Page 51 of Crown of the Courtesan

Inspire him to be bold, or all might become lost.

I sit up, my heart pounding.

* * *

A new morning. A new strategy.

It may be poorly thought out, but it’s all I have.

The Witch-King hates me.

Yet despite that, he’s still a man, and judging by how he looked at me—a hungry man. Surely some flexibility could be found beneath his cold exterior.

Who am I kidding? This plan is utter lunacy, but I see no other way out.

The disgust in his eyes and the cruelty in his threats ring fresh in my mind, but if I remain locked in this tower, I’ll be as good as dead. Seducing him and then finding a way to flee may be my only chance, however twisted it feels even to contemplate it.

I mutely stare at the white tree in the stained-glass window and remember all the times I seduced members of the nobility at Balor’s insistence. My gut churns so severely that I nearly run to the broken chamber pot.

I could do this again, couldn’t I?

But wasn’t I done with that chapter of my life, as I always wanted to be? There must be another way, another choice.

None comes to me.

As I sit with my thoughts, something occurs to me. I wouldn’t be doing this for Balor; I’d be doing it for myself.

The Witch-King will probably be cruel, just as Balor proved to be, but I won’t be afraid. Not when Balor trained me to deal with men like him. My stomach aches horribly. I don’t know if it’s from the growing panic or my hunger. Idly, I make ripples in the forgotten bathwater and wait. And wait.

And wait.

The door opens, and a maid comes in carrying a tray with hot porridge, the crusty heel from a loaf of rye bread, and a water pitcher. She leaves it on the tiny table without saying a word and exits just as quickly.

I race to the food and begin to devour it. There’s no spoon, so I tilt the bowl to my lips. Porridge dribbles from the corners of my mouth.

“Are those the sort of manners they abide by in Alexandria?”

My head whips upward. The Witch-King leans against the door frame with crossed arms and a disapproving expression.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “They’re the sort of manners your hospitality inspires.”

“Queens who sponsor wars against my people don’t get hospitality. They get what they’re due.”

“I’ve had very little to do with this war.” I try to explain.

He scoffs. “The ink from your pen is barely dry, yet you try to lie to me? Even if I were a fool and believed you, you’d still be the company you keep, and I’m not interested in hearing a cockroach plead its innocence.”

“I’m not a cockroach,” I whisper, more to myself than to him, my plan crumbling at my feet. “What do you want?”

The Witch-King hesitates. “I, on the other hand, wasn’t lying to you last night.” He stares at me briefly. “I’ve come to collect.”

Twenty-Five

Citing a scarcity of cotton underthings, the maids don’t replace my shift or stays, and since there aren’t shoes that fit, they leave me in itchy gray stockings. But they do bring an expensive gown of blush-pink silk embroidered with rosebuds, each embellished with an opal at its center. The sleeves are long with broad, trailing cuffs trimmed in snow-white fur, and the neckline has matching trim that caresses my skin. After being without proper clothes for so long, I find it too good to be true.

To complete my outfit, they use hot tongs to tame my frizzy hair. Partially pinned up, my locks fall over my shoulders in a cascade of curls, and just as I’m summoned to depart, the youngest maid dabs a red stain onto my lips. With an avoidant turn of her cheek, she looks as though she wants to say something but thinks better of it.

Once I’m outside, I blink against the brightness of the cloudy overhead sky, the fresh air a balm for my frazzled nerves. In the castle courtyard, attendants run back and forth, making last-minute adjustments to the saddles strapped to a white mare and black stallion. It appears the Witch-King has decided against sharing his steed, as he so aptly put it.