The Infernal Crown: Of Roses and Lies

Chapter 24

"It means you don't trust me."

"How can I trust a faerie? Don't you delight in killing and tricking us?"

His snarl sent the flames of the candles guttering. "You aren't what I had in mind for a human—believe me."

I could almost feel the wound deep in my chest as it ripped open and all those awful, silent words came pouring out. Illiterate, ignorant, unremarkable, proud, cold—all spoken from the villagers' and the Elders' mouths, all echoing in my head with their sneering voices.

I pinched my lips together.

He winced and lifted a hand slightly, as if about to reach for me. "Eleena," he began—softly enough that I just shook my head and left the room. He didn't stop me.

But that afternoon, after a light lunch Willodean had left for me in my room, when I went to retrieve my crumpled list from the wastebasket, it was gone. And my pile of books had been disturbed—the titles out of order. It had probably been a servant, I assured myself, calming the tightness in my chest. Just Willodean or some other lesser faerie cleaning up. I hadn't written anything incriminating—there was no way he knew I'd been searching for more facts about the black milkweed, the Alger, and the Imperial Lords. I was unsure if he'd punish me for it, especially after our conversation earlier which had been bad enough.

Still, my hands were unsteady as I took my seat at the little desk and found my place in the book I'd used that morning. I knew it was shameful to mark the books with ink, but if Phoebus could afford gold plates, he could replace a book or two.

I stared at the book without seeing the jumble of letters.

Maybe I was a fool for not accepting his help, for not swallowing my pride and having him teach me the basics of how to read and write. Not even read for me, but just—just to at least point me in the right direction to find some research books. If he had better things to do with his time than come up with ways to embarrass me, then surely he had better things to do than help me read and write. And yet he'd offered.

A nearby clock chimed the hour.

Shortcoming—another one of my shortcomings. I rubbed my brows with my thumb and forefinger. I'd been equally foolish for feeling a shred of pity for him—for the lone, brooding faerie, for someone I had so stupidly thought would really care if he met someone who perhaps felt the same, perhaps understood—in my ignorant, insignificant human way—what it was like to bear the weight of caring for others. I should have let his hand bleed that night, should have known better than to think that maybe—maybe there would be someone, human or faerie or whatever, who could understand what my life—what I—had become these past few years.

A minute passed, then another.

Faeries might not be able to lie, but they could certainly withhold information; Phoebus, Kallistê, Oberon, and Willodean had done their best not to answer my specific questions. Knowing more about the attacks that threatened them—knowing anything about it, where it had come from, what else it could do, and especially what it could do to a human­—was worth my time to learn.

And if there was a chance that they might also possess some knowledge about a forgotten loophole of that damned Covenant of Peace, if they knew some way to pay the debt I owed and returned me to my family after I had completed the Elders' tasks so that I might warn them about the attacks myself ... I had to risk it.

I sighed as I continued walking. My mind was tossing and turning—flitting through all the questions I have that were left unanswered— and yet I continued searching for Kallistê's room. I stopped at a fork and decided to take the left. Venturing down the hallway, I didn't look back.