Chapter 10: The Town house
Galadriel's fork scraped the ceramic of her breakfast plate, the delectable eggs now gone but the others still had not finished so she cornered and ate every scrap leftover. She was packed, with nothing more of her own belongings other than her book, the dress and the shoes she wore, out of her bag.
"Hungry?" Mor inquired with a small, bemused smile. Galadriel nodded and tried to poke another piece of egg with a single prong but it broke apart. "Would you like some more? There's no need to lap at scraps like a starving dog."
"Sorry." Her fork clattered against the plate, hands dropping to her lap. "I was hungry. I'm full now."
"With the serving you had, you'd better be," Rhysand muttered into his goblet of juice. Galadriel formed a brazen glare from across the table and he avoided avidly it by peering into the goblet as he gulped it down until she gave in and looked elsewhere. In the interest of keeping her body moving, she refilled her own goblet and spaced our short sips.
Azriel was eating calmly on the other side of the table, and Galadriel couldn't help but notice the short glances he kept sending to her side. But not at her. No, they were being sent to Mor on Galadriel's right. Mor ignored them for the most part as if they were a usual part to their routine. Galadriel knew that Azriel was always observant, so perhaps there was something she had not picked up on just yet that was happening with the High Lord's cousin.
Azriel was marginally paler than usual, but she figured that had more to do with the dull lighting in that place than his true complexion. His hair was the usual styled mop of soft waves, a shade lighter than Rhysand's but still a true dark. He had a far more traditionally handsome face than the High Lord too. One that would be a painter's muse, if they dared tried.
Rhysand sighed audibly, garnering the chamber's attention. "You're coming with us today, Mor?"
She stabbed her own egg. "I'd rather carve out my eyes than stay another day."
"Delightful." Rhysand grinned. "Galadriel, I believe you share a similar sentiment."
"Yes," she smiled. "But it won't be my eyes that I'm carving out."
He nodded, grin unwaveringly. "Delightful. We'll leave within the hour."
With nothing more to do in the chamber to shake off the ever-growing bout of energy, Galadriel gave her terse, but polite dismissal and careened around the table, out into the hallway and back to her chamber. Slumping into the desk chair, she heaved her legs underneath herself and filled her time reading another chapter of the book. It is about the Weaver; a creature that she had heard of before, residing near the Middle. The words inked into the parchment were harsh enough that she couldn't even begin to imagine what such a creature would look like.
When knuckles rapped at her door, Galadriel only slipped from the chair, her eyes unmoving from the page as she ventured blindly across the room. Her hand found the cold metal knob and turned it.
"Interesting story?"
"Yes," she found herself murmuring unconsciously. "What do you want?"
"And here I thought you were eager to leave." Galadriel peered over the top of her book. Rhysand leaned against her doorframe, arms folded with a nonchalant sigh as he looked between her and the chambers behind her. "Or would you rather stay another day?"
A resounding smack echoed throughout the chamber as she clamped the book shut. His laughter followed her as she dashed back to her pack, lodging the book between her shoes and dresses. Firmly settling it across her shoulder, Galadriel hooked her thumb underneath the strap and strode back up to the High Lord.
He held out his palm, but she bristled.
"I've got to winnow you," he said, "and I'm certain that I have to be touching you to bring you along."
Still, she just looked at the hand for another moment. She had always been warned about the High Lord of the Night Court. Until now, she had little reason to listen to them. She trusted Azriel and Azriel trusted his High Lord. What if he was lying—what if he was leading her someplace worse than this? Her actions could have put his spymaster in a terrible position. It was still hard to believe that her consequence for that was a promise of safety.
Then an image flashed through her head. A city. A great city that was settled in the base of mountain slopes. Lights shone from streets, so bright and dense that it was as though it was a reflection of the night sky itself. Like a beautiful, shimmering lake of starlight. "That's Velaris? Your home?"
"Your home too," he smiled. "If you take my hand."
"My home is the Autumn Court." Something inside of her twisted painfully. A home that she could never return to. A home built on lies. But it was hard to erase two hundred years of belonging. "I had friends. Amoise. Lucien. Darial. I'd go back at the first chance if I could." She felt the need to tell him that. The need for Rhysand to know that she wasn't desperate for his help or his home. Galadriel was Azriel's spy, but she also made a life of her own there. She was Amoise's handmaiden and friend. She was Sahra in all but name. It was the same reason she still wore those pastel dresses from the Day Court, to show that she was not of the Night Court. She was not its citizen and not Rhysand's subject.
Rhysand sighed and pushed his hand out further. "Just take my hand, Galadriel." And at last, she did.
