Page 43 of These Vile Hearts

“Oh no! Of course not. I mean, it is your decision if you use your room for your own personal suitors, but you can’t charge for that. Or I suppose youcould, though Madam Debray would not approve. But I guess you technically—”

I press a hand to Fern’s bare shoulder. “You know what, it’s okay. I’ll just take my suitors to the stairway if I feel the need.”

“Oh, the stairway is not—”

“—a free sex space. Ah yes, I forgot. Well, I suppose I will just wait in line for the piano, then.”

Fern nods as if this is a logical choice, then waves her arm at the bureau. “The last girl to stay here was about your size. All her clothes are still in the chest of drawers.”

“What happened to her?” I open one of the drawers, pulling out a lace camisole. My thumb smooths over the delicate fabric, neither traditional silk nor satin but something similar. Spider silk, maybe?

Sad eyes cast down to the fabric in my hands. “She was punished for making treasonous remarks. I just found out today, in fact.”

“Punished by the king?”

The arborfae nods again.

“Why would he punish someone here when he seems to have such a close relationship with the madam?”

At this, Fern stiffens, lips pursing. “Oh. Well. The king has…many sides.”

“Mmm.” I drop the camisole back into the drawer, closing it slowly. “Does the king come here often?”

Fern looks everywhere but at me.

“He, er, yes. I suppose he does. Well, occasionally. It depends on what you mean by ‘often.’ But I must return to the front desk. Who knows how many visitors are milling about up there. Here you are.” She presses the black iron door key into my palm. “Sleep as late as you like. Sleep through lunch if you desire. But Iammaking my famous rose cream stew.”

With a wink, she retreats through the door.

~

Shockingly enough, it is not easy to sleep soundly beneath the stage of a raging sex party.

The vibrant purple light streaming through the window is replaced by the warm glow of sunrise. Feeling not at all rested, I groan and slide out of bed, slipping on a modest cream dress made of spider silk and lace, and a pair of thin black flats with leather soles. Again, I tie the golden dagger to my thigh, just in case I get my chance earlier than expected.

I take a dose of long-acting insulin, then fill a syringe with five units of fast-acting, tucking it into the bun at the crown of my head. Just in case.

The window lets out onto a rounded platform just beneath the main level of the District Center. I climb out, fairly certain I flashed the whole of the trees below and anyone living within them. Unfortunately for them, the forest appears to be asleep. Even the birds are quieter.

Moving like a wraith, I traverse the path to the Crown District. I’m not about to take one of those flying seed carriages to spy on the king. My dad always said I had the uncanny ability of finding my way back home when I wandered into the forest.

Even in the day, it’s darker between districts. Castor and Tamarind’s casual mention of blood nymphs and spider wraiths doesn’tease my building anxiety. My feet go from strolling to speed walking to jogging. Something monstrous and spindle-legged moves in the periphery of my vision, and my jog turns into a dead sprint.

My heart spasms in my chest, lungs screaming for air, but I don’t slow down until I spot the tree-walled citadel in the distance with the massive spire of the Sovereign Tree shooting into the sky, climbing up past the clouds.

I glance behind me into the trees, but there’s no sign of what I may or may not have seen.

Get it together, bitch, I tell myself in Javen’s voice.

Through the thin slits between the walls and webs of branches, I can see the black and twisted tree, ignored by the three sentries standing obediently by the king’s.

Guards. Even atthishour.

How the hell did my dad get to the last king’s heartwood without being spotted? Even without guards, it seems impossible. And how did he kill it? An axe? A chainsaw? Even the smaller trunks would take hours to cut through.

A familiar hollowness returns to my chest. The longing to talk to my dad, ask him these questions, but not being able to do either. All I have are the echoes and memories and hastily scribbled words of his past.

Never trust a dryad.