Page 31 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
And he couldn’t lie.
Plus, he wasgrinning. No teasing, no sarcasm, no arrogance, just genuine happiness to be reunited with Fluffy. That was almost as shocking as the fact he had a hellhound as a pet.
“See, she’s a big softie.” He scrubbed the top of her head, and she panted, sharp teeth gleaming. “You’ll keep Ariadne safe, won’t you?”
Apart from the fae flames, she looked a lot like a normal dog, albeit a massive one. She certainly didn’t resemble a demonic creature on the hunt. Compared to the sluagh, she was almost…cute.
If I could smack one of those monsters with a branch, I could pet a hellhound… especially if I told myself she was just a dog.
I swallowed and held out my hand, arm tense, ready to snatch it away.
But Fluffy—he hadn’t even addressed how ridiculous a name that was for a hellhound—she inched closer. She sniffed the air, her breath hot and tickling on my knuckles. With a huff, she nudged my fingers.
I gasped at the touch of her pink nose and pulled away, but Lysander only smiled.
“She wants you to stroke her.”
Looking up at me with wide, flickering eyes, the dog sat.
His eyebrows shot up. “Well.” He blinked from me to the dog and back again. “She likes you. A lot.” The faint crease of a frown formed between his brow for a moment before he smiled again.
He could tell that from her sitting?
But here I was in the middle of Elfhame, should I really be surprised by anything?
Breath held, I reached out again, slowly, slowly, and Fluffy lifted her head in anticipation.
Her fur was silky—so soft, I sighed. And no heat rose from her fiery ears as I scratched behind them like Lysander had.
“There.” Smiling, he rose. “Not everything here is dangerous, see?”
He left me with a willowy maid, Sylvanna, and touched my shoulder, promising to see me at dinner, then left to take care of some business.
Sylvie, as she insisted I call her, looked like she’d been carved from pale, sun-bleached wood. With Fluffy trailing us, she showed me to a room four times the size of my cottage. I barely took in the big bed and large windows before she led me through another door to a private bathroom with tiles that looked like fish scales. My ownbathroom.
The tent really was “roughing it.”
She ran me a bath, and I perched on the edge of the sink just to watch the steaming water gush into the tub.
Running hot water. How was that possible? Lysander would saymagic.
I bathed in water scented with jasmine and honeysuckle that reminded me of Mama and made my chest ache. The wardrobe was fully stocked with an array of gowns, jackets, shirts, and even breeches. I chose a simple lilac dress with gauzy sleeves, and a lightweight cloak with a hood, then Sylvie showed me around the house.
She kept a running commentary about each room, what it was used for, and the objects within, unfazed by the fact I barely spoke in return. I was too busy alternating between staring at everything and trying to remember the way we’d come. Although she spoke continuously, her voice was musical and gentle, lulling, and I let my hood fall. It was too warm for a cloak, anyway.
There was a library, a solarium, an orangery, a massive formal dining room, at least two drawing rooms.
So many rooms and corridors, I was guaranteed to get lost.
Perhaps Lysander was trying to ease me into marrying him with all this luxury.
Through glazed doors at the back of the house, Sylvie showed me to a planted terrace with a statue of a woman who seemed to be missing water pouring from her hands. As I’d seen on the ride, the flowers here were brighter and taller, the leaves glossier. Andthe scent… It surrounded me, infused me, green and floral, resinous and sweet, full of woody notes and layer upon layer of complexity, making my head swim.
We descended wide stone steps and Sylvie started to the left, but I paused. A huge yew tree stood in a prominent spot, right in front of the terrace. But strips of craggy bark hung from its branches as if it were shedding, and light timber showed where boughs had broken. What should’ve been rich, dark needles upon the tree, instead crumbled underfoot, turning to dust. Something sour settled on my tongue, at odds with the glorious scent of the gardens.
Shoulders hunching, Sylvie stopped and waited for me to catch up.
“What’s wrong with that tree?” I glanced over my shoulder, the image of it making my heart sink. It was like seeing a once-great sabrecat injured and sickly.
