Big arms go around me and he holds me close. “You are right. Let us be friends first and foremost. I keep forgetting that we are here for the next six years. That we have many, many days and months to live through before we worry about the outside world.” And he squeezes me tight, as if in an apology. “Forgive me for thinking too much.”

“I never have that problem,” I tease, and I’m rewarded with a chuckle from him.

He hugs me again, pulling me closer. I love the feel of his arms around me and so I press his head to my bosom and hug him like I would a child, stroking the horns that sweep back from his brow.

Nemeth immediately stiffens, his body growing tense against me.

Oh. I’ve done something improper, I suspect. I pull back, lifting my hands. “I’m sorry. Is touching your horns bad?”

“It is…a strong sort of touch.” His voice is tight.

Oh dragon shite, he’s told me that before, hasn’t he? And I’ve completely forgotten. “As in, not the sort of touch a friend gives a friend. I’m so sorry.”

Nemeth nods at me and lets me go. I’m left feeling vaguely disappointed and sad that he doesn’t pursue things more. That he doesn’t fling me down onto the bed and fuck me until stars burst behind my eyes.

He needs for this to be a true marriage between us—a mating, as he calls it—but I am Liosian.

If I choose him, I lose everything the moment I get out of this awful tower.

I’m not sure I’m ready to make that choice yet. Picking up my letters, I move back to the bed and sit down to read. Nemeth retrieves his book, opens it to a page, and starts reading.

It’s quiet between us, and it’s not a comfortable quiet in the slightest.

The letters from Nurse and Riza are less guilt-inducing than Erynne’s letter. Both of them are sweet and full of worry over me, and they tell me all about Erynne and court—what the latest fashions are, who recently got married, and who inherited a fortune. They tell me of Allionel and his baby activities, and it’s clear that both of them adore him. It seems like the entire court does. I read their letters multiple times over the next several days while Nemeth makes careful lists of meals we can make that will stretch our food and firewood.

I offer to help him with it, but he has a workbook he pores over, numbers he moves back and forth, and I give up trying to assist. He has a system worked out, and I’m just slowing him down. I read my letters again and again instead, as Nemeth’s food supply is delivered in much the same way as mine. I expected them to deliver it through magical means, since they have lights that shine without fuel and the ability to meld their bodies with the shadows, but Nemeth assures me this is not infallible. To move through the shadows, one must see where they are going, and with a wall in the way, no one can trust where to arrive.

Plus, they are not allowed to step foot inside the tower, and he is not allowed to go out.

When they arrive on the Solstice (as planned), I have to hide upstairs from the Fellians. Hiding in the shadows and watching isn’t enough, because they can see in the dark. It makes me feel like I’m being punished even if I know Nemeth’s request is reasonable. I sit upstairs and read through my letters for the dozenth time as Nemeth waits downstairs for his supplies.

We’re supposed to pray to the Golden Moon Goddess on the Solstice but I don’t feel much like praying to her—or to any of the gods. They can just enjoy my presence here in the tower and know I’m doing my stupid, ridiculous duty to them. I flick through Riza’s letter.

And then Nurse’s.

A thought occurs to me and I pick up Erynne’s letter from the stack and read through it again.

No one has mentioned the war.

There’s not a single mention of the fleet of ships that were waiting in the harbor last solstice for a good wind. No mention of their arrival to Darkfell lands or how the conquest is going. If the Fellians are fighting back or if they have been completely destroyed. I’ve seen just how large the Liosian army is and I can’t imagine the war is going well, even if Fellians can blend with shadows. How very curious that they didn’t say anything about it at all.

Could it be because they’re afraid Nemeth would get the information? That seems the most likely reason. If so, I’m a little hurt that Erynne and Riza and Nurse don’t trust me enough not to blab about state secrets. Am I not here in this wretched tower because I love my country?

Hurt, I look to the stairs, but there’s still no sign of Nemeth. He’s been down on the first floor for a while now, and I worry that he’s getting the same abrupt treatment I did. I put on my slippers and grab my skirts so they don’t rustle, tiptoeing down the dark stairs without a light, counting until I get to the thirty-fifth out of the forty steps. Then I sit, straining my ears to hear.

There’s a low murmur of conversation, and I can’t pick out their words. They must be speaking Fellian, because the cadence of their voices is unfamiliar to me. Then, someone laughs.

A moment later, I hear Nemeth’s booming voice join in. He laughs, too, the snake, and I frown into the darkness. Are they just standing at the door and chatting as if they’re having a cup of tea? Catching up on gossip while I was treated like a prisoner by my own people? I’m irritated, and sitting on the steps and hiding as I listen in isn’t helping things. When they laugh again, a stab of hurt radiates in my chest.

Nemeth’s people clearly love him. They’re pleased about his duty as the Royal Offering.

Mine won’t tell me about the war and treat me like I’m some sort of beggar when they come to give me supplies. I’m sure there’s a reason behind it, but resentment stirs in me just the same.

Chapter

Forty

Nemeth is down there for hours, and I get tired of sitting on the stairs, listening in to a conversation I can’t understand. They seem to be jovial enough, and I wonder if they’re teasing him about me. Stuck with the fat, cursed princess? Shame about that.

The thought irritates me and I head upstairs. I fold up my letters and put them aside, because their contents no longer bring me pleasure. Instead, all I can see is what they don’t mention. Other than the baby and my sister, I realize that no names are given. When they mention someone at court marrying, it’s a “certain someone with a forked beard,” not “Bernard Athelhorn, Lord of Silver Thorpe.” They’re hiding information from me because of my situation. It bothers me, so I decide to put them away, into my trunk upstairs where I keep my knife and the secretive things I don’t want Nemeth to see, like the worn out bloomers I wear when I have my period and the supplies for such things.

My trunk is just where I left it, but I’m a little anxious each time I open it, worried that this time, my knife will be gone again. That Nemeth will have lied to me and stolen it. That he’s somehow figured out its magical properties and wishes to use it against me. But when I open the small, gilded trunk, my knife is there.

I pick it up and set the letters inside. “I missed you,” I joke.

The knife doesn’t respond. It’s either disagreeing with me or didn’t realize it was a question.

I bite my lip, thinking. Should I keep it with me or put it away once more? I stare at it, hoping for inspiration. I’m afraid to ask it anything. I’m afraid to hear the answers, because I’m powerless to do anything about them. “Is Erynne well?” The question comes out of me grudgingly, and I flinch, waiting for the answer.