Thread of Darkness

Ch. 9: cold iron

Camille looked around the garden.

It had been transformed tonight, she thought; fireflies floated in the trees like golden stars, and violin music wrapped around the long white tables. The air was thick with honey-sweet sticky buns and fairy floss. She could hear the murmur of summer crickets, as well as the slap of water against the castle rock.

Courtiers drifted through the flower gardens, carrying glasses of champagne. A dark-haired woman slumped against a rose trellis, an empty phial of somnium in her hand, sleeping like a princess in a storybook.

"Miss?" a voice asked.

She turned.

A guard hovered near her position on a garden bench, hands clasped behind his back. Camille toyed with the stem of her wineglass. Technically, she should be addressed as My Lady or Lady Rosewood — Brigid had gifted her land after the engagement — but she kept silent.

"Yes?"

The guard shifted his weight. "There are visitors at the gate."

Camille frowned. "We're not expecting anyone."

"Well," the footman said, "there are a half-dozen women on the bridge, so you'll need to decide what to do with them." A pause. "Miss."

This time, the word was deliberate.

Her cheeks grew hot. Ah. So the guard hadn't forgotten her title; he just refused to use it. Camille swirled her wine, trying to decide how to respond to... Morrigan? Corrigan? Yes; that was his name. He'd been one of Arthur's favourite men. On Camille's tenth birthday, Corrigan had stood outside her door and gravely told everyone that she had Pigeon Pox so that she could spend the day in bed reading, undisturbed.

Corrigan was a nice man. A fair one.

But that didn't mean he wanted her as his queen.

Camille straightened. "Do they appear dangerous? The women?"

"No," Corrigan said. "They look... They're wearing very low-cut gowns and perfume. I sense that they conduct a certain form of business." He gave her a significant look. "Shall I turn them away?"

Oh. Oh.

Realization struck her, and Camille's face grew even hotter. She opened her mouth — to say what, she didn't know — when a voice interrupted her.

"No," the voice said. "Show them into the parlour."

Corrigan stiffened. "My Lord?"

Eris strode towards them. He was dressed in a billowing green top, trimmed with golden thread. Like many of the courtiers, Eris wore face paint — swirls of stardust around his eyes and mouth — and a circlet rested on his head. He could have been a woodland faerie, Camille thought, if it wasn't for his abhorrent personality.

"Here." Eris pressed a rukka into Corrigan's hand. "For your trouble."

Corrigan didn't curl his fingers over it. The older guard was looking at Camille, a question in his eyes, and she looked away. A pulse pounded in her ears. She had no power here. Didn't he see that?

There was a long pause.

"My Lord," Corrigan said, voice stiff.

Footsteps retreated.

Eris plopped onto the bench, slinging his arm around the back. His cold fingers brushed the nape of her neck. Camille leaned forward.

"Prostitutes?" Her voice was clipped. "Really?"

Eris lifted a shoulder. "I thought we could use some entertainment."

"This," Camille said, "is a formal dinner." She took a sip of wine. "Filled with foreign diplomats and dignitaries."