Page 25 of Cinder
The prince leaned both hands against the sill, his face an inch from Cin’s as he replied, “All of you?”
The thought came with a tiny spark of fear and a far larger blaze of excited anticipation, threatening to roar Cin’s desire right back to life again. “Anything you want.”
Then, he swung to the story below, along the arch of the main door and down to the ground, and as swift and sure as the birds who’d granted him their magic, he was gone.
Eleven
Cin had just dissipated the last of his flock’s magic and locked the kitchen door behind him when Emma and Manfred pounded on the front entrance, Louise calling around the side of the house for the carriage to be retrieved.
What relief Cin felt turned quickly to annoyance, then exhaustion as his siblings bickered and protested over irrelevant nonsense. The moment they made their way to bed, their mother proceeded to describe just how Floy had taken it upon themself to stay at the ball longer, how honorable a sacrifice it had been, and how of course she’d left money for their travel home at the city’s carriage-house. Once Louise finally finished her dramatic speech and turned in, however, it left Cin with another hour of work and nothing to preoccupy him but his growing fatigue, the effervescent pain in his sides, and the thought of Floy still at the ball.
The ball, to which Prince Lorenz had surely returned, giving his attention to guests who could actually accept his hand inmarriage, and all that would follow such a union. One of those guests might even be Floy. Imagining that—Floy dancing with the prince, holding him, whispering of their perfect life and wooing him with the many talents they’d honed—made Cin sick to his stomach.
But when he tried to picture himself there instead, a part of that crowd seeking the prince’s lifelong partnership, all he could think of was the price the crown had rightfully levied on his head, the watch stationed around every turn of the ballroom, and then, the way Emma would call for him after a bad dream or a hard fall, like Cin was the only thing keeping her together.
No, his place was here. With her, with his family, being the only bit of good and pious he could manage.
Even when he hated it.
The next morning, Cin took one look at the mirror in the hall and froze. Slowly, he lifted his fingers to the round, tender bruise on his neck. It sat just where the prince’s mouth had been. Cin’s stomach fluttered. A part of him almost wanted his siblings to see it—to know he, the Cinder-whore, had someone willing to mark their affection upon his skin. But that would lead to more questions, and when he didn’t answer them, to more scrutiny.
Grabbing his scarf from the kitchen, he wrapped it carefully around his neck and tucked the ends into his shirt. They made lumps against his chest binding. The tight wrapping seemed to pinch especially hard around his ribs as Cin struggled throughhis work, tired and sore and daydreaming of the prince. His trio of pigeons sat nearby whenever he was outside, and when he moved into the house, they perched by the windows and hopped across the kitchen stoop. The sight of them got him through the grumbles and snaps of his family, until Louise finally demanded Cin pick her up a new ledger book from town.
“Ribbons!” Emma added, throwing herself dramatically over the back of the couch where her mother sat. “I want a pair of ribbons for my dress! Blue and white, to match my gloves. Please, please?”
“I need a new hat,” Manfred added.
Cin swore Floy muttered under their breath, “What you need is a new brain...”
Then the room broke into shouting as Emma and Manfred argued with Louise over who deserved what most. Cin slipped out the back. He could feel Floy’s eyes on him as he left, prickling against his neck like they could see straight through the weathered fabric of his scarf.
By the time he reached town, he was winded inside his binder and had to loosen his scarf twice. He rested in the square, the hustle and bustle moving around him, and stared in newfound wonder at the towers glinting on the horizon. He had been there—toured through one of those very towers with none other than the Prince of Hallin himself—and he wanted to shout it to every passing townsperson who seemed bent on ignoring him. After so many eyes on him the previous night, it felt odd, suddenly, to be delegated to the background once more.
Out in the open, and yet no one to actually see him, forhim. Not that there would ever be anyone to see him in his entirety. He could be the Plumed Menace, or the good and pious sibling, or the man who’d bantered and danced and come on the prince’s fingertips, but not all three. Not for anyone but himself.
A hand clasped onto Cin’s shoulder from behind. He inhaled, spinning to face the stranger. His throat caught at the sight of her. “Mrs. Earhart?”
Widow Dorthe Earhart was dressed in a short blue frock and trousers, her hair neatly done up and a single black ribbon of mourning at her throat. Her cheeks glowed with color. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.” She smiled at Cin, and quieter she added, “I just… wanted to thank you.”
Cin’s stomach still dropped out from under him. She’d known. All this time? It had been two weeks—two weeks since he’d come face to face with her in the darkness, her late husband’s corpse cooling down the street and his blood still staining the inside of Cin’s cloak.
But maybe, maybe it wasn’t that—or she was pressing on purpose, hoping he’d acknowledge it? Cin’s gaze went instantly to the street corners and shop fronts around them, searching for any sign of the crown’s watch hiding in wait. Setting him up seemed too cruel for what he knew of Dorthe, but he couldn’t risk discounting it entirely, even if the square itself seemed as quiet and peaceful as she did.
Cin tucked his scarf tighter and tried to look confused instead of terrified. “Thank me for what?”
“The sugar, of course.” She pushed her hair behind her ear, and her gaze dropped. “And you know, everything else.”
Everything else.
But there was only one other thing Cin had ever done for her. His heart ached at the thought that this was real, that hehaddone something right—something right for Dorthe, anyway. It couldn’t wash the blood from his hands, but there was a peace in that, at least.
Hoarse and still a little wary, he replied, “You’re welcome. For the sugar, I mean.”
A flush spread across Dorthe’s cheeks. She was quite pretty, Cin realized, now that she had the space to be herself: lightly plump, with soft hair and long lashes, perhaps five or six years Cin’s senior—around the prince’s age, Cin figured.
“Good. I, um, thank you.” She laughed awkwardly—so sweet and embarrassed that Cin felt bad even thinking she had been trying to set him up, even if he hadn’t quite managed to pull his attention away from the space around them. “I suppose I just said that.”
“Yes, well, it’s no problem,” Cin replied. He tried to smile for her, and thought he almost managed it. “I’m just happy that you’re safe.”
