The Queen's Price

SEVENTY-SIX

Saetien spent two days walking and thinking and . . . feeling. She went to the cottage during the day and stared at the gardens, at the cottage. She thought about the man inside the cottage and the work—and way of life—he was offering her.

She loved her father, but she wasn’t suited for life at the Hall. It was too big. Not just the physical Hall but that way of life itself—and the duties that came with it.

She didn’t have the heart for it.

The relief that came from recognizing that truth about herself was painful. But with the relief and pain came hope. Hope that she could spend time with her father eventually and not feel like she was competing with the Queen, whose will—and love—would always be his life. Hope that she could learn from her previous mistakes and now shape the life she wanted, choice by choice.

Even hope that, while she couldn’t mend what she’d broken, she might be able to make peace with Surreal.

But all those hopes, all those choices, came down to making the first choice.

Blinking back tears that were part pain, part regret, and part joy, Saetien walked back to Kieran’s house to tell the Warlord of Maghre her decision.

Butler became aware of Saetien’s presence the moment she walked into the cottage, but he stayed in his room until the sun went down. Sunlight caused pain for the demon-dead and also drained the reservoir of power in the Jewels. Too much pain, too much of a drain of power, and consuming yarbarah wouldn’t be enough to sustain him. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have cared about sustaining himself. Now . . .

Kieran offered him a cup of blood, fresh from the vein, once a month. He didn’t want to get careless in his habits and need more.

Still, he was up and dressed and warming a glass of yarbarah minutes after the sun went down.

He found Saetien in the kitchen, reading a list of instructions before she gingerly put a dish in the oven.

When she finally looked at him, all she said was “Ask them.”