~
The world around them transformed from a palette of greys and enclosing stone to something far more warming of her bones. Underneath her feet was soft, scarlet carpet and on either wall beside her, ornately carved wooden panels. Artworks—paintings—hung every few meters. They were not the hideous, yet intriguing, style that the Court of Nightmares featured but instead softened subjects of flowers that bloomed under the moonlight, a lake's shore at night, a street of a city with footprints of honeyed spots of lantern-light. Towards one end of the foyer was a beautiful door with two window panels that were fogged but it looked to lead to another chamber of sorts. On the other side of the foyer, two open archways led to the innards of the building.
"Where are we?" she whispered.
"Velaris." Galadriel shot him a dry glare. Rhysand smiled and tipped his head. "This my home. the town house, we call it. You'll be staying here for the next few days until Azriel has your permanent accommodation properly set up. Mor and I are the only people that can winnow in here, but my Inner Circle makes plenty of visits."
She turned on the spot, then slowly made her way to the room on the left. It was a sitting room. The fireplace was crafted from black marble. There was the main lounge and other small seats that looked of great comfort scattered around. Bookshelves were built in place of the far walls instead of the brick.
Galadriel spied inside the right room a little further down. A dining room, with a table of cherrywood bearing enough seats to host a small gathering. There were a few more doors down the hallway, but they were closed. She investigated each one, feeling Rhysand on her heels but he let her explore like a wild animal in a new cage. The kitchen, she deigned to admit, was fabulous. She could bake in there for hours.
A wide set of oak stairs led to an upper story. Galadriel looked back over her shoulder. He nodded in permission to continue. Hiking the skirt of her dress and letting her pack slump to the floor, she ventured onto the upper level. It was mostly bedroom chambers, a common washroom and two private studies. A chandelier of iridescent glass glittered overhead.
"Has it met your expectations?" Rhysand crooned.
"I was expecting something bigger, to be honest with you."
"It's a home, not a palace."
"Do you have a palace here?"
"In a way. It's called the House of Wind, up in the mountains." He nodded towards somewhere behind her. "I'll show you which room you're staying in." Turning, she followed him down to the end of the hall. He opened a door of light wood and gestured for her to enter first.
The room was bright. Not an overwhelming warmth of deep royal hues as downstairs was, but a room with sunlight bathing it. The floor was wooden, but a cream carpet spread from underneath a large, plush bed with a light, dusty pink duvet. Four posters had sheer fabric hanging across them. Across the far wall, large ceiling-to-floor windows were open, the curtains drawn back. Outside, she could peer down into a private garden with a wild array of flowers and bushes growing.
Galadriel stood, toes teasing the glass, and took the sight of it all in.
A figure darkened a spot in the glass. Turning, she folded her hands behind her back. "If you lock the door, nobody will be able to enter this bedroom without your permission," he said.
"Except you?" she guessed.
"Only if I think there is a great need to. But I don't have a habit of busting into a female's room unannounced. That would be uncouth of me." She scoffed at the irony. He half-turned as if looking back over his shoulder but remained in place. "Mor only lives here on some days. I suspect she has another residency she keeps private from us. Azriel and Cassian live up at the House of Wind but stay down here from time to time. Namely if they're too drunk to fly back up."
Azriel drunk would be quite a sight. She had never seen him not be the stoic spymaster. Waving her hand, her belongings-filled bag reappeared at the foot of the bed. "Is that all?"
Dark brows raised. "Do you not want to see the city?"
Galadriel shuffled on her feet. "Not yet."
Her stiff composure was enough for the High Lord to receive the message. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." He left, closing the door behind him. Swivelling on her feet, she looked back down over the garden. There were butterflies of an astonishing blue taking attention to a patch of white roses.
It was almost sickening how beautiful the room was. No, it was sickening. Although she'd take it over the room in Hewn City any day, being in the Night Court, in whatever form that came, was a sentence. A sentence with no ending. And it was so gut-twistingly confusing to be in.
Why give her safety? Why give her any of this?
It was not Rhysand's duty to do so, despite what her work may have done for him. It was done for Azriel and it was her master's decision what to do with that information. And Azriel shouldn't be offering her this for her mistake. Mistakes got people killed—that was the lesson he taught her. It was the reason she wore the ring. Yet here she was, sitting safely tucked away in a protected city.
Galadriel did not want to be there. Yet everything around her told her that she should. She should be wanting to curl up on the plush bed and wander through the gardens. There was no task looming over her, no lies to remember or information to steal.
But that is what she wanted to do more than anything. To listen for the sound of approaching guards as she slipped past their stations and listened to a conversation between Beron and one of his guests in a private chamber. She wanted to run through the palace at night, eager to meet Azriel, new information slipping from her tongue.
It was her purpose. It was her life.
A dark, melodic voice filled her head. 'There's someone here that wants to meet you.'