Page 143 of Spar of Hearts

Taking a few bounding steps toward Solenergi, the wolf turned its head back.

What are you waiting for?

Chapter 47

Anya Delemond

Anya lay back in a steaming claw-foot tub, a heavy floral scent hanging in the air as an Elven maidservant, Sage, helped her bathe. It took every fiber of her being not to cry as Roderick’s scent was scrubbed from her body. Bubbles gathered around her face as she stared out the window to the east, where the sun was barely a sliver over the horizon. Pale light covered every surface of the unfamiliar room.

He must have found her letter by now. Her heart throbbed at the thought. He was past the Gates of Hav, hoodwinked and heartbroken, but surrounded by friends. She was certain they would care for him, see him through, and before he knew it, she would be just another sailor’s mirage, a siren song.

She hoped he would sail with the Lupus Star forever, search for treasure, adventure, far-flung places, maybe even love. Happiness was truly all she wanted for him, even if the thought of him whispering sweet affections to another made her chest tighten.

A delicious ache was still nestled between her thighs from the night before. She’d never been so desperate, so hungry. It was like trying to wrap a lifetime of love up in a single night. But if anyone could, Roderick did.

A chill breeze tore her from the memory as Sage helped her out of the tub and into a soft woolen robe before guiding her to the vanity.

After some drying and brushing, Sage asked, “Up or down, My Lady?” bunching and twisting Anya’s hair to visualize the end result. Anya watched herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy and raw from crying on the way back to Solenergi. While she had allowed herself those tears, there would be no more. Now was the time to settle into the lifelong charade set before her. She couldn’t let the maidservants feel like pallbearers. Especially not with the way they were positively buzzing around the suite, chattering about how excited they were to have a lady of the house again. She wanted to play the part of a joyful young maiden for their sake, but for now, quiet numbness would have to do.

Sage was sweet. Young. Almost as young as Blackbird was when she was first brought on to be her lady-in-waiting. A small, melancholy smile curved Anya’s lips as the first words twelve-year-old Blackbird ever said to her swirled in her heart.

“I don’t have any magic. But I promise I’ll always do my best for you, My Lady!”

“My Lady?” Sage peeked out from the back of Anya’s head, smiling at her in the gold gilded mirror. Ornate jewelry boxes and perfume bottles covered the glossy wood vanity.

Anya blinked back to the present and straightened. “Up, thank you.” If she was going to marry the Winter Prince, she would have Roderick’s fang marks on full display—a final reminder to the Prince that she only had one true mate.

Sage worked quickly, pinning and primping with practiced precision. She’d hold sections out with soft pink magic, tuck, twist, and repeat. In a matter of minutes, Anya’s hair was tied in a woven updo, her face framed by two wavy strands of blonde hair.

Sage loosed a little hair to curtain Anya’s forehead, then looked upon her handiwork with a critical eye.

“Willa?” Sage called over to the Were maidservant, who was wheeling in a gold cart of cheese, pastries, and tea. “How does this look?”

“You look radiant, My Lady!” Willa parked the cart and clapped. “So elegant. His Highness will love it.”

The two girls fussed over Anya until a knock echoed through the door. Anya’s heart leapt, immediately hoping Roderick would burst through the door. But only a cordial voice followed.

“My Lady? Sir Bayard is here to see you.”

“Sir Bayard?”

Sage whispered, “The Captain of the Guard.”

“Send him in.”

A tall Elf stepped in, clad in well-worn armor bearing the Solenergi crest. He removed his ornate helmet and bowed low, revealing long, tapered ears poking out from his dusty-violet hair—just like Marg’s. Deep crow’s feet lined his friendly eyes.

“Your Highness, may I have a moment of your time?”

“Of course.” Anya nodded and dismissed the maidservants.

Sir Bayard stood tight and formal. “I am sure you are curious why I am here.”

Anya rose. “You are Marguerite’s father.”

“How did you—”

“She has your hair,” Anya said with a soft smile. “And your ears.”