Page 32 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
“And there is one room we can prepare for you,” interjects her wife. “It is not usually slept in, but we can make it comfortable. Or—or if Your Highness wishes, we can wake some of the other guests. I’m sure one of them would be willing to give up their room for the Second Princess.”
That is just what I need—disgruntled nobles and merchant families angry at me for displacing them from rooms they’ve had reserved for months.
“The spare room you mentioned will be fine,” I say.
“And your thrall will stay with you, yes? I’m afraid we can’t fit more than a few extra pallets in the servants’ rooms…” The innkeeper’s voice trails off as I glower at her.
“Yes, he can remain with me.”
“Of course, of course. Good. If your Highness will wait in the parlor while we prepare—it won’t be long. I’m so sorry, my lady—our very deepest and humblest apologies for this terrible miscommunication.”
I know it isn’t the fault of the inn staff, but I’m angry nonetheless. And I don’t like the way the black bristly trees tower and lean over the chimneys of the inn. The night air is chilly and damp, and a cool wind whispers over my bare arms until I shiver. My cloak isn’t in my overnight bag, the one Penn is holding—it’s in one of the trunks on top of the carriage. Meldare would fetch it if I asked her, but I would rather just go inside and get to bed.
“I’ll be glad to sit by a fire,” I mutter. But as it turns out, the fire in the parlor has already been banked up, so the five of us sit awkwardly at a table around a lantern until the innkeeper comes to show my bodyguards and Meldare to their pallets.
Penn seems reluctant. “How can we ensure the princess’s security if our room is not immediately next to hers?”
“You will be right by the stairs that lead up to her room,” the innkeeper assures him. “There is no other access point to her chamber. We have plenty of strong locks, and six of our own hired night guards are patrolling the grounds.”
“Are you satisfied with the arrangement, Princess?” Penn asks.
“Do I have a choice?” I rise with a sigh. “Take us to the rooms.”
“I should attend you in your chamber, my lady,” says Meldare.
“Nonsense. It’s late, and I’m used to fending for myself. Go to sleep. Penn, give my bag to Ducayne, and he can carry it up for me.”
We leave Penn, Meldare, and my other guard in the servants’ rooms. The innkeeper leads Ducayne and me to the door at the very end of the hall.
“This room is special,” she says brightly, but her smile wavers. “It is beautifully furnished, and so cozy. I’ve laid out a tray of cold cutlets, biscuits, jam, and fruit, along with hot tea.”
So Vienne gets the best suite and a fine dinner, while I get cold meat and tea. Lovely.
But I don’t protest as we climb the narrow stairs, because the innkeeper is already trembling with the fear of me.
When she shows us the room, I almost forget my compassion for her. It is a tiny, cramped hollow under the roof, with sloped ceilings and little space to move around. The only thing that saves the innkeeper from my wrath is the comfortable bed, which is piled high with thick blankets and puffy pillows. The floors are layered with rugs, and the food looks decently appetizing. The innkeeper points out a small privy closet with running water, a luxury only the best inns can afford.
“It will do,” I say. “But on our return trip, I expect better treatment.” And I name the date for her, so there can be no confusion.
“Of course, Your Highness, of course.” The woman bows low. She looks as if she is about to cry. If she cries, I will want to hurt her. I despise tears outside of a torture chamber.
“Go,” I tell her sharply.
She hurries to obey, but before she closes the door, Ducayne says, “If I may ask—why is this lovely room so infrequently occupied?”
“Oh,” squeaks the innkeeper, wincing. “It has the reputation of being haunted. A silly tale. But there have been some signs—” Her eyes turn distant and glassy for a moment. “Ah, never mind it, my lady! I am sure you will be very comfortable. Good night!” And she shuts the door before I have a chance to protest.
There are two lamps burning merrily in the small room. It’s not enough. All the lamps in the world could not be enough to make me spend the night in a room that is haunted.
My whole body is burning ice, cold and hot at once. Yes, I fear my father and my sister—my thrall was right about that. And yes, I worship Arawn, antlered god of death. But perhaps we worship what we fear. Perhaps my devotion to Arawn is grounded in a terror of the afterlife. And the last thing I want is to be vulnerable and unconscious,asleepin a place where some wretched spirit might creep in and claw my equally wretched soul from my body.
I want to run. But if I do, Ducayne will laugh at me.
And it’s not only the ghosts causing me distress. I should have complained about there being only one bed in this room. The innkeeper probably thought I wouldn’t mind sharing with my pleasure thrall; she had no way of knowing that I avoid touching him beyond accidental collisions and punishing slaps.
Everything is so wrong. This is not how I expected my Summerglee triumph to begin.
My eyes are prickling.
