So I submitted to her soft, careful hands.

Rose, like me, she said, showing me the soap she was using on my hair. She scrubbed it into my scalp and I let my eyes close.

I could do that now, unafraid that Ellena would attempt some petty hurt on me. She wouldn’t dare, not with Thorn in here. He patrolled the room, window to door, occasionally climbing up the stairs.

Bane hadn’t confirmed it—he’d told me they were to be my friends, servants I could trust—but I suspected he hadn’t believed my pale lie about the knot in my hair.

To be fair, I wasn’t much of a liar. But I couldn’t prevent the odd mix of satisfaction and guilt when I heard that Ellena had been permanently removed from my quarters, and was working in the stableyard.

On the other hand, it was ridiculous to feel guilty. I hadn’t assigned her to this task; I’d tried to make her life easier, telling her to leave me be. If she hadn’t left a bruise, she wouldn’t be shoveling horse shit now.

Rose’s hands never bruised. She dried me, combed out my hair and pinned the plaited braids into a crown around my head, and then laced me into a dark blue gown. I’d quickly come to discover that I had zero opinions in these matters as far as she was concerned; the sapphire ear-drops matched the dress, the shoes were polished leather boots, and she presented me in the mirror with a whimsical twirl of her hands.

Beautiful, I said to her, and she preened.

The golems were like children, in a way; any word of kindness from me and they just about melted into a puddle. Which was why I couldn’t say no to Rose, despite my obstinance in doing it all myself—disappointing her would be like kicking a puppy.

With my journal bag draped over my shoulder, I made my way to the library, the golems at my sides. On this gloomy day the candles were already replaced and lit, the books already prepared thanks to Rose’s organizing tendencies—and there was a note left on the table for me.

No, two notes; I sat down and shuffled them apart, reading the topmost one in Bane’s writing first.

Her name is Cirri

And she is pretty

Like a rose

Which everyone knows

In the chest of a fiend

She makes the heart glow

I stared at it for a long, long minute, taking it all in. There was a little postscript at the end: I lied, it seems I am no poet. The teenage boy has me beaten. But, to my credit, every word is true. 

Then I clutched the poem Bane had written me to my chest and silently squealed, my cheeks heating up with sheer pleasure.

My very first love poem, and I didn’t give a damn what he thought, or if someone else would laugh at it; it was mine, from him, and that made it the best thing I had ever read in my life.

I read it again, biting my lower lip to stop the huge idiot grin from spreading across my face. Then I folded it very carefully, torn in indecision; I wanted to tuck it into my journal alongside the tiny rosebud I’d pressed flat, but there was always a chance something could happen to the journal, even if I guarded it with my life.

I settled for tucking it within my stays, right over my heart; the tight lacing would keep it in place until I could find something more secure. I couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from it.

With the smile still in place, my hand pressed over my heart as though to push the poem into myself, I picked up the second note.

I apologize for interrupting your work, dear Cirrien—I know the agonies of being forced away from matters of importance. 

Your presence will be required today. Please meet me in the ballroom. 

Yours, Wyn

Normally I would be in agony at having to set aside the Red Epoch books for the day, but I was still glowing from Bane’s poem, and it didn’t bother me so much to leave the library.

It took me less time than I’d expected to find the ballroom, where we’d held the silly little party after our wedding vows. I couldn’t say my memories of it were fond; mostly I remembered the skeptical looks and wavering smiles.

And I expected it to be mostly empty, not draped with scarlet banners and silk hangings. Wyn stood in the middle of it all, clutching a sheaf of papers and watching the keep servants affix veils to the marble columns so that they floated down like sheer wisps of blood.

“There you are,” she said, keeping one eye on the decorations. “So. I know that humans celebrate Bloodrain, yes?”

I nodded, my brain slow to catch up. It was a holiday to celebrate the downfall of the Red Epoch, the death of our vampire overlords and the freedom of humanity. Every year the children would knock on doors and receive pieces of red, sweet-salty candy, and a bonfire would be built up—over which an effigy of Liliach Daromir, made of meat, would be roasted and shared out to the revelers. The humans symbolically consuming vampire flesh, as they had consumed us.

Which was a little macabre, now that I thought about it from the perspective of my husband’s people.

“So do we.” Wyn turned to grin at me as I pulled my journal out. “Although for very different reasons.”

Have you ever been to a human Bloodrain celebration? I asked.

“Indeed. It was positively barbaric. Which is why you’re here—Bloodrain is next week. We host it every year, so the human nobility can gorge themselves on our food and stores of wine. It keeps them sweet and docile.”

I blinked. Where had the time gone? I had never celebrated Bloodrain with any great enthusiasm back in Argent, so it wasn’t particularly ingrained in my mental calendar, but still… it seemed to have come out of nowhere. I’d lost all track of time in my studies.

“We’re receiving guests who are coming to celebrate with us.” Wyn frowned at her notes. “Lady Auré fel Seren. A very powerful vampire, and a very good friend of the fiends. She’s been acting as an advisor and intermediary for Lord Wroth, in Owlhorn Keep, but she’s offered to carry messages and remain for the holiday. I want you by Lord Bane’s side, visible to the public at all times, while she and her retinue are in residence and the celebrations are ongoing. Your visible happiness is of utmost importance; she’s always had their ears, and her opinions carry weight with them.”

I tipped my head, wondering why that was so important—they’d shown me to the human nobility for very brief spans of time. I’d been a figurehead then, a breathing statue fulfilling the purpose of the Blood Accords.

But the last time I’d spoken to Wyn… she’d made it clear that if things didn’t change, she would have offered to Bane to remove me for all other purposes, allowing him to find a lover of his own kind. Her aside about this Auré’s opinions felt rather pointed.

A chill crept over me as I stood there, pen poised over the journal. I didn’t want to ask the question. I didn’t want to commit that fear to paper, as though ink might make it true.

And Bane still didn’t want to fully consummate this marriage…

Wyn tipped her head, and as though she read my mind—perhaps she did, there was no telling what a bloodwitch could do—she softly said, “Yes. She was the one I had in mind, should things not proceed as desired. But, my dear Cirrien, we don’t have to worry about that now, do we?”

Her eyes lingered on the fresh new marks on my throat.

So this vampire, this Auré fel Seren, had once been considered as a lover for my husband. Did that mean he’d returned her regard? The base physical attraction?

I touched the folded poem against my heart, and forced myself to take a breath and calm my spinning thoughts.

He didn't want sex because he feared he’d hurt me. It wasn’t because he didn’t find me attractive, or was disgusted by me in some way. The Light knew his thirst, his hardness, gave the lie to that.