Page 5 of The Crowned Fae Queen
“King Iri,” Jesting says loud enough to hush the rest of the room. “Is there a reason you’ve called us all together today? It’s getting late in the evening, and my wife and I would like to retire for the night.”
Do you want to tell them or shall I?I can feel Iri’s smirk. I’m not sure if I want to slap it right off his face or kiss him until his lips fall off. Maybe both.
Bartley, Aisha’s father, chews his already nonexistent nails. His leg bounces softly against the stone floor, making an unpleasant rhythm with Countess Everly’s own show of annoyance. I watch him, even as he avoids my attention, and clear my throat.
This ismycourt after all.
“Actually, I brought you here today.”
Every pair of eyes in the room lands on me. Some of them friendly, some of them lethal. Miranda remains with his back leaning against the wall, his entertained yet curious gaze slowly moving from me to Iri.
Chaplain’s face turns crimson, the sharp points of his ears blending into the red of his tall cap. His lips purse tight, relax again, then purse once more. Like an asshole. An asshole that can breathe.
Iri sputters another cough behind me at my less than pleasant thought. His advisor, Marken, narrows his gaze in confusion at the king before turning to face me, his hands firmly planted against his hips.
“Excuse me, Princess,” Chaplain draws the title out like an insult, “but until you are crowned, you are not privy to private meetings.”
A small piece of me wants to throw my real title in his face. Really, I’m not sure why I don’t when it will only prove my point even further. But today, I’ll continue to be selfish as I keep my bond with King Iri a secret. As I keep my new title of queen under wraps.
“Yes, well, until your kingdom is safe from plagues and poison, I suggest you take all the advice you can get, Chaplain.”
Countess Everly lets out a small gasp. Jesting immediately pats her hand and murmurs something in her ear to comfort her.
“Poison?” Chaplain says skeptically, clasping his hands neatly in front of him. “What are you even talking about, Princess?”
I reach into the slim pocket of my dress, the pocket I demand the seamstress to make in all of my gowns, and retrieve the bright yellow flower. This isn’t the rotting, withering flower I held onto for all that time as I nibbled away at its curling petals. This flower is still perfect in appearance and remains on its still-green stem plucked from the pot Aisha grew it in.
“I’m talking about this.” I toss the flower out onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the sitting area.
Everly leans forward, her cinnamon-colored curls falling forward over her shoulder. “A dainty little flower?” She cracks an amused smile. “This looks like something that should be in a bouquet in my foyer. You made us leave the comfort of our home to meet about this measly floret?” Her unblemished skin wrinkles slightly as she furrows her brow.
“This isn’t something you’d want in your floral arrangement, Countess.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the uppity, airheaded woman. “This is called Bloodroot.”
“Bloodroot,” Marken says, tasting the words on his lips.
“You take this flower, mix it with a few choice ingredients and bad intentions, and you have poison.” I swallow, trying not to let my memories overwhelm me. “The flower by itself can cause its own damage. Not deadly, but trust me, it’s not ideal.”
Iri’s ill feelings toward the flower, and his sorrow for the thought of losing me thrum so hard within the bond, I hardly can sort out what feelings are mine and what are his. Maybe it’s all the same.
“And who do you think is being poisoned?” The chaplain crosses his hands in front of him. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
If you don’t mind me asking.Ha. That bullshit is just as bad as someone saying, “I mean no offense,” when everything they are saying is offensive.
“Nothing that is said in this room is to leave this room.” I channel my fiercest glare and slowly look each person sitting around me in the eye until each of them nods.
“Nothing,” I repeat.
“It’s understood, Princess,” Chaplain confirms, his face taut with mild annoyance.
“I think the entirety of the kingdom is being poisoned.”
A couple of people take a deep breath in as if the realization of it is too much. However, Chaplain, Sir Bartley, and Mathis smirk or chuckle under their breath.
“That’s blasphemy.” The chaplain manages, his hand dramatically fluttering to hold his chest. He turns to Iri. “This is why it was so important that you get your latest conquest into the church for every prayer meeting held.”
Miranda’s hand stops atop his sword. Not that he would do anything with it, but perhaps more for his own comfort than anything. “You will not talk to your King and future Queen that way,” he hisses, his shoulders pulling back until his posture makes him look more like the bear than his friend.
Short and stiff, Chaplain gives him a small nod but makes no move to apologize. His beady gaze passes by me as he watches the rest of the room for their reaction.
