Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
“Because seven years is a long time to be alone.”
His words are simple, but devastating. My happy mood vanishes, and I’m left feeling like a hollow shell. Seven years is a long time. It feels like forever. It might as well be forever. “Thanks for that. I was in a bad mood earlier and now I’m in a worse one. You’re not very good company, you know that?”
“I know.”
Hmph.
It’s silent in the large, echoing chamber, but I don’t feel alone. I know he’s still in the shadows, watching me. Waiting for…something? “What’s your name?” I ask impulsively. When it remains quiet, I add, “So I can quit calling you ‘that damned Fellian’ when I think of you.”
“Do you think of me?”
“As little as possible.”
That elicits a laugh from the shadows. “Nemeth. I am called Prince Nemeth of the First House of Darkfell, Princess Candromeda Vestalin.”
So he knows my name. Is it because he’s researched the Vestalin line or because he’s overheard me talking to Balon? I don’t suppose it matters. “You can call me Candra.”
“You can call me Prince Nemeth,” he replies, and I could swear I hear amusement in his voice before he fades out and I’m alone in the room once more.
Chapter
Sixteen
It’s the next morning before I realize that I’ve lost my knife.
I wake up in bed, reaching for the blade that I keep tucked between my breasts, only to find that I’m wearing nothing but a loose chemise, and there’s no bodice in which to tuck the sheath. I grope my breasts anyhow, just in case, but there’s nothing to be found.
Dragon shite.
I must have set it down when I was bathing. Or when I was talking to Balon. Or when I was cleaning up, lost in a dizzy hum of happiness that my erstwhile suitor would soon be arriving. Really, it could be any number of places. I get out of bed and run my fingers over the mattress and blankets, looking for the knife, but my fingers encounter nothing but bedding. I do a blind search of my room as well, but it’s fruitless. I head downstairs and fumble through the darkness, searching the kitchen and then by the door.
I can’t find it. Not without some light to guide me.
Panicked, I return to my quarters and find my strikers and the box of candles. It’s empty except for two. Two lonely candles are left to last me the rest of the year. My panic increases and I clutch the candles in my grip. Do I dare light one? For something as frivolous as finding my knife? Or do I simply wait for it to surface again? After all, I can’t leave the tower. There’s only so many places it can be and I’m bound to find it at some point.
The loss of it hits me hard, though. It feels like I’ve just been abandoned by my only friend. Without the knife, I can’t check to see if Erynne and the baby are well. I can’t ask if someone’s coming to get me, or if the war is over. It doesn’t matter that the answers are unsatisfying. What matters is that I have some sort of connection to the outside world, and I feel lost without it.
Carefully, I put the candles back down and decide to search the tower again. I go over my room as best I can, handspan by handspan, shaking out every dress and blanket. Still nothing. It’s not until after I head out of my quarters to go search the kitchens that a new idea occurs to me.
What if Nemeth took it?
He was indignant that I touched his food, after all. What if he stole my knife as some sort of petty revenge? I pause on the stairs and then sit on the landing to his floor. I’ve never explored it or even stopped here, not after that first day. He made it clear that the first floor belonged to him, and I’ve done my best to honor that and give him space.
Not today, I decide.
Hands out, I feel in the darkness, hunting for the door to his quarters. His floor should be laid out similar to mine—
A squeak of distress escapes me when my hands run into something hard and unyielding…and warm. Skin. Nemeth’s chest. I draw back, biting my lip.
“What are you doing on my floor?” he asks, tone ominous.
“I’m looking for my knife. Did you take it?”
“Why would I take your knife?”
“Because it’s magic. And because it’s mine, and you know it would bother me if you stole it.”
There’s a pause. “You said you didn’t have magic.”
“I don’t. I do, however, have a magic knife.”
“What sort of magic?”
I sputter. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Then I’m not going to tell you if I have it.”
Infuriating, horrible man. No, not a man, a creature. “So you did steal it. Why?”