Reminy squeaked out a hello to her, Thyra turned the same shade of pink as Cyran. She cleared her throat, pulling out a scroll.

I sighed. “I told you, I don’t want?—”

“It is not a matter of what you want, Princess. I have to give. After that, the decision is not mine.”

Little, contrary girl.

---