My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A pause. Silence, growing to meet him, pooling into the empty hallway like dirty water, brown and murky. It sloshed against the bottom of the door and lapped at his shoes, eagerly pressing and pulling at everything and nothing.

Had the princess not heard him?

"Princess Dadya," he moved closer to the door and rapped his knuckles harder against it, "this is Sir Isil. Open the door." His voice grew louder—harsher—and the heat lurking in the back of his throat began to pace, stepping along with an ever-growing speed. "Your Highness, the queen sent me; please open the door."

No sounds slunk out from behind the carved wood, and in the absence of noise, the dirty water began to rise.

What game did she think she was playing? Did she suppose it humorous to ignore him—to deafen her ears to his appeals?

"If you refuse to grant me access, Your Highness, I'll be forced to open the door myself."

He waited then for sound—for a young voice, high and biting—but none pressed out from behind the door. The dirty water pushed and pulled, and he grabbed for the door handle, the bitterness in his voice swelling like a river, but the knob did not turn under his grip. It stood firm and unmoving—locked from the inside.

The bitterness flashed a hot red, and he frowned at the taste. Did Princess Dadya think a locked door would stop the queen—would slow the arrival of her certain punishment?

She should know better.

Isil shook the doorknob—rattled it around like he might loosen the latch—and then he began, in a voice that was sharper and louder than the noise in his chest, "Princess Dadya—"

The click of the latch sliding free of its cage had just pierced the haze of his bitter thoughts when the door suddenly swung open. A sliver—it was all the view he was given—but it was more than enough to cut his words short, and his voice shorter.

The dirty water stilled; Princess Dadya stared at him from behind her door. Her eyes were at first wide—like a child's, staring in pale surprise—but then they narrowed like the sliver of space between her door and its frame. "Sir Isil." His name fell from her lips like it was a curse—a foul word, souring her lips. Her voice was barbed, like the thorns of a rose. But there was no flower on this stem. "What are you doing here, rattling my door like a robber?"

Half of her was hidden, but the door did not muffle the venom of her tongue like it did her body. The bitterness of her tone recalled the fervor of his own, and the weight of his frown soured.

"Thrice I called for you," he began sharply, his gaze moving briefly to the room hiding behind her—the vanity and wardrobe the door nearly obscured from his view, "yet you did not once answer."

Her glare did not waver at his words, but when she caught his gaze wandering, something flickered in the light of her eyes—fear, or something paler. "I was occupied," she replied firmly. She moved until his line of sight was obscured by her face, and his gaze met her narrowed eyes. "What is it you want?"

She spoke harshly, and her glare burned, but not nearly as awfully as the fire in his throat. The bitterness sharpened his eyes, and he saw how she moved—how she kept her arm behind the door, and her own self in the space between it and its frame, as though she meant to minimize his view of her room, to hide something with her body alone.

What desires could she hope to keep secret? What unmentionable wants did a princess with sharp teeth and foolish determination have to hide?