Page 21 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood
How alone she looks from this high above.
Lenore
I leave the sting of my encounter with Harrow behind, wandering into the castle, only to be instantly summoned to a tea with my mother’s court. My fingers rub against each otherwith the memory of his soft feathers and two raised lines. Scars, I’m positive.
Several things shifted after that encounter. First, Harrow is real. So real I could touch him. Second, he really does have wings. Which means, third, he truly isn’t human.Harrow. My fingers flex with the desire to bury in his wings again. The sounds he made as I touched him… The feeling of his hands on me…
My body heats. With my eyes covered, my hearing was heightened. His moans and groans unlocked a part of me that has been swirling beneath my skin ever since. A part of me that would much rather be in the bath, satiating that quivering place between my thighs, instead of socializing with people I don’t even like. Honestly, having tea after such an otherworldly encounter seems trivial at best.
My mother and her court are fully immersed in their tea when I arrive. Several of their daughters are present as well. I’ve never been partial to the idea of having a court. A court should be comprised of those closest and most trusted. Instead, it’s a group of power-hungry social climbers, hoping the queen will use her many connections to help secure a match for their daughters.
Three of the girls are my age. We’ve never gotten on well. I don’t like sitting about, fanning myself and talking about how I’ll decorate my future home. These girls spend so much time lounging about looking pretty that I’m surprised their asses haven’t fused to their seats.
No one bothers to ask me questions. They’re probably tired of the strange things I always say. Conversing eloquently is an art form that was not passed down from my mother to me. Their gazes are all fixed on the queen. That’s fine by me. I reach for a lemon cake, deciding I better grab two so I can stuff my face while no one is looking.
As is my luck, my elbow catches on my cup during my very unladylike reach across the table, knocking it over. Its contents empty down the front of my dress before it clatters onto the floor.
I am now the unfortunate subject of every gaze in the room. There’s a flustered fuss of several women offering me napkins and muttering their condolences before a flurry of servants swoop in to clean it up. It’s just some spilled tea, not the end of the world. I have more clothes than I have time to wear.
“And it was such a lovely dress,” Penelope says with a pitying frown. She’s the ringleader of the noble daughters. And also the biggest ass-kisser and most annoying. I see right through her fake façade. If I weren’t the princess, she would turn that dainty freckled nose up and pass by me without a word.
“My daughter is right,” her mother, Bess, chimes in. “Lovely, yet so modest, soyou.” At my scowl, Bess adds, “A credit to true virtue, decency, and the crown, no doubt.”
These people. I wouldn’t have to dress so modestly if everyone here weren’t so judgmental. It’s because of people like Bess and Penelope that I have to hide my flaws. It would be so refreshing to be free of judgments. To bare my scar and not worry about the hushed remarks.
“You know why I dress so modestly, don’t you?” I press. Across the table, my mother shifts in her seat. “It’s because I’m a thousand-year-old witch. Beneath these clothes, I’m wrinkly and haggard. Every few years, I steal the face of a beautiful youth to hide my true nature. You’d better watch out, Penelope, it could be your face next.”
Bess clutches her daughter’s arm, pulling her close.
I slide my gaze around the room. My joke has fallen flat. They’re all gawking at me like I said I eat children and sacrifice goats. Why is comedic timing so hard to master?
“My daughter jests.” My mother smiles but her eyes are fixed on me in awhat the hell was thatkind of way.
On cue, everyone at the table releases a round of forced laughter. My own lips press into a thin line, my tight, mirthless smile the best I can offer by way of politeness toward all of these boring, stuck-up ninnies.
“Would you like to change out of those tea-stained clothes, my love?” An out. My mother is giving me an out. I stand, my chair screeching against the stone floor. Everyone cringes at the sound.
“Yes, I am a mess. Please excuse me while I freshen up.” I consider grabbing some snacks from the table before I leave. I’m still hungry. But I’d bet the princess stuffing cakes into a napkin would be frowned upon even more than spilling tea on myself. I’ll have Melly bring me some.
The ladies rise, giving their perfunctory farewells. I smile back, knowing they can tell it’s fake.Bye, bitches.
I don’t mind being excused from tea. The sky will turn to night soon and I can put the entirety of this strange day behind me. It’s a full moon tonight. My bone garden calls. I’d choose solitude or a visit with my animal friends over a stuffy, forced tea with sugar-coated strangers any day.
Chapter 9
Lenore
The nearly thousand-pound animal is too still beneath my palms. Frustration expels from my lungs in a puff of jammy breath. I’d been taking the air, munching on strawberry tarts when movement caught my eye in the pasture just beyond the gates. Vultures circling about, but not yet landing, meant the animal may still be alive. It was in bad shape when I found it.
“Come on. One hoof at a time,” I urge the stout, white-and-grey horse. “Come on.”
My fingers graze across his dappled hair. It’s fuzzy with the last traces of his winter coat. He needs a good brushing. I’ll give him one when he comes back. I pour more and more energy into him. I don’t know what happened, but the red staining his muzzle leads me to believe we missed a yew tree somewhere on the property. The handlers are tasked with clearing all the yew,knowing it is toxic to horses. But our land spreads so wide and far. Things can be missed.
I’ve always loved horses. They have far more personality than people give them credit for. This sweet young boy is a gentle giant. He’ll lay his head in your lap like one of the castle pups. Horses rarely recognize their size. They just want to be loved on.
My limbs begin to shake.Come on, come on.I channel all the energy I can. Sweat beads across my brow; my chest heaves with the effort. Resurrection doesn’t usually take this long.
Minutes pass. My arms grow tired, weak. Still the horse does not move. I reach deeper within, grasping at that life-force energy, pulling it, begging. A breeze blows past, rustling his grey mane. Come spring, I’ll braid his mane with wildflowers. He’ll never get sick again. I’ll hunt for the yew tree myself. As soon as he comes back.Come back.
