Thread of Darkness

Ch. 8: rat stew in cups

Anna flipped the coin over.

Light darted across the stone floor. She flipped the rukka again, and the light glanced off various objects: a thick rug; a silkscreen; a wardrobe. There was an enormous amount of furniture in the tower. A glaring oversight, in her opinion; she could have easily broken off a chair leg and whittled it into a knife.

She flipped the coin.

The light shot sideways.

Across the room, Shambles cracked open an eyelid. The cat was dozing near the empty hearth, one cheek resting on a paw.

"Go on, then," Anna urged. "Chase the light."

The cat gave her a reproachful look.

She tilted the coin. "Don't you want to get it?"

Shambles stood, stretched, and then yawned. Then he lay back down on the rug and went to sleep. Anna sighed.

"Useless feline," she muttered.

She pocketed the coin. It wasn't like she'd really expected Shambles to chase the beam of light, anyway; he'd done it on only one occasion, and Anna suspected that it was largely because the cat pitied her.

She glanced around the room. What game to play next?

After four months, Anna thought, she had a few favourites. There was the "throw-food-into-the-moat" game. She also enjoyed "break-things-until-the-guards-stormed-in" game. And — on the rare occasion that it rained — she dabbled in "pick-the-fastest-raindrop-to-slide-down-the-window" game.

She rose, sticking her head out the window and squinting up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Gods damn it.

The lock in the door turned.

Anna sprang for the bed.

She fumbled with the manacles, locking them into place. Her gaze darted to the window. The sun was sinking beneath the trees, casting long shadows across the lake — too early for dinner. A maid taking her for a bath, perhaps? The guards never entered the room unless they were delivering a meal.

Except for Isaac. He used to visit her regularly, bringing cards and lemon biscuits, although he hadn't visited since...

Well.

Ages.

A churning sensation filled her, as if she'd kicked to the surface too hard. Too fast. She felt dizzy and disoriented, as if she'd swallowed a lungful of seawater. As if Isaac's absence was pulling her back beneath the waves.

There was something, Anna thought, that felt wrong about the situation. Like stepping out from beneath an umbrella and into the rain. She felt sick when Isaac was away, and she felt sick when he was near. But maybe that was what love was — a terrible, aching need for someone. She thought she'd go mad with it.

The door opened.

A guard stepped through. Ryne Delafort appeared next, cheeks flushed, smelling of hay and horses. He was dressed in a tailored dinner jacket, his dark hair neatly combed. He was also, Anna noted, with rising curiosity, holding a bundle of cloth.

A tent? A picnic blanket? Something to gag her with while they tortured her?

The possibilities, Anna thought wryly, were truly endless.

She smiled. "Hello, Delafort. How kind of you to visit."

Ryne's face didn't change. "Leave us, Chavis."

The guard stepped forward, alarmed. "Your Majesty—"

"It's alright," Ryne said, holding up a hand. "She won't try anything." He studied Anna closely. "Why don't we drop the pretense?"