Page 22 of Griffin Food

I blow out a breath and nod. My hands are shaking. I’m trembling all over. “Tell me this is as hard for you.”

“I took her innocence!” The hushed, sharp words seem to take something from him. His hand rests on my shoulder—solid comfort. He squeezes lightly, then he lets go, turns, and walks away. He stands at the window, staring down at the courtyard below—the window where she stood and touched herself, and where the unraveling began. “Trust me. It is every bit as hard for me as it is for you. But we will not shame the lass. We will not bring it up unless she does. Understood?”

“Aye, understood,” I say.

Chapter Six

Violet

One year later…

It is late in the day, and the sun is setting when we arrive at the village of Acton Trussell in the foothills of the Askrigg Mountains. As one might expect for a community of gem traders, it is the image of prosperity, with immaculate cobbled streets and brightly painted dwellings that glisten in the setting sun against a thickly forested backdrop. It is a quaint community that, with a population nearly two thousand strong, is not far from reaching town status. Still, the isolated nature of being cut off from the more populous parts of this continent for a large part of the year keeps it locked at this size.

It is no small amount thrilling and terrifying to be here, a place so steeped in mystery that even the people in the towns far to the south make the sign of the Goddess when they mention it in hushed whispers.

Traders come every spring with an armed escort, pay fair coin for the gems, and go on their way. The rumors of griffin protectors are enough that they do not linger.

It is not a place for sightseers and lore tourists, or visitors of any kind at this time of year, when we are closing in on the end of summer. But to my great surprise, the community is warm and curious. When I explain that I have exchanged correspondence with Master Pugstone, a resident griffin scholar, I am welcomed like a long-lost friend and offered free lodgings in the best tavern.

“Don’t get many scholars this way,” the tavern proprietor, Jim, announces as he shows us up to our quarters, a day room with a table and chairs, and two bedrooms, one with a double bed and the other with two singles. “Master Pugstone will be delighted to receive a visitor—could talk the hind legs off a centaur! I’ll have the stable lad pop around and let him know you’re here. Bound to have an invite come the morning.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” I say, beaming.

A young maid arrives with a tray bearing dinner. The proprietor shows himself out.

“I’m not hungry,” I say. My belly is aflutter, not a chance I will eat a bite.

Rafe grunts, his eyes narrowing on me.

Lark is also unnaturally still, his bright blue eyes taking on an almost predatory air.

“It’s not that,” I say, blushing. I’ve had several false heats since we left my family home. Or fever episodes, as I still doggedly call them. The first sign is usually picky eating. They have been my companions for all that time, but it still makes me uncomfortable discussing this with them… Talking about going into heat is a little like announcing that I’m available for breeding. Not that anyone could breed me since they’re false heats and they’re not alphas and are assuredly not interested in me in that way. “It’s just the excitement. I’ll see you in the morning!”

I dash off to my room before either of them can offer an opinion. Here I strip out of my travel clothes, wash up, and put on my nightshift. It has grown dark outside the window by this time, and I take my quill, ink, and diary from my satchel.

But instead of writing, I find myself skipping back to the start, skimming over entries, remembering how it felt at the beginning so long ago.

My mind stretches back, aware of the passage of time and the many miles traveled to get here. They are here. I can feel it, sense it. My belly is full of butterflies, like I am caught on the cusp of something momentous.

In my mind, I picture the younger me sitting at my desk, making my list of things needed for an adventure. Now look at me, taking lodgings in a tavern so far from home and everything once familiar, nowhere one might expect to find a Hydornian princess. That is what I am, although it has been a long time since I embraced the role.

It was questionable whether I had ever fit the princess mold.

Somehow, my family, once the pillar of decorum, has found itself embroiled in many very indecorous adventures and happenings. My own have gone unnoticed. Not that I am inherently adventurous, more that I have become so out of necessity. What I am is scholarly by nature. The kind of woman overlooked by suitors for the prettier among the flock, the kind who is more enamored with ancient texts than the perfect shade of ribbon for a dress.

My princess skills are woefully undernourished. I can neither dance nor sing, and I swear I don’t have a maternal bone in my body—the thought of mothering a screaming brat when I so love quietness and study makes me shudder. I was passably average at horse riding, but have improved out of necessity.

I cannot abide the small talk one is expected to engage in during high-society gatherings. Slide an ancient tome about mythical creatures in front of me, and I come alive.

It is perhaps the only time I do.

I have never needed nor aspired to be married or mated. I am not like other women. Put simply, I do not fit into the ordinary world.

Am I broken?

I have wondered that many times.

There are two sides to me that never meet.