Page 27 of In the Ravenous Dark
The trek back to my father and Penelope’s apartments, with my spiraling thoughts and dawning mortification, is sobering enough that I’m able to walk on my own by the time I arrive. I awkwardly dismiss the servants before I reach the outer doors, and fortunately the common rooms beyond are empty and barely lit. Penelope and Crisea left the banquet hall well before I did, and I haven’t seen my father since he walked away from me. They’re all likely asleep.
Perfect. Once I change out of my wretched dress, there will be no one to bother me if I go in search of another carafe of wine.
Except my guardian, of course. “I’d advise you to go to bed.” His voice comes out of the darkness as soon as I’m alone in my oversized, overdecorated bedroom.
Already, he knows me too well.
Any thought of the strange protection he provided during my meeting with the royal family, of my wonder at it, evaporates in the heat of my sudden anger. He has a horrible hold on me, he’s keeping me trapped here, and now he wants to give meadvice? I spin toward his voice in the candlelit dimness, and he’s there, standing in the shadows, black-robed arms folded, as if waiting for my tirade.
I’m more than happy to give it to him.
“Don’tadvise me.Don’ttalk. Just, just”—I shove a finger at his nose and carefully emphasize—“fuck you”—I stab again—“in the face.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “I don’t think you could manage that.”
I goggle at him. “That wasn’t a proposition!” I wave a hand and almost lose my balance. “And how typical to think such a thing could only be done by a man. I feel sorry for your lady friends, if you have any.”
“I don’t mean it’s impossible for you as awoman,” he says, the slightest bit of exasperation entering his tone for the first time I can remember. “I mean it’s impossible for you due tomystate, which is immaterial, and yours, because you can’t see straight.” He narrows his eyes and mutters, “I can’t believe we’re discussing this.”
Of coursethisis what makes him react. It never fails—the best way to goad a man is to insult his prowess in bed. Even a dead man, apparently.
“I can too see straight,” I say, and then squint. My rose-shapeddesk appears to be actively blooming, even though I’m nearly positive it isn’t. “Maybe not. But believe me when I say you’re the last person whose face I would want to sit on, unless I was trying to suffocate you.”
“Also impossible.”
“Imeant,” I say as if he hasn’t spoken, “fuckyourselfin the face.”
“Now that’s most assuredly infeasible,” he says with a too-flat expression.
“Because you can’t bend like that or because you’re dead?”
For all the world, it looks like the dead man is trying not to smile. Is helaughingat me? The thought enrages me further, as does his sigh. “You’re very drunk, Rovan. Please just go to—”
“Don’t call me Rovan!” I burst. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“What should I call you, then?” His tone is patient, which makes me want to take an ax to it.
“You can call me Mis”—I hiccup—“Mistress Rovana-la-la-laaa”—that part I extend into a cracking, wavering song—“the Most Excellent.”
The dead man, circlet glinting on his dark crown of hair, drops his face into his hand, as if taking a break from our conversation.
I widen my eyes in a parody of remorse. “Am I embarrassing you? Making you mad?”
“There’s a distinct chance of both.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but it still sounds like he’s trying not to smile. I can’t see his lips to be sure.
I suddenlywantto see his lips, and the thought makes me flush for some reason. Maybe that’s the wine.
I sweep an arm out as if rejecting him. “Then I need to try harder.”
“In any event,” he says into his hand, “as fittingly unique as that name is, I can’t even repeat it—”
“Can’t or won’t?”
He carries on, head still bowed, “So I will persist in using your given name, Rovan, until you provide me with a better option.”
I sneer at him. “That’s all you get, my friend. No, not my friend. Myenemy.”
He drops his hand to stare directly at me. “I’m not your enemy.”
