The Queen's Choice. Cayla Kluver

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СКАЧАТЬ stuffed myself with jerky and stale bread, then, overcome by fatigue, I dozed for a bit. When I woke, I resumed my pointless pacing, on occasion considering the window as a way of escape. But I ultimately discarded the idea; I was not yet well enough to be on my own. If this morning’s misadventure hadn’t served as enough proof, I could feel sticky discharge—blood, pus, I couldn’t be sure—fighting through my bandages. I needed to recover here for several more days before I’d be ready to travel. Then I could run far away from that man whose dubious intentions fed the wellspring of dread in my chest.

      As the day crept toward night and the shadows lengthened, the bedroom walls seemed to close in on me. Just when I thought I could stand the isolation no longer, the lock clicked and the door swung open, revealing the man I had injured. He considered me, then moved aside, inviting me into the main room with a sweep of his arm. I stepped past him, the heavy, appetizing smell of cooking meat combating my wariness, though I remained conscious of every shift in my host’s formidable form.

      An entire family sat around the table, attired in pristine dresses. Their soft murmurs of conversation fell away at my approach and all eyes came to rest on me. There was Shea, of course, her chocolate hair pulled away from her face, and Marissa, the little girl who’d brought firewood to my room. There was another girl, a middle sister, and a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman whose fork and knife shook from the tension in her hands. Her lips trembled, but no words came forth, giving the appearance of extreme cold despite the heat from the fireplace and stove, which made the house almost overly warm. The raven-haired man, who was no doubt her husband, stepped around me to retake his seat, the strength he radiated more than enough to make up for any frailty in her.

      Shea stood, her chair grinding against the floor. Her tightly fitted blue linen dress struck me as impractical, although a pouch and knife at least hung securely from her belt. Motioning to each family member at the table in turn, she made introductions.

      “Anya, this is my sister, Magdalene. Marissa, you remember. And these are my parents, Thatcher and Elyse More. Everyone, this is Anya.”

      I forced myself to smile, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural, as though the corners of my mouth needed to be oiled. This was not surprising, considering the day’s events and the dearth of friendly greetings I was receiving. Marissa gave a tiny wave, but it was clear from her wide, watchful eyes that she still thought I could hurt her, and Magdalene glanced between her parents as though she might get in trouble for acknowledging me. Elyse wouldn’t meet my gaze, while Thatcher, the only one among them with probable cause to distrust me, stared at me unrelentingly. I was grateful when Shea dragged an extra chair into place at the table—standing made me feel overly conspicuous, a target for fear and hatred. I sat down, perched on the edge of my seat—ironically as if I could take flight.

      “I believe I owe you an apology,” I said, catching sight of a bandage wrapped around Thatcher’s thick forearm, his crisp white shirt rolled above it.

      I concentrated my attention on my hands, not pleased with the timidity my discomfort was breeding. When no response was forthcoming, I braved raising my eyes to his. They were dark like Shea’s, though there was movement within them, calling to mind rolling fog, his traveling thoughts practically visible. It might have been wise to show deference to him, but I sensed a test to see if I could be intimidated. Pride swelled, and I refused to give ground. I was royalty, and fortitude was inbred. He could stare forever, and I wouldn’t look away.

      At last, Thatcher More smiled—not widely, but it was a smile nonetheless.

      “It’s all right. I might have done the same in your position.” He shifted his gaze to his food, stabbing some venison with a knife, his manner a touch too nonchalant. “That’s an interesting weapon you used against me. It burns as much as it cuts.”

      I braced myself, his reference to the Anlace making me uneasy, although the rest of the family obliviously began to eat.

      “An irritant of some sort, I presume,” he went on. “Derived perhaps from poison sumac or ivy?”

      I neither confirmed nor denied his assumption; I couldn’t have addressed it even if I had been disposed to do so, for I wasn’t sure of the answer. The blade could have been infused when it was forged with the sap of a poisonous plant—Fae knew how to construct weapons in that manner. But the secrets of the Queen’s Anlace were known only to the Queen, and I did not occupy the throne.

      “I should also thank you for saving my life,” I said, redirecting the conversation to insert a small test of my own. “Although I’m not sure why you did.”

      “You needed help, and I was in a position to give it. There’s nothing more to be said on the subject. You can stay with us until you’re well enough to travel. I assume you had some destination in mind at the time you were ambushed?”

      “Yes, I did.” I glanced around the table. Shea alone showed interest in our exchange, reading my expressions and her father’s with subtle looks. The rest of the family was engrossed by the food on their plates, the younger daughters mirroring their mother’s behavior. At risk of pushing my luck, I forged ahead with Thatcher. “But I won’t get far without my travel documents.”

      Thatcher cocked one eyebrow, then reached into the pocket of his coat and tossed the leather envelope containing my passport onto the table in front of me. I reached to pick it up, and caught him examining the ring I wore on my right middle finger. The likelihood was slim that he would recognize it as a royal ring, but it was obviously valuable. What if he demanded it in payment for his kindnesses?

      “Forgive me for going through your things,” he said as I drew my hand and passport beneath the table. “It’s important for me to know who is in my house, so I took your papers.”

      My eyes narrowed. “And did they put your mind at ease?”

      “Yes, despite the fact that they’re falsified. The forger’s work was excellent, and those types of illicit documents usually come with prudent priorities.”

      Everyone stopped eating, stopped moving, their forks poised in midair. Thatcher, however, merely reached for more bread, signaling that the meal should continue.

      “Forgery doesn’t bother me, Anya, assuming that’s your real name. I expected it. The law may be pro-Fae, but that doesn’t mean the people of the Territory are. It’s safer for Fae to have documents that say they’re human, just like it’s safer for some humans to carry papers that don’t reveal their true identities or professions. Mind you, I’m not talking about criminals here. But the fact that your passport is such a good forgery tells me you’re well connected. And I can see now that you’re well-enough raised.”

      I bristled at the condescension in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

      He settled back in his chair, one hand forming a mighty fist.

      “Faerie.”

      The word rolled off his tongue like a curse, and whatever tenuous trust I’d begun to develop in him vanished. Fae-hater, my brain insisted. But that couldn’t be the case. Not only had Thatcher’s family kept me alive, they’d been regarding me as a guest, providing me with a bed, fresh clothing, and food. Yet something in this man’s background made him mistrustful of my people. Though common sense screamed that I let the matter rest, I responded in kind, my tone a match to his.

      “Human.”

      Again the world seemed to come to a grinding halt, the only sound the clock against the wall, its ticking absurdly loud. Then Thatcher laughed, pushing СКАЧАТЬ