Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
My eyes burn as I lift my chin to look at him. “I wanted you to want me so much you didn’t need an excuse.”
He makes a fist and presses it to his chest. “Erith could die today, and I would still want you. He could take over my court, and I would still want you. He could kill me tomorrow, and I would still want you.”
I search his face for the reassurance I need to take his pretty words and tuck them away, but my heart aches so much.
“Felicity!”
I pull my gaze off Misha to see Abriella rushing onto the balcony. “What is it?”
“I need you to become my sister one final time.” She hands me an envelope, no doubt containing the hair I will need to do as she asks.
“Why?” Misha asks.
“General Hargova, the leader of the Cursed Horde, is coming to the palace tomorrow. He wants to meet with me and Jas.”
“And why not have your sister appear as herself?” Misha asks, glancing toward me as if he understands that every day I wake up as someone else it costs me something.
“Because if he sees that scar on Jasalyn’s face, he’ll know that the princess I pointed out to him at the ball wasn’t really her. He might not forgive the betrayal, and I can’t risk that with what’s coming.”
“Well, well, well, aren’t we looking beautiful in our own skin tonight,” Squird crows when he materializes in my room.
“I’m enjoying it while I can,” I say. Because once Erith is no longer wherever he is to keep Mordeus alive, I’ll have to go back to hiding—at least until I find a way to get to him and kill him.
I haven’t let myself think about it too much.
I debated for a quarter hour whether I should call Squird, but now that he’s here I’m not sure why I tried to talk myself out of it at all. I already feel a little better, and I wasn’t sure that was possible today.
“Care for a game?” he asks, whipping a deck of cards from his pants pocket.
“Sure.” I sit on the floor, tucking my legs under me. Squird sits facing me, dealing cards between us in the traditional layout of solitaire. I smile, remembering Nigel. Maybe Squird doesn’t like to play alone either. “How do we do this together?”
“I move the cards and if I don’t know what to do next, I ask you and then I move the cards the way you said.”
I bite back a laugh. “Sounds good.”
We settle in and I watch him play without my help for a few minutes, but my mind keeps spinning back to Misha and all the reasons he had for making me feel wanted. Within a matter of days, Mordeus’s forces will descend on this palace and wreck the future of this court and the lives of people I’ve come to care about. I should be thinking of how to help with that, not dwelling on my stupid hurt feelings.
“Spit it out,” Squird says, not looking up at me.
“It’s just been a weird day.” I bite my lip, then decide to go for it. “What do you know about getting out of faerie bargains?”
“It depends on the bargain.”
“For example?” I ask.
“If you agree to give all your meals to a faerie and begin to eat only snacks, he would get nothing.”
“What if you agreed to trade your life?”
He lifts his head and sighs. “You’re speaking of the princess and what she traded for her magical ring.”
“If Mordeus takes over her body, so many other awful things will follow. But if we can prevent it by somehow getting her out of her deal . . .”
“Offer your meals when you have no meals and you give nothing. Offer your life when you have no life and you give nothing.”
I bow my head. I’m too tired for this, but he’s probably right. It could be that the only way out of this is for Jasalyn to give up her life before she turns eighteen. It’s irony in its most heartbreaking form, knowing that might be the best path for someone who finally wants to live after wishing for death for so long.
“Are you going to sit there and pretend this is really all that’s on your mind, or are you going to talk to me about your broken heart?”
I gape. “Who told you that I have a broken heart?”
“Can smell it.” He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand in front of his face. “No offense, but it’s rather unpleasant. Rancid and pungent, like juice left to sour.”
“Sorry about that.” I point to the next card he should play and watch as he flies through three more moves. “You’ve gotten better.”
“Been practicing.” He tears his gaze off the cards to frown at me. “So? The broken heart? Did you break his right back?”