A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 60

Routine carried her through the days. Rise with the dawn. Dress in the simple frocks of the servants. A long-sleeved dress the stain of ripe cranberries today—one which Gwyn had split the seam of the inner pocket, giving her access to the weapon concealed beneath her aproned skirt. Several times this morning, her fingertips slipped to the wrapped hilt as sentries milled about the kitchen between shifts.

In her other pocket was a folded parchment, one the Valkyrie never left her quarters without—her star certificate.

Gwyn twisted her head to look at the young woman tending the hearth to her right. A female a few years younger than herself. Quiet and demure. Clove was her name. Bobbing her head in greeting, Clove pushed wayward hair the color of roasted hazelnuts behind her pointed ear.

Only High Fae help in the Forest House, Gwyn had discovered. Beron Vanserra would never sully his beloved residence with lesser Fae.

Gwyn smirked to herself. Little did he know ...

All the household staff were female. All pleasing to the eye, the most beautiful ones reserved for the High Lord's exclusive bidding, she noted. The mere thought made Gwyn nauseous.

Dark male laughter rumbled over the din of kitchen work. Gwyn jolted at the noise that brought a bone-deep chill even colder than the perpetual autumn outside. Gods, the sounds. This place . Bringing forth memories of ...

Breathe, Berdara. His voice. Deep and resonant. In her mind. Her soul.

Eyes closed, she did as the memory of his voice demanded, forcing herself to quit shaking. To focus on the air in her lungs. The hearth fire at her back. The warm weight of the black dagger—the one he'd given her—strapped to her right thigh. A comfort. The setting straps and twists as if the familiar callused trails of scars—his hand—rested there, holding her steady.

You are the rock. You're godsdamn Ramiel. Nothing will ever fucking break you ever again.

Fear. A once formidable opponent, thriving on her worst moments, stealing from her some of her best. Nearly taking her future.

No. Gwyn wouldn't let that happen again. Not when her future was so promising now. Especially when she had friends to stand up for. Protect. To love. To live for.

After a long exhale, she dared a peek over her shoulder. Several guards circled the wide center worktable. A pack of feral wolves, eyes hungry. Not on the platters of pale biscuits and fresh fruit—but on the rounded backside hidden under the dress of the female bent before the fireplace.

Face heating with irritation, Gwyn turned back to washing the dishes, trying to ignore their not subtle comments of exactly what they'd like to do to the slender brunette. To Clove's credit, the younger maiden continued on as if she didn't hear them, mixing the pot of oats and milk above the roaring stove. To her, this was an everyday occurrence. It shouldn't be.

None of the males referred to Gwyn. A blessing, she supposed.

Their large, grimy hands snatched at the small breakfast set on the counters as mingling guards and sentries chatted without care. It was shocking to hear them speak so openly, with such blatant disregard, around the female servants. It was as if they knew none of them would utter a word. Out of conditioning—or perhaps fear. Or both.

Back to her task, Gwyn's fingers scrubbed beneath sudsy water in the basin, scraping away at a gritty used vessel. Humming softly to herself, absently listening to the group—two of Beron's personal guards among them.

"So where you being shipped off to tomorrow?" The stoutest of the men asked between mouthfuls to the other three, who crowded around the repast meant for both soldier and servant, like vultures around carrion.