Page 132 of Curse of Darkness
The first faint caress whispers up my thigh as if invisible knuckles brush against me. My nightgown slides up, revealing the edge of my drawers.
“Magic.”
26
Thiago tells me the truth that night, as I curl up in his arms.
There will never be another child.
Strangely, it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. The Mother of Night once told me I would only ever bear one child, so I never expected more. But the shock of it. The surprise. I don’t know how to process it, except to know that Thiago shares my pain.
A single tear slides down my cheek as I rest my cheek on his chest.
Because there’s a restless feeling inside me, a feeling my family isn’t complete.
Or maybe that’s merely the impact of everything I’m dealing with in regards to Amaya.
I hate you, she’d said.
And then she spent all afternoon weeping on my shoulder, begging me for forgiveness.
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know,” I’d told her, kissing her forehead. Somehow, in some ways, it feels like we’ve taken an enormous step forward in our relationship. And I will cling to that, even as I work my way slowly through this other quiet sense of grief.
It is, quite frankly, a lot.
I’m sentenced to two days of bed rest, which would be far more onerous if Thiago didn’t make good on his promise to entertain me regularly.
But I’m tired of being trapped in my rooms.
Stirring the coals, I stare into the flickering flames.
This silence from my mother is troubling. Every day the unseelie army creeps closer, with more unseelie flocking to Morwenna of Isembold and Angharad the Black’s armies, according to Thalia.
Maybe that’s Mother’s game—to wait us out until we’re either forced to make the first move, or must pre-empt an invasion of Asturia in order to take out one of the armies coming at us.
If only we knew what was happening in the north.
I’ve sent messages to Blaedwyn, telling her to prepare her armies and keep an eye on her fellow queens. She’s starting to feel the pinch of our deal, because her tone was quite acidic, but I know she’ll bring her warriors when we need them.
She has to, or the Erlking will have free reign to renege on his promise.
So that is one problem solved.
I stir the flames with my magic, forging them into little foxes running through the woods.
“Will I be able to do that?” Amaya murmurs, lying on her stomach on the rug in front of the fire. She’s barely left my side since I woke.
“Maybe.” I twist the flames to represent dolphins leaping clear of the sea. It’s frustrating how easily I can control these flames, but when it comes to forging a sword or a bow and arrow, I have to wield my entire concentration merely to hold it.
Thiago thinks it has something to do with my discomfort with killing.
I can wield a merciless blade when I’m backed into a corner—or when I’m fighting for someone I love—but I will always hesitate when it comes to what feels like outright murder.
“My magic came in when I was nearly twelve,” I murmur. “It’s usually a little later for most fae, but sometimes circumstances force us to the react. And if your magic is strong like your father’s, then it may be sooner.”
“Why did your magic come so early?” she asks.
