A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 80: Executioner

Chapter 80: Executioner

Galadriel had already kicked the bucket once, spilling the filthy water across a stranger's bedroom. She had stared at the mucky water as it trickled into the grooves of the stone floor, soaking the edge of the rug near the dark hearth. It took her an hour of sitting in its dampness, mutely contemplating whether forcing herself to clean it all up and start over again would be more or less painful than the slashing her master would give. The backs of her hands were already scarred with thin white lines that became denser by the month.

Eventually she did clean it up, summoning the dregs of the magic she could still reach. The floor looked clean but she knew that the stain of the mud would still linger there. That was one of magic's small prices. Like a glamour, it could not erase completely. It's why the nobles still bathed, the servants and scullery maids still cleaned, why boots were still polished with brushes and oil.

Galadriel wringed out her strained fingers, sitting on her heels, deciding that kicking the bucket again wasn't in her best interests. Her knuckles barked in pain from being locked in a clench for hours. She still had to change the bedding and clean out the hearth. Looking around the small chamber, she searched for any sign of its occupant. It wasn't a room she'd been in before. It wasn't highly uncommon to be reassigned. People could die as quickly as flies around here. Once, she'd even found the body of a blue-skinned faerie in a corridor, eyes still open in a horror that Galadriel didn't want to imagine.

"I could have you whipped for laziness."

Galadriel sat up at the rolling, masculine voice. Sure enough, Atticus stood in the doorway, smirking down at her. While some people were dying like flies, Atticus hung around like one. "What are you doing here?" They had a few run-ins since the night they met at the feast, in curious places. Once in the kitchens, another in one of the small markets set on the outskirts of the mountain where most of the low-blooded faeries lived. Amarantha's court had only expanded and they built deeper into the mountain each day.

Atticus invited himself in, peering around the room. "Am I not welcome in my own bedroom? Usually, the questioning is the other way around." It took her by surprise. She glanced around the room she'd been cleaning for two hours again. He caught her inquisitiveness. "Someone had to die for it, but I was given an upgrade in my residence recently. My work has been paying off."

"Did you kill them?" she asked dryly, wiping her hands and standing, knees aching the entire stretch.

Atticus placed a hand on his chest. "Never. You think so little of me."

She pressed her knuckles to her hips. "Considering I've been working like a slave and still have the same bedroom, I'll think what I will." Not that her chamber was anything less than modest comfort. Rhysand had made sure of that when she was first given in.

"As a slave," he corrected. At her frown, he added, "You're not being paid. So you are one."

"I get paid with my life." His lips twitched. Galadriel wandered over to his bed, eyeing it for sign of his imprint, leaning against one of its posts. "Anything of interest?" she asked.

Every time they passed one another, like two bees bumbling into the other's path, he had some story or wild gossip. Galadriel had to admit, that her tendencies as a spy had permanently skewered her mind to want to absorb as much as she could, even if the information was useless and he certainly was a good source. Besides, if Atticus gave her anything remotely useful, Galadriel could pass it on to Amarantha without having to actually do any spying herself. That always made her guilt weigh a little less.

And maybe that was why she found herself getting along with the cheeky-lipped High Fae. Other than the fact that it wasn't a death sentence to be seen talking to him, and he actually bothered to carry a conversation on.