Page 46 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Isee they put you up somewhere nice too, sweet girl,” Cyril murmured as she unlatched Attie’s stall door and slid it open. The sweet mare nickered with excitement and tossed her mane from side to side.

At least someone was happy to see her.

The royal stables were quite a spectacle, and Cyril wasn't sure why she expected anything less. They must have been able to house hundreds of horses in the imposing sandstone and wood building Rika walked her down to, just a few minutes along a side path from the palace proper.

The maid had finally lost her patience, watching Cyril mope about her room over the last day. The third time she came by and said, “Miss, are you sure there is nothing you’d like to see?” Cyril caved in.

The stables seemed like the most reasonable place to go, and she knew the chances of running into anyone she didn’t want to deal with were slim.

Dion, Mikael, and a contingent of guards left at the crack of dawn to head into Brynnhold, the port city a couple hours’ ride away. They would join the rest of her uncles there for the more hands-on portion of their briefing, and likely wouldn’t be back until well after nightfall.

Naturally, they didn't invite Cyril, but she thought it was the best, for once. Nothing productive would come from being in close quarters with Dion so soon.

The stablemaster, Boone, was a friendly and weathered man that Rika introduced Cyril to before making her departure.

Boone was not entirely fae, if Cyril had to guess, with dark eyes and a warm smile. He was all too happy to set her up with a brush and a couple of apples before he pointed her down an aisle of stalls.

Attie eagerly watched those apples as Cyril tucked them between the bars on the stall’s window.

“Later,” Cyril chided, smoothing her hand down the horse’s side. “You need a good brushing, then we can have a snack. Alright?”

Attie snorted.

The slow and quiet work that came with grooming horses was unmatched, for Cyril at least, in the way it washed away tension. You couldn’t be angry or loud and animated around the horses without unsettling them—they were smart animals and wanted nothing to do with pissed-off handlers.

She didn’t blame them for that.

Cyril started in slow, sweeping strokes with the brush, following each with a pass of her hand. She knew Attie always enjoyed the grooming, with the way she’d nuzzle and nudge at her as she went, but there was a chance Cyril enjoyed it more.

She murmured to Attie as she brushed her, asking pointless little questions about how she liked her stall and if the stable hands had been treating her well. It wasn’t like Cyril expected answers, but Attie’s little grunts and snorts brought her some amusement. Especially the petulant neigh she let out when Cyril asked if she'd been stuck with Kingston as a neighbor.

The unwieldy gelding rubbed everyone the wrong way.

A smile crept over Cyril’s face with each pass of the brush, and that heavy, icy feeling lingering in her veins from the day before eased, if only a bit.

She wasn’t sure if the weight of those cruel words would ever fade entirely, truth be told, not with how easily Dion tore into her with them. He was getting more volatile and unpredictable, and Cyril didn’t know what the fuck to do about it.

Even in the months before this stupid contract came about, their relationship had begun to feel more strained than ever. It wasn’t just with her, either. It was like his fuse had shortened with everyone at the estate. Everyone else just had the option of getting away from him.

But for Cyril, she had no way out or away.

As Dion’s nights got later and the smell of smoke lingered longer with him, his iron grip on Cyril squeezed just a bit tighter. Not enough to suffocate her, but enough to make it hard to breathe.

So she fought back.

Cyril challenged and provoked her uncle every damned time he decided where she would or wouldn’t go, who she could or couldn’t see. No one or where was trustworthy enough for her, he would say, outside of their estate and the people he had handpicked to live there. It was like he wanted to keep her tucked away from the world, all to himself, yet he couldn’t seem to tolerate ever actually being around her anymore.

And maybe she deserved it.

Cyril had ruined his life, after all.

The lord with a reputation for his parties and proclivities forced into fatherhood. It was a life Cyril knew he never wanted, never asked for, so logic dictated it was only a matter of time before he lost his patience with having her around.

Cyril let out a shaky sigh and Attie nudged her arm.

“Shit, your apples. I’m sorry, girl.”

She offered the horse a weary smile, as if it meant anything to her, and pried an apple from between the bars. With the single knife she’d strapped to her thigh today, she quartered it and gave the pieces to Attie.