A small part of me wanted to curl up in that enormous bed and wait for him, but that might be too much a reminder. If he came home and saw me, the unwitting instrument of his friend’s doom, that might only drive a further wedge between us, when it was already difficult to overcome his nature and my communication.

I would trust in the journal to explain myself, and hope that he came home tonight to read it.

Safely re-locked in the Tower of Spring, I shed the velvet for cotton and curled into my own bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows, staring up at the rose-carved posts. Comfortable in the safety of bed, my heart finally began to slow to a normal pace. The knife plunging towards me, the shock of realizing I was about to die—all of it began to seem distant, already a dream.

Everything would be fine.

He would come soon.

When he knocked on the door the next morning, I rushed to answer it, leaving Ellena cursing behind me as my stays came entirely unlaced again.

Hair still dripping, hope swelling in my heart, I yanked it open, hands already signing—Bane, you’re home—and stopped dead in my tracks.

Miro smiled down at me. “I’m glad to see you survived the warm welcome,” he said, lips twisting. “They're positively archaic people, aren’t they? I’m surprised they don’t live in the wallows with their pigs.”

I stared at him, my tired brain feeling like it was grinding through mud to make sense of his presence, but Miro didn’t allow me to stand in silence for long.

“We’re beginning your portrait this morning, my lady.” He raised a brow, looking me over. “Wear something suited to your station.”

I shut the door without another word, returning to Ellena glumly. She was rougher this time as she tightened my bodice, lips pressed flat. I preferred Yuli’s gentler touch, though I’d be happiest of all not to wear these clothes that needed another set of hands to get on.

When I was more presentable, I swallowed a sigh and opened the door once more. Miro nodded with satisfaction at the sight of scarlet brocade. “Now that’s proper for a lai.”

Slateless, paperless, I kept my hands at my sides as he led me away. There was no point. Not even Ellena would speak for me; she trailed behind us, doing a poor impression of a chaperone.

To my surprise, he brought us to the Bloodgarden. By daylight, the mystery and pools of shadow became the fairy tale it’d promised to be; I touched a rose as we passed, its lush petals like velvet on my fingertips. Golden motes drifted through the bars of sunlight, casting a warm glow on everything they touched.

Miro had brought out a chair and an easel. I sat in the chair at his command, and stiffened as he touched his fingers under my chin, lifting my head, and began arranging my hair over my shoulders.

“Settle,” he murmured, bringing a lock forward over my shoulder. “I’m not hurting you.”

By the Light, if only I had the ability to bite my tongue and hold back a deluge; I couldn’t say anything to him he’d understand. I didn’t want his hands on me at all.

When I was arranged to his satisfaction, he took up his place behind the easel, a stick of charcoal in hand. I focused on some point over his shoulder, examining the lushness of the roses around us. Ellena pulled a bud free from a stem and began dismantling it, dropping bits of unformed petal to the ground as she watched Miro under her lashes.

“Loosen up your shoulders a bit,” he told me, squinting as he peered from the easel to me.

I tried to listen to his instructions, pasting a “dreamy” smile on my lips and fearing it looked vapid, and straightening my back, which couldn’t get any straighter with how tight the stays were.

“Wait.”

I wanted to scream. Miro turned to the bloodroses behind the easel, and pulled a small knife—my back did straighten then, my heart skipping a beat—but he simply cut a red rose free and tucked the knife away again.

On the sheer strength of not wanting to disappoint Bane any further, I held still as Miro tucked the rose behind my ear.

“That’s better.” His knuckles grazed my cheek; it took every last drop of willpower I had not to pull away.

He finally returned to his charcoal and the paper, sketching out rough, broad lines.

I resolved to find another slate, to hopefully be able to speak as he painted. Miro had grown up in the Rift, right here in the castle, the son of a Forian. He would know about the people over the mountains and the wargs, about the mad wolf god they worshipped. There was so much to learn, and yet when he finally spoke…

“I took the liberty of going through some of the old records. I was curious about you, being a lai Darran and all, and I found the genealogy of your people.”

He still only cared about the name. The name that meant absolutely nothing, as I’d owed a lifetime to the Sisters as their servant. My shoulder lifted in a small shrug, and I cut a hand through the air: It doesn’t matter.

“You’ve got the old blood. The first lai Darran recorded was the lord of Owlhorn, before it went to the lai Tristels. I suppose our illustrious lord protector made out well for himself with you.” He laughed, adding a scribble to the canvas with a flourish. “His wife has the blood of kings. Does it taste any different, I wonder? No—don’t move. Keep your shoulders where they are.”

I resorted to signing with one hand, spelling phonetically. Doubtful.

“You know, with a bloodline like that, you’d have every right to inherit Ravenscry yourself if something happened to our Lord and savior.” Miro gave me a conspiratorial smirk over the canvas, even as a chill ran over me at the thought. “You and your children, assuming he can produce them.”

Ellena snorted, tossing her mangled rosebud aside, and Miro glanced her way. She stepped closer and whispered something to him, her eyes flicking towards me with ill-concealed spite.

“Oh, you don’t say?” Miro said, with a tone of false surprise.

What are you gossiping about? I asked, no longer caring about where my shoulders were positioned.

“So you haven’t been sleeping in his chambers.” Miro wriggled his brows. “How will you get on with the business of pushing out heirs? Or is it his beastly visage that drives you away? I suppose a lady with the blood of kings can’t fathom having an animal humping away at her.”

A hot flush of anger rose in my cheeks, and my hands curled into fists, but Miro laughed. “Oh, calm down. I was joking. And put your shoulders back.”

Try as I might, I couldn’t uncurl my fingers even to speak. What was it about Bane that made me feel this way—the sudden surge of rage that made me want to drive my fist right into Miro’s self-satisfied face for speaking of him so?

It’s because he’s making fun of me right to my face, I told myself, knowing it was partly true. Because he can say cruel things—he can imply Bane’s death, he can call him an animal—he can mock me, and I can’t say a word in my defense. And if I did… he would ignore it.

As angry as I was with Miro, it only made me appreciate Bane more, that he made an effort to hear what I was saying.

Once more, I felt invisible and unheard, an object to be moved around. Quite literally, in Miro’s case.

So Bane was quick to kill a man in my defense… there were worse things.

“I apologize, my lady.” Miro lowered his charcoal stick. “That was far too forward of me. Let’s have the smile back in place now.”

It was, and you should be ashamed of yourself, I signed, tossing my hair back. To hell with his posing. You might be the most talented artist in the Rift, but you have the manners of swine and gossip like a harridan. Keep your thoughts out of my bedroom and your hands to yourself.