Thread of Darkness

Ch. 22: impossible to feel otherwise

"If you're going to kill me," Ryne said mildly, "then I'd move my chair about three inches to the left. These tiles are imported from Salvatoria."

Ryne tapped the ground with his shoe. Not, Anna thought, that he could gesture with his hands; she'd tied them behind his back with rope. Twice. They'd been calloused and sticky, still sweet from the apples that he'd fed to the horses that morning.

She glanced down at the tiles.

Blue-and-green glass, the colour of a cloudless sea. The tiles formed a six-pointed sun: a nod to Lucia, goddess of light. She glanced around the room, taking in the silk cushions and the smell of incense. A prayer room of sorts?

Anna looked back at the tiles. Ryne was right; they really were very pretty.

Pity she might have to get blood on them.

"Hand-crafted," Ryne added, following her gaze. "Individually carved."

Anna resumed pacing, tapping the knife against her thigh. Ryne's green eyes were unreadable.

"Did I mention bespoke?" he asked. "This mosaic cost a fortune to—"

"Shut-up," Anna said.

"Right." Ryne cleared his throat. "Can I ask one more question?"

She didn't turn. "No."

"It makes sense," Ryne continued, ignoring this. "To kill me."

"That's a statement."

She changed directions, her bare feet whispering over the floor. Ryne leaned forward. He was dressed in a white shirt, his dark hair ruffled. One of the buttons near his throat had come undone to reveal a slash of pale skin.

"Let me rephrase," Ryne said. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"

His voice was calm, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner, or whether the roses were blooming in the garden yet. Anna flipped the knife.

"If I kill you," she said evenly, "then the crown reverts to Eris. And as much as I would enjoy murdering the entire male Delafort line — and trust me, I would — I don't have that sort of time on my hands."

Ryne leaned back. "Genocide does take work."

"Your family would know," she said.

A heavy silence fell. Her ears felt hot, and she could hear a faint, distant ringing. The blade was slick in her hand. She thought of wading into the warm summer stream behind her cottage, of pulling up a trout with her bare hands and tickling its stomach until it went slack in her hands; of slitting its throat.

Ryne was looking at her patiently. Expectantly.

She swallowed.

"Why?" Anna asked.

She didn't need to specify. Ryne looked at the incense — smoking lightly, curling around the empty grate like grey fingers — and let out a breath.

"I couldn't let you leave," he said.

The metal of the knife was so cold that it felt hot. "You could have killed me. It would have been kinder."

"You're a queen," Ryne said. "Dead queens become martyrs."

"You could have locked me in the dungeons, then."

He met her gaze. "You would have escaped."

This, Anna reflected, was true. Still. She could feel her heart knocking hard against her chest; the air stuck to her ribs like honey.