Page 32 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘How –’

Loud knocking interrupts my next question. Oh, hexes. I’ve been in here longer than anyone who went before me, and Astin must be going out of his mind with impatience and worst-case scenarios.

‘Here, take this.’ Damian reaches into the wooden bowl on the table and plucks out a key. ‘Your room for the night, assuming you decide to stay for the party. I’ll be revealing the details of the search there. You don’t have long until it starts.’ He drops the key into my hand, fingers lingering on mine, and I wonder how much he can feel through the gloves.

As if he can sense the fresh sympathy brewing in me, he adds, ‘I do hope you’ll stay. Coin is a powerful motivator, but nowhere near as powerful as revenge. If you’re the one who wins, you’ll get both.’

If Astin was here, he’d jump at the chance. Probably argue with Damian about who gets to stab that Souleater after the cure is shoved down their throat.

‘I told you, I don’t believe in revenge,’ I say. ‘All I want is the reward.’

And the cure. If the potion isn’t big enough for two, I don’t know what I’ll do. Is taking it for myself worth leaving that Souleater free to run rampant for the rest of time?

Damian shakes his head, as though my opinion remains an unfathomable mystery to him, and opens the door, telling me I’ll find my room upstairs. Everybody else must have hurried straight to their accommodation, because the corridor ahead is quiet (and, of course, green).

I dawdle, waiting for Astin, peering into side rooms as I meander towards the spiral staircase at the end of the hall. The first few rooms are empty, save for one stuffed with what must be spare party pieces – stacks of goblets, emerald banners with the letter D stitched on to the fabric, a crate filled with candles waiting to be lit – but in the fourth I find a stone bust, untouched by emerald, carefully placed on a pedestal.

The face carved into the stone is unrecognisable, but something draws me to it anyway. There’s a plaque beneath the bust, the lettering so tiny I have to squint and press my nose close to the metal to read the words, but when I do . . .

In honour of Ozias Sunbone, friend to the Crown.

I frown. It’s well known that the last king was sympathetic to the Souleaters, but thanks to Clarabelle’s order to have all the records of that time destroyed, it’s never been clear why. I trace my finger over the letters. It’s one thing to suggest humans and Souleaters try to live in harmony, but it’s another to like one so much you commission statues in their honour.

‘Dais?’ Astin’s voice makes me jump. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Look.’ I point at the plaque and wait for him to read it. ‘Do you think it’s the Ozias? The Souleater?’

‘What does it matter?’ Astin shrugs, utterly disinterested.

I suppose it doesn’t. It’s just . . . odd, that’s all. This is the first time I’ve seen a depiction of Ozias where he’s not burning on a bonfire or lying on the floor with Clarabelle’s knife in his back. ‘I’m surprised to see him here, I guess. How do you think he and the king became friends?’

‘Maybe Ozias used magic to manipulate the king’s mind. Maybe the king was a Souleater too. Maybe it’s a different Ozias. Now come on. What room are you in?’

We establish we’re a few numbers away from one another, but I can’t concentrate as I follow him out of the room. I wish I knew more about the time before; had some concrete facts about why the king was willing to overlook Ozias’s nature. As far as I know, we can’t manipulate minds, and if the king was a Souleater too, he presumably wouldn’t have been so easily dragged from his castle.

I scan my surroundings as we ascend the staircase, as though the answers are going to spring from the wall. None appear. That or Damian has covered any clues with emerald, because every inch of the second floor is coated too, like he stood there for hours simply to watch it spew from his skin.

Around a bend, a few blocks of grey stone are untouched, and there’s a beauty in the rawness of them, in their imperfections, reminding me that, despite what he thinks, his curse isn’t a gift. It destroys what came before.

Astin sees me safely to my room before disappearing to find his own, telling me he’ll return shortly for the party. He’s striding down the hall before I can question what he means by shortly, because I suspect he doesn’t have the first clue how long it’ll take me to tie a corset.

Sighing, I drop my pack to the floor and take in my surroundings. The room thankfully has all its walls and windows intact to keep out the chill, but more than that, it’s beautiful. Larger and more opulent than anywhere I’ve slept before, with furnishings Damian must have brought in for the party. Crisp silk sheets cover a four-poster bed, while a patterned armchair is stationed next to an empty hearth.

On the opposite side of the room stands a wardrobe, doors open to reveal a bundle of dresses and suits. A quick inspection tells me it’s the same clothing in a variety of sizes, and it is, of course, all emerald green. I consider putting on the dress I packed for myself instead, but suspect wearing pink will make me stick out like a sore thumb.

I locate my size quickly, and I can’t help but smile once I’ve slid the fabric over my body. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever worn. The sweetheart neckline will do wonders for my bust once I’ve figured out how to tighten this corset by myself, while the skirt has an airy, lightweight feel. Tiny beads sparkle along the hem.

Unfortunately, my predictions about corset trouble were correct, because the ties are on the back. I reach around, fingers grappling for the string, my body attempting to twist in a direction it simply cannot go, and honestly, whoever designs these dresses don’t have single people in mind. Some of us are too alone to have anybody to ask for help.

Except a rap at the door tells me I’m not as alone as I thought.

‘You’ve only just left,’ I say, keeping the loose corset clutched to my chest as I wrench the door open. ‘I need at least . . .’

I trail off when I realise Astin is also in party attire. My brain freezes. Astin wearing new clothes is like him suggesting a Souleater isn’t evil. It simply doesn’t happen. Worse, it transpires that Astin looks good in other forms of clothing. The crisp white shirt contrasts with his dark hair and tanned skin, while the jacket, a shade of green so deep it’s almost black, is more form-fitting than the battered one he refuses to replace. My gaze travels lower to discover his trousers are equally tight, emphasising his thighs in a way that has me clenching mine.

Abruptly, I step back. My mind may have committed to my spinster plan, but once again, my body hasn’t caught up. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’

‘Same reason you’re dressed like . . .’ Now it’s his turn to assess me, scanning my exposed collar bone before dipping lower to the curve of my waist, where it lingers on my hips for several beats before flicking back to my face. His pupils are dark. My thighs clench harder. ‘Like that.’ He unfastens the top button of his shirt and tugs on the collar like it’s choking him. ‘This outfit’s too tight.’