Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret that is no longer sheathed, nor hers to keep.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is torn asunder by her very own hands, she finds herself in a precarious peril, fighting to salvage her life an...
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FOR ONCE, Saoirse decided, she was rather glad she couldn't see. To be spared the frightful sight she surely looked was a blessing indeed. Her sleep had been fitful at best, and nonexistent at worst. She couldn't quite put a finger on what had her tossing and turning in a bed stuffed full of goose feathers and brimming with sheets of faery silk, but there was no doubt it had to do with The Alder King.
Saoirse sat up after her umpteenth toss, sleeves of the nightdress--procured by Sorcha--tangling around her wrists as she rubbed sleep from her eyes. The room was so utterly still, it was disquieting. Her thoughts felt magnified to a nauseating degree in such silence. They came one after the other, thundering through her mind like frothing, galloping horses, leaving her trampled in their wake. What was she to do when she met with The Alder King? When would he restore her vision? How would she prepare to return to the Spring? How many diamonds did she have left?
Saoirse sighed, lifting a hand to her already throbbing temples. Realizing sleep intended to remain elusive, she crawled out of the bed, feet finding purchase on a flower-strewn carpet. She tugged the quilt with her, wrapping herself in it before going to sit by the hearth. With a hushed murmur, the fire crackled to life, blazing with warmth. Her fingers curled to fists in the quilt enshrouding her, and she drew her knees to her chest, as a child might. As it were, in the disquieting dark where she could sulk in her weariness, she felt rather like a child.
'Well, that would not do at all. I cannot have a child doing my bidding,' the thought echoed resoundingly in the confines of her mind--in a silky, low-timbre voice that was not at all her own.
With a start, Saoirse's head snapped up. Instinctively, she began to search the room with her sightless eyes. Though for what, she didn't know.
Had that blasted painting made its way back to her? She had thought the Alder King had torched the gods-damned thing. Saoirse's brow furrowed. Last she had checked, she had never conversed with the painting in her head.
'Indeed,' the voice bloomed in her mind again, full of mocking amusement.
Saoirse's breath stuttered. The voice had spoken--in her head. Which meant it was not the painting at all, but The Alder King.
"How in the name of--" Saoirse's voice stuttered to a halt, like a flame being snuffed.
'Did you truly think I would foolheartedly let you fulfill our bargain without even a modicum of control?'
Saoirse's breath was strangled. A vicious anger stole over her, and her shock dissipated. 'How did you breach my mental wards?' she asked in silence.
'Have you forgotten that I am the Alder King?' His voice stroked along the confines of her mind, and Saoirse was jarred.
'Did you ever think this to be a breach of my privacy?' Saoirse hissed. Her fingers curled into fists, wrenching at the hem of her nightdress. 'A violation of my autonomy?'
