She narrows her icy blue eyes. “What? Sit up in my rooms with my ladies-in-waiting, knitting and walking around the ice garden?” She shakes her head with a humorless laugh. “I’m not one of your saddles to be kept, Tyndall.”
“No, you’re definitely not one of my saddles,” he says, casting a look of contempt at her.
An angry blush stains her pale cheeks, and her hands fist into her skirts again. “And whose fault is it that you don’t visit my bed anymore?”
I cringe, my ears almost burning. I thought their talk was private before? This just got so much worse.
Midas scoffs. “You’re barren,” he tells her, and I don’t miss the way her head flinches back, as if he’d struck her with an open palm. “I’d rather not waste my time. Which is what this is,” he says, gesturing between them. “Wasted time. Now, if you’re done with your feminine fit, I have work to do.”
He starts to stalk away, but before he can take three steps, her voice stops him dead. “I know the truth, Tyndall.”
My eyes bounce between the two of them, wondering what truth she’s talking about.
Seconds pass. Midas’s shoulders are stiff as a board when he finally turns back around to face her. The look in his brown eyes is so vitriolic that the queen even takes a step back. Seems like she overplayed her hand. I just don’t know which cards she’s holding.
“I’d be very, very careful if I were you,” Midas tells her with quiet harshness.
A threat, plain and simple. The cruelty in his tone is enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck sit up. Malina watches him, and I’m riveted, barely even letting myself blink.
“Go back to your rooms,” he finishes coldly.
The queen swallows hard, but despite the tremble in her hands that she hides in her skirts, she tips her chin up before striding out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. She’s not a wilting flower, I’ll give her that.
Me, I’m too scared to breathe in the silence, and my heart is pounding against my chest like drums. I wait precious seconds, my cheeks puffed out with all the air I’m not letting out.
Midas takes a breath and tugs at his golden tunic to straighten it before running a hand over his hair to make sure not a single strand is out of place. After another moment, he turns to leave, exiting my line of sight. Only when I hear the door shut behind him, his footsteps receding, do I let out my breath.
I push back the blanket and sit up, knowing I need to get past the library undetected and back to my bedroom before Midas returns to the library. If he calls for me, and I’m not in my room, he’ll know I’m here and that I overhead the two of them, and that...that probably won’t go well for me.
Getting to my feet, I rush out of the atrium, down my private hallway, and then skid to a stop just outside the archway into the back of the library.
I can hear the advisors’ voices mumbling and King Fulke eating loudly as he breathes through his mouth. Chew, breathe, chew, breathe. It’s obnoxious. Daring to peek around the doorway, I find that everyone is thankfully facing the table, no one giving my caged portion any mind, and Midas isn’t back yet.
The sun is going down, taking the dim gray lighting with it, but the men won’t be finishing any time soon. The advisors will no doubt work through the night like they have for the past several days, and I don’t want to get stuck in here with them.
The only way I might be able to hide in my rooms for the rest of the night is if I can make it there before Midas comes back. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so I hope. He’ll probably be in a foul mood after his talk with Malina, and I don’t want to be caught in the crosshairs.
To get to my personal rooms, I have to get across this library. Midas made sure the entire top level of the castle was remodeled so that I could roam freely. Since my cages built into each room aren’t confined, they all lead into small hallways he had made for me that connect from one room to the other, all the way to the other end of the palace. But that means that there’s only one way to get from one end to the other—I have to go through each room.
I do another visual sweep to make sure no one is looking, and then start tiptoeing across the caged-in portion of the library, my eyes focused on the archway at the other end, my steps hurried but careful. I can’t go too fast, or the movement will catch attention from their peripherals, but I have to hurry before Midas comes back.
I’m three steps away when I hear, “Ah, you’re back.”
I freeze, but when my gaze darts over, no one is looking at me, but at Midas who’s striding through the doorway.
Gathering my skirts in my hands, I leap for the archway and sprint down the hallway. Right before Midas’s eyes can find me. I don’t stop running until I pass my bathroom and dressing chambers. I duck into my room, blowing out a breath as I slump against the wall.
I rest my head back for a minute, basking in my successful retreat, while my mind spins. I’m lucky I wasn’t caught.
I stay propped here for a while, my brain soaking in everything I’ve learned. Not just from the spied conversation, but from the bits and pieces I’ve picked up all week during Midas’s war council. It seems even Queen Malina is wary of Midas’s bold attack.
I’m not surprised he didn’t discuss his decisions with her, though. That’s how he operates. Purely by his own agenda and plans. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about him actually—the confidence he possesses. He wasn’t born royal like Malina. He wasn’t groomed to be a monarch. And as harsh as he may be sometimes, he knows how to rule. Highbell needed money, and it needed a strong leader, and it got both the minute Midas sat on the throne.
I blink, realizing that the day has leached out and night has crept in. A shiver travels down my spine, and I rub my arms, willing the tingles away. Bright side: If Midas was going to send for me, he would’ve done it by now.
What little light that existed in my room has faded into shadows that quickly stained everything in darkness. Pushing myself away from the wall, I head to the far end of my room, following the way by memory, until I reach the small table that butts up against the bars.
I blindly feel for the candlestick that I know is there, but instead of my fingers wrapping around the hard base, I come into contact with something warm. Something that moves.
I flinch back in alarm, but too late. The hand flashes forward and grabs my wrist, yanking me forward. My torso tips over the top of the table, my hands shooting out to catch myself on it. The person holding my wrist releases it and instead snatches me by the hair in a fisted grip.
I reach up in a scrabbled panic, trying to tear the hold away on instinct, but whoever is holding me doesn’t release me, no matter how hard I yank.
I start scratching at them mercilessly, hoping to peel their skin into bloody strips so they’ll let go. As soon as I feel my nail draw blood, the person hisses in pain and then slams my head into the bars so hard that I see stars.
I buckle at the knees, my body unsteady and my head pulsing, but the hand with the vicious hold on my hair doesn’t let go. My scalp screams with pain, and I cry out, but no sooner does the whimper of pain fly out of my lips than another hand slaps over my mouth to cut off the noise.
Unfortunately, the hand is also covering my nose, blocking my ability to breathe.