Page 57 of The Faceless Queen

Abigail then held up a white lace scarf to tie around my eyes.

“This is not thick enough to block your vision,” she said, “it’s decorative. But we shall add the second layer of lace before you approach the prince.” She bit her lip. “It will make it easier to move through the castle and find your way outside.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. The last thing I needed was to be tripping over myself in my debut. I was already uncomfortable enough as it was with my vision hindered.

But the lace ribbon was little more than an annoying addition to my outfit. As Abigail tied the ends behind my head, she smoothed out an escaped lock of hair, her hand running down the skin of my back as she did so.

I gasped at the jolt of emotion tumbling into me, my stomach twisting with butterflies with so much force, I was nearly sick.

She was suspicious. The Hermit had been right. My eyes met his as I tried to convey as much. His mouth tightened, a flash of indigo in his eyes as he quickly rushed to the door.

“I believe,” he said carefully, “that your entourage has arrived.” He swung the door open and then pushed himself between Abigail and me, breaking the connection between us as he placed my hand on his arm.

“Abigail,” he said, his voice now tense, “I’ll bring her out to see her family. You may remain behind until we need you.”

She paled, but curtsied. “Congratulations, Your Highness,” she said.

I started to open my mouth to thank her for her help, to find a way to smooth the situation over, but already I’d fucked up, had made her question my identity. Had made sure she remembered that an Azete was in Eskalon.

Stepping out into the hall, I was assaulted by a rush of sudden emotion as we were greeted by a man and woman with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. A Spartvan purple dress, covered in pearls, adorned Queen Noemay’s curves. And beside her, King Dairen wore the color in a rich velvet tunic, a silver unicorn across his chest.

The Queen closed the distance between us within seconds, pulling me away from the Hermit, into her embrace.

I stilled, my heart thundering so loud I was sure that everyone in the castle would hear it.

Tears burned behind my eyes. Tears I could not allow to fall.

Olivay’s mother was hugging me—no. Not me. She was hugging her. She was hugging her daughter. Just like my mother used to hug me, freely offering the comfort and affection I’d needed for the past seven years. The motherly hug I’d craved, and I’d cried for with such force, my heart ached.

The Azete stirred. I tried to pull away. To break free of the contact and save her, to not take any more than I should. What kind of monster was I to be standing here in her arms, embraced in her warmth and love when her true daughter was being held prisoner in a cave, alone, scared, and cold? But there was a warning in the Hermit’s eyes, and I remained limp, feeling more of her love pour into me.

“Look at you,” she said, pulling back just enough to see my face. She delicately touched one of the jasmine petals in my hair, her fingers running along the lace ribbon across my eyes. “You look so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Doesn’t she?” Queen Noemay asked, her face turned toward the king. To Olivay’s father.

“You are absolutely stunning, my child,” King Dairen said, his voice shaking with emotion.

My stomach twisted painfully. The Azete was already feeding from the Queen and greedily sucked down the emotions of King Dairen. The poor man was simply imagining Olivay as a little girl sitting on his lap. And I was going to take months of his life for it, going to steal a year from her mother.

The Hermit bowed. “Your Majesties, your daughter looks more beautiful than ever. The prince is a very lucky man.”

“He is. All of Eskalon is,” Olivay’s mother said wistfully. She took a deep breath, wiping at her own eyes, her hand rubbing up and down my back.

I took a sharp step back, desperate to break contact, to stop the Azete from taking too much. But it was becoming impossible to stop, not when her love was being given so freely, so purely. I was devouring all of it, and with even more fervor than the energy I took from Olivay when starving. The Queen’s love was powerful, so much more powerful than the lust I’d satiated myself with at the tavern. A mother’s love for her daughter. The love I’d never know again. I took another step back, praying to the Gods to break the connection.

It worked. She frowned, her brow creased with worry. “Olivay, my love?”

My chest tightened to the point I didn’t think I could breathe. My mother had called me that, too.

“Samara, my love, my daughter. Princess Shamhira,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “I promise. You are strong. You will survive this. And you will lead.” She shook her head. “Now fight. For me. Fight.”

The Hermit coughed. “She’ll be fine, Your Majesties. Just nerves. Right, Princess Olivay?”

I nodded meekly.

Olivay’s mother shook her head. “I know it’s a lot more people than you’re used to at home.” She fixed one of my curls, pushing it behind my shoulder. “You’re a little shy. But that’s all right. The prince is a kind man.”

“He is,” I said.

“Your Majesties,” said a noblewoman. She stepped forward wearing a dress similar in style to the queen’s but with the sort of lessened opulence that announced her station. “Your crowns.”