Of Beast and Beauty - Jay Stacey - Страница 34
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Possessed by the notion, I drop to one knee in front of the giant
blooms. “I will take good care of her,” I swear, imagining that the dead
queens can hear my promise. “And when she’s gone, I will visit her here
every day for the rest of my life.”
I smile. Father’s right; I do sound like a king.
Drunk on promises, I rise shakily to my feet, dizzied by how close I am
to being the most powerful man in Yuan. By the time I reach the door to
Isra’s tower, I’m certain tonight is the night. I’ll assure her that death is
nowhere in her near future and then make my offer for her hand. Father
said he wanted to discuss the betrothal without the potential husband
present—as is the custom when negotiating a royal marriage—but I want
Isra to remember the moment we decided to marry as something between
the two of us.
So I wait until her maid leaves the tower to collect the dinner tray
she has fetched for the queen since Isra requested her privacy. Then I
dismiss the guards at the door, retrieve the key from its hiding place behind
the loose stone, and let myself in.
“Isra?” I climb the stairs swiftly, not bothering to keep my steps soft. I
don’t want to surprise her. I’m sure she’s been worried. A shock is the last
thing she needs. “Isra, it’s Bo!” I call again, louder than before, but still no
answer comes from the rooms above.
She must be out on the balcony. She seems to favor it there, though
she can’t see the impressive view of the city spread out before her … yet.
But by next week, or the following, for certain …
Returning her sight. Just another thing my queen will love me for.
With a smile, I push through the door to her apartments, pass her
empty sitting room, leaving the door to her private chamber closed—I
doubt she’s asleep at this hour—and make my way to her music room.
From the door, I can see that the balcony on the far side of the room is
empty.
The bedroom it is, then, I think, secretly pleased to have an excuse to
be alone with Isra in a room with a bed. I turn back down the hall and knock
softly on her door. “Isra? Are you awake?”
Silence, but for the soft tick of a clock in the music room.
“Isra? It’s Bo. I have wonderful news.”
More silence, silence so complete that it’s hard to believe she’s
breathing in the room beyond. But she has to be in there. She isn’t in any of
the other rooms, and she hasn’t left the tower since I walked her here two
days ago. The guards outside would have alerted me immediately. I gave
strict orders.
“Isra? Are you well?” I ask, growing concerned. “Isra?”
More silence. My stomach shrivels. What if she’s ill? What if she’s
suffering in the absence of the poison the way the wine lovers suffer when
our stores run dry? What if I’ve put her health in danger?
“Isra!” I pound on the door with my fist. “Answer me, or I’m coming
in!” I wait a long moment, giving her one last chance to call out, before I
turn the handle.
The heavy wood hits the wall behind with a thud that echoes in the
empty room. In the center, Isra’s bed is neatly made, the quilt tucked
tightly at the edges. In the corner, the maid’s narrow cot is also made, but
the mattress shows signs that it held a body not too long ago—dips and
depressions, a sagging place on one side where she sat as she put on her
shoes. Isra’s mattress, however …
I cross the room to stare down at it. Perfectly smooth. Not a dent or
a shadow. Either Needle shakes the mattress out and reshapes it every
morning, or Isra hasn’t slept here recently.
And if she didn’t sleep in her bed last night … where did she sleep?
And with whom?
“That lying … little …,” I murmur through clenched teeth.
My hands ball into fists, and it’s all I can do to keep from punching
the wall near her headboard. Isra’s been using me to cover her
indiscretions. She could be with another man right now, conceiving a
bastard to bear after we marry.
I will not raise another man’s bastard. I will not.
She’d better pray there’s another explanation, I think as I slam the
door to her bedroom behind me. If Isra loses my affection, she will have
very few friends in this city.
And a queen without friends will find herself a dead queen sooner
than later.
FOURTEEN
GEM
I woke before the sun, driven by the need to put an end to our
adventure as soon as possible. After adding fuel to the fire and waking Isra
long enough to assure her that I’d be back before the flames went out, I
hurried up the mountain to fetch the bulbs we’d come for. I couldn’t risk
telling her the truth about the garden.
No matter what happened between us last night, I still need an
excuse to leave my cell. Come spring, I must steal the royal roses and return
to my people.
Still, I didn’t like leaving her alone, even for a short time. I walked as
quickly as my sore legs would carry me and was back by her side by the
time the first pink light kissed the desert.
This time, she was where I had left her, curled in a ball on the
ground, her sweater-covered hands pressed against her lips. I watched her
sleep as I tied the gnarled roots of the bulbs together with strips of dried
grass, dreading the moment she’d open her eyes.
The only thing worse than hating Isra is … whatever this is.
Wanting her, wanting her to realize what a fool she is. Wanting all
this to be over.
I want to go home. I want to be back with people I know, in a world I
understand. I’m sick to death of this upside-down place, where I crave the
touch of a girl who holds me prisoner, and every other word I speak is a lie.
Half the time I can’t even tell who I’m lying to. Her or myself.
I spend the day angry. At myself. At Isra. At the bulbs she insisted on
fondling and sniffing before we headed down the mountain, at the rocks on
the trail, at the sun and the wind and the dirt in my Smooth Skin shoes and
the needles on every cactus where we stop to drink.
I am in a foul mood, made fouler by trying to hide it from Isra. The
walk back to the dome has been torture. A part of me is eager to be back in
my cell. At least there Isra can’t cling to my arm, or brush her body against
mine, or sigh through her parted lips, or tilt her face up with that look in
her eyes. The one that makes me want to strangle her. And kiss her. And
strangle her some more. And maybe leap off a cliff after the strangling is
done, just to put myself out of my misery.
“It won’t be long now,” Isra says, shielding her face from the setting
sun with one narrow hand. “I can smell it.”
“Smell what?”
“The dome. I never realized it had a smell,” she says, wrinkling her
nose. “Like metal when it’s cold. And sour nutshells. Mixed together.”
I grunt in response.
“What do you think it smells like?” she asks.
“We’ll be close enough for the guards to catch sight of us soon,” I
say, ignoring her question. I’m not in the mood to play her blind-girl games.
Not everything has a smell, and if the dome had a smell, it would smell like
death. Slow, creeping, unmerciful death. “We should stop here. Wait for it
to get dark. There’s a mound of rocks just ahead. It should conceal us from
anyone using a spyglass.”
I don’t tell her that my people gathered those rocks, that we piled
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