CHAPTER 7

As the King promised, I don’t have to wait long until a knock sounds at the door. The person on the other end doesn’t wait for me to call out an answer before the door creaks open. It’s the older woman from before—I remember that the King had called her Mitra—and she lopes into the room, having exchanged her knitting for a large brassy tray that she balances in her arms. She doesn’t say anything to me as she comes in, but she also doesn’t glare or appear nervous to be in my presence which is an unexpected stroke of luck.

She strides slowly and calmly across the room and sets the tray carefully on my lap. Because of the illness, I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. Long enough that my stomach clenches in on itself and lets out an earsplitting gurgle as the smell of food wafts into my face.

To Mitra’s credit, she doesn’t even glance up at the sound, but my cheeks warm all the same. I clear my throat, taking in the spread before me. There’s a carved wooden bowl of what appears to be a creamy-looking porridge along with buttered toast and a plate of sliced yellow fruit. Not to mention there’s a steaming mug of dark colored liquid at the corner of the tray that makes my heart give a happy lurch. Tea. Thank the Mother. Who knew I could miss something as simple as tea so much?

The tray’s simple fare may not be as elegant or complex as the food I’m accustomed to eating at home in the Seelie palace, but it’s a far cry better than what I’d been given while I’d been in the room I’d assumed was the dungeon—which had already been a step up from what a normal prisoner would expect.

I’m not surprised in the least that my sarcastic request for chocolate has gone unfulfilled—I am a prisoner after all. And as the King had so generously reminded me— “Prisoners don’t get to make requests.” What does come as a shock, though, is the arrival of a few leather-bound books that Mitra sets down beside my lunch.

I can only stare at them for a moment in shock, my eyes dancing back and forth between Mitra and the books, “These are for me?” I ask her, unable to keep my hands from drifting over the thick smooth leather encasing the smooth pages.

Mitra’s eyes follow the motion, gray eyes sparking genially, and she nods once.

“Thank you,” I tell her, unable to keep my genuine pleasure from my voice at the prospect of having something to do during my time here aside from staring blankly at the walls or being tortured by my own tangled and worried thoughts.

She simply nods again, making her way to the door of the room in the same slow shuffle she’d arrived in, her slippered feet making light scraping sounds across the rough stone floor. I can’t help but bring the book to my chest as I watch her make her way through the door of the room. She closes the heavy door behind her without a second glance, the sound of a lock sliding into place behind her.

I flip through the pages of each of the books, the familiar smell of worn and well-loved paper wafting in my face as I flip through the pages. I don’t recognize the titles, but they appear to be books of fiction—which is even better than I could have hoped. I’m shocked at the well of emotion the simple sight of these books brings up in me. The corners of my eyes sting with the hot prick of unshed tears. These books are a life raft in this unfamiliar terrain—a breath of fresh air after I’d felt like I’d been drowning the past few days.

I don’t know what to attribute this show of kindness to—the fact I’d almost died, maybe? But it’s more goodwill than I ever anticipated from them, being as if I’m a prisoner. A prisoner in the hands of the monsters roaming the North no less.

The Seelie Court has quite a few enemies—though I’d heard that it hasn’t always been this way. Starting with my grandfather, our Court began to fight back against those who would think that we’re soft. The desire to turn the Seelie Court into a force to be reckoned with started with him. Aspiring to spread the light and Magic of the Seelies for all to enjoy…or something like that. Father continually talks of the importance of pushing out our borders—and I’d heard whispers among the courtiers of him wanting to make a name for himself among the history books.

With my illness, I’d spent a lot of time up in my rooms watching the comings and goings of the court up from my window seat. I’d seen the way that the Seelies treat those we deem our enemies. And it’s nothing at all akin to the way I’d been treated since I’d been here. Even being a Princess, I can’t get rid of the niggling feeling of confusion over my captor’s actions since I’d been here—

My whirling thoughts are interrupted by another deafening gurgle from my stomach and I set those grappling thoughts aside in favor of distracting myself with food. I set the books down on the bedspread near my lap, reaching for the tea first.

My mouth and throat feel like they’ve been scratched raw—sanded down with granite and baked in the sun—while I’d been sick. The tea is delicious—the honey and camomile flavor soothing my throat as I suck it down. I try not to drink it down too fast, wanting to savor it since I don’t know if I’ll be given any more while I’m here. Still, it’s gone way too quickly. The porridge is more delicious than it looks and as I take a bite from the yellow fruit, I find that it’s been drizzled with honey. I get uncomfortably full much too quickly after having not eaten for a few days. Regardless, I scrape my bowl clean, finishing off every last bite.

With the food gone, I tug the chains binding my wrists as far as they’ll go so I can set the tray neatly on the armchair beside my bed. I climb back into the pile of covers, now with a warm, full stomach. Getting myself situated among the pillows, I pull the books into my lap and settle in for the afternoon, while pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable clink of chains scraping against my wrists where the bindings connect.

Flipping the cover open on the top book in the stack, I leaf through the pages, letting myself settle into the unexpected comfort. If I squint my eyes, I can almost imagine that I’m back in my room at home. It’s not entirely different from how I spend my days after an unexpected recourse of illness…and I honestly have no idea whether to be comforted by that fact or thrown off balance at the prospect that my normal day-to-day life doesn't differ much from the life of a prisoner.