Page 87 of Val

Or rather, she looked out through the bars on her window. At least she could see the riot of vibrant gold, red and bronze in the autumn colors of the woods in the distance.

And, while she was counting blessings, thank the gods her bed was comfortable, given how much time she spent lying on it.

In fact, her whole room was comfortable. Decorated in dark purple, silver and cream, with soft covers, a thick mattress, snug armchairs, and filled with glorious afternoon sunshine.

The manor house had been designed to be comfortable without being opulent. With its wood paneling, huge library, well-stocked kitchens, and array of staff who lived to offer her everything she might possibly desire. Paints. Musical instruments. She could study if she wished. Visit with the dogs. Go riding around the grounds.

When she was a little girl, there had been nannies and nurses. Later there were tutors and strict lessons on deportment, managing a home, officiating at functions. When Ballanor first had his riding accident her lessons had ramped up massively, as if she was being prepared to finally go to court. But then he had recovered, and no one seemed to care anymore. Now she had staff. Or rather, Ballanor did.

But there had never been friends. Only people who watched her, reported on her, controlled her.

She had made that mistake once. Thought that Cerdic had cared for her, loved her even. That had been a brutal lesson in reality. A harsh reminder that for all of its comfort, the house was really a prison.

None of the people in the house cared for her. Every single one of them was a jailor. Because there was one thing that she could never, ever, do—leave.

And it was the one thing she absolutely had to do if she was going to have any chance whatsoever of surviving. Her father had kept her safe, not willing to lose a potential heir. And Ballanor had largely left her alone so far. But now Geraint was dead and if Ballanor had his own heirs, he wouldn’t need her anymore.

She glanced at the rough calendar she had carved on the back of her door. Ballanor had been married for nine, nearly ten months already. Gods, she felt sorry for his wife. Lana? Elanor? Something like that.

But no amount of pity for the woman would save either of them. And the second there was an heir, Lucilla’s life would be worth next to nothing.

Ballanor did not leave threats hanging around, and, as the only other person in the kingdom with the right to sit on the throne, she was a threat. At least her paranoid, suspicious, older brother would see her that way. And Grendel would take every chance to remind him of it.

She shuddered and climbed off the bed to walk to the window where she could hold the bars and look out. Breathe in the cold autumn air and clear her mind of thoughts of Ballanor and Grendel.

Gods, she hated them so much. Both of them. Sadistic bastards. Sadisticfuckingbastards.

Hah, she could be punished for swearing. Denied meals for behaving in any way unladylike. Her books taken away for shouting. Beaten with a switch until she bled and locked in her room for running away. But they couldn’t punish her for her thoughts.

She had become damn good at settling her face into a vague, slightly tepid smile, folding her hands and making sure she appeared demure and sweet—while her brain plotted and swore. It was how she kept herself sane.

She hadn’t tried to run away for months, not since the bastard, Cerdic, had betrayed her. Hopefully that had lulled them all into some kind of complacency. The next time she went, she had to be gone for good.

She’d been storing a tiny hoard of jewels and coin, pilfered from Ballanor on the rare occasions he arrived to lord himself over her. They were currently wrapped in her monthly rags, right at the top of her drawer. So far, no one had ever looked there.

She had no idea of how long the small cache would last her out in the real world. She’d never bought anything for herself before. And she had no idea which direction to even go in. No one would ever tell her where they were. There were no maps in this house.

Should she take Penelope? Her gorgeous chestnut mare. She’d loved Penelope since she was a foal, her best and only friend, and she would be heartbroken to leave her. They would also travel faster together. But maybe they’d be easier to track… she honestly didn’t know.

She sighed and pressed her forehead against the cold steel of the bars. There was so much she didn’t know. But she couldn’t let it stop her. At the first opportunity, she was leaving. To wait meant death.

Perhaps Ballanor already had the heir he needed and would soon decide that she was too much of a threat to keep around.

Or perhaps he would simply keep her captive forever, and her whole life would be one long slow slide into nothing—never having experienced anything other than these few rooms. The same uncaring guards, the same never-ending routine, until she died. Never having experienced freedom of any kind. Never having lived.

She’d rather take her chances with the unknown, out in the world.