A Vow of Thorns

Chapter Twenty-Eight

                                        CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CONTRARY TO SAOIRSE'S BELIEF, The Alder King had not summoned her the next day. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. Nor, it would seem, today.

  Saoirse sighed, watching Tatterleaf comb her hair until it gleamed. It was the fourth day now since she had last seen him, and she was not afraid to admit that she felt a twinge of fear. Had she really displeased him so? Would he simply cast her from his mind, forget about her portrait of him, of the fact that she was a contender for his favor?

  The thought paralyzed her. Was he so furious with her that he would punish her just as he had another lover, to dance in iron shoes for the rest of eternity?

  Saoirse's jaw ticked with a mixture of anxiousness and righteous fury. She had not done anything wrong. She had not proclaimed love for him, she had not given him a pet-name, she had not asked questions about his mortal love, about him, or anything. She had only taken the pleasure she had willingly given. She had acquiesced with the terms of their agreement. And she was being punished?

  Tatterleaf misinterpreted Saoirse's sight, and her ebony eyes turned sympathetic. "Oh, child. I do not think you have lost your chance at gaining The Alder King's favor."

  Saoirse smiled tightly. "It is not his lack of gifts that bothers me, Tatterleaf."

  Although, it certainly was a factor. The Alder King had not sent her any more gowns, or any pieces of jewelry since he had given her the gown shot through with iron. It was so beautiful, Saoirse had been tempted to wear it every day since, but the garment would have quickly gone rank. Nor would it have helped her in anyway.

  Tatterleaf did not look convinced by Saoirse's response, but she did not say otherwise. "Will you be breaking your fast in the kitchens again?"

  Saoirse nodded. "Yes."

  Although her initial encounter with the mundane fey in the palace had been frosty to say the least, things had been on the mend--not that she truly cared either way. She had eaten in the kitchens every morning since that day. Evidently, the tricky hobgoblin thought her to be well-enfolded in their posse, for he had tried to trick Saoirse into pouring sugar instead of salt into her porridge, full well knowing how she preferred hers more savory than sweet. In truth, it was comforting being around so many fey who were, if not kind and loving, tolerant of her presence.

  "There," Tatterleaf murmured, setting the brush down upon the vanity. "My, you look as pretty as a picture."

  Saoirse merely nodded with a slight smile, though she wished she could thank the faery. "It is certainly all your handiwork."

  Tatterleaf laughed, twig-like fingers plucking and pinching here and there at the sleeves of Saoirse's plain cerulean gown. "Your skin has grown pale but you've a glow about you, mortal child. It is almost as if you have absorbed fey beauty into your own skin!"