Page 32 of The Crown of the Dark Prince
So why didn’t I feel that way?
My emotions were all over the place. Desperate for Clay one day and rejecting him the next. Wanting to share all my secrets with Iris and my friends in one moment and being entirely unable to share my dreams of Hyrax the next. And all the while, I hated myself more and more.
“It’s time,” Nessira called, pulling me from my thoughts.
Worry pinched her lips, an expression she wore more often than not these days.
“Samsa, go prepare the bath for Lady Moore,” Nessira instructed the young girl she had hired as my second Lady-in-Waiting.
When the girl’s thin frame and pale blonde hair retreated to the bathing chamber, Nessira slowly approached me, crossing her arms unhappily across her chest as she eyed the remains of my breakfast from where it sat on a tray at the edge of my bed.
“You ate little,” she noted.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She nodded with a thoughtful expression. “You haven’t eaten much at all recently.”
“I’m fine, Nessira.” I stood abruptly, brushing my hands together to rid them of pencil dust, and moved to walk past her, desperate to avoid this conversation. It was bad enough to deal with Dimitri, Rankor, and Clay constantly fretting over my health. I didn’t need her piling on.
“My Lady!” Nessira’s voice was sharp as she stepped in the way of my path.
With anyone else, her tone would have gotten her removed from her post.
“I’m worried,” she said simply.
I sighed, running tired hands through the ends of my tangled curls. After spending days in bed with the fever, it had been too long since I’d brushed through it. It probably looked as hopeless as I felt.
“Don’t be,” I muttered.
“You’re not eating or sleeping, my lady,” she pressed, her voice softening. “It’s plain to anyone with eyes you’re still carrying the weight of Lorelai Pelland’s death. Your sadness is unending, it seems.”
“You speak as if I deserve to feel anything else,” I snapped, the bitterness in my voice cutting through the air.
She looked away for a moment, and when she looked towards me again, the change was obvious. Her expression was no longer worried or angry.
She pitied me.
“Lady Moore,” she said gently. “Lorelai’s death wasnotyour fault. You deserve to feel more. You deserve to feel all manner of happiness.”
I laughed darkly. “Even if I were to excuse myself with the weight of her death, you assume I’m not capable of causing even greater destruction.”
She frowned. “Why would you think that?”
The words hovered on the tip of my tongue, the truth begging to be set free. But the confession died on my tongue.
I couldn’t share the prophecy with anyone. Not even Nessira.
After a long moment, I simply told her I was ready for my bath and strode into the bathing chamber.
She let the conversation fall away, thankfully, and left me to soak in the lavender scented water for longer than necessary while she and Samsa gathered everything they would need to prepare me for the ascension ceremony.
When they returned, long after my skin had pruned, they helped slide on my dress. It was unlike anything I’d ever worn before. The deep violet fabric rippled with sparkling embroidery. The sweetheart neckline showed my chest, where Nessira had carefully painted the Mark of Hyrax. Diamond pins adorned my elegantly twisted hair, their weight unfamiliar but regal. A massive fur-lined golden cape draped over my shoulders, its clasp heavy against my collarbone.
“You’re ready,” Nessira said, adjusting a stray curl.
Was I though?
Her eyes searched mine, and something in my face must have given her pause. She dismissed Samsa with a glance and disappeared into my closet, returning moments later with my dagger and thigh sheath.
