A Court of Bones and Twilight

Chapter Eight

    I was just testing out the different grains of sandpaper Caer had supplied me with when midnight hit. I felt it down to my bones. I had been waiting all day for some disaster to befall me. One of the fae from yesterday finding me perhaps, despite Caer's promises of safety. I half expected this was some twisted torture method. Give the leathphór girl a safe place where she can partake in her passion unimpeded and the take it all away. However, midnight came and still there was nothing. Just me and the beautiful loft, soft moonlight pouring through the skylight far above. I debated disobeying Caer's orders and staying, but in the end decided to go along with his games—for now. If I could survive long enough, they would inevitably become lax, regarding me as just another of the castle's curiosities. That would be the moment I would make my escape.

    I quickly put away all of the lovely wood samples and slipped back into the jacket I'd taken off some hours earlier when the leather began to stifle in the moderate temperatures of the work room. I hurried down the ladder, noting the smoothness of the rungs—not the silky smoothness of a well worn piece of wood, but the glossy polish of wood wholly unused. My feet hit the floor without a sound thanks to the soft, flexible soles of my boots. As I walked through the curvy path lined by shadowy silhouettes, random features glowing liquid silver in the moonlight, I contemplated whether it would be beneficial to intentionally heavy my steps around the residents of the palace, just a bit, so they wouldn't know quite how quiet I could be. Of course, if I messed up and reverted to my usual prowl, an observant watcher would notice, and suspect my reasons for hiding the skill in the first place. A risk I would be willing to take, I decided as I approached the door. The upper half of the heavy wood was bathed in shadows, while the lower shone almost white with the glow entering from the skylights. Tomorrow, I thought I'd like to try looking down at the statuary at sunset, to see the white stain with blood, even if I wasn't to come down from the loft. From the moment the sun began to set to the moment the sky fully darkened to show the stars, there was no sight more beautiful than the skies of the Dusk Court. Our sunsets were every shade from blood red to molten-metal gold, and once the sun had dipped low enough that it was true dusk, our skies were a deep grey tinted lavender, rays of rose or gold still staining one horizon. I had seen the sky at the darkest hours in the Night Court, and while the sweeping swirls of silver stars still danced in my dreams, I would always prefer the sharply contrasting edges of the shifting colors of our skies here. Perhaps because no matter how beautiful their nights or how terrible our courtiers, the dusk sky was the only one I could imagine cradling my home.

    I shook my head. This was no place for nostalgia. Codlata Siorai was still there, still cradled in the arms of rosy light at sunset, the golden dome of the Halla na Greine Titim still glowing like the sun itself in that light. All I had to do was escape. Escape escape escape. The word would be my lifeline until the day I saw once more the faces of the siblings of my soul. For them I would endure anything, any humiliation Caer might ask from me. I had planned to die in silence—it would be only a touch harder to live in it.
***
    Daor waited on the other side of the door, as I had been told. He said not a word, staring at me with those carefully blank eyes before turning to silently guide me back through the maze. I walked as quickly as I could without running to keep up with his clip. I may not have been short, but the man was like a walking sapling! All spindly limbs sweeping to a top far too high to be reasonable. The mixed-breed must have had two heads of height on me, and every inch of it was in his legs, I had decided by the time we reached my oak door. That was the only explanation for his easy speed. I was not yet winded, once again thanks to my rigorous physical conditioning, but if I were asked to keep up with him for a length of time, I had no doubt I would be. Oh Mother—what if he was the one they asked to tour the palace with me? I almost groaned aloud at the thought. He opened the door to my chambers in silence and closed it behind me with the snick of a lock. I didn't bother testing the knob. I would want all of my energy tomorrow.

    I quickly prepped for bed, stripping down to my underthings and leaning my weapons against the side table. As I walked toward the disturbingly soft mattress, I noticed something different—the door to the wardrobe wasn't fully closed. In a single movement I had my bo in front of me. Hell. Someone had been in the room while I was out. Someone could be in that wardrobe right now, waiting for me to go to sleep so it could creep out and slit my throat. More likely gag me. The creatures of the court weren't fond of quick deaths. I swept my weapon forward, slamming the ajar door open with the tip and lunging forward at the—

    Clothes. The wardrobe had been filled to bursting with clothes while I was away. I poked at them a few times with the weapon, but nothing hid amongst them. I leaned the bo against the much darker wood of the dresser before hesitantly stepping closer for a better look at the clothes. The first thing I noticed was the smell. Fresh. Clean fabric. Never worn before, judging by the lack of soap scents. I fingered a sleeve on a simple white cotton shirt with a lace-up collar. It was incredibly soft, and I hated myself for wanting to try on something that had probably been made with the labor of "servants." I moved my attention away from it and noticed with some horror that it was one of the only shirts present. Most of the space was filled with... "Dresses," I whispered with something that might have been terror. It wasn't that I have a problem with dresses, objectively speaking. The can look quite lovely and many of the women back home prefer them. I have no issues with that. But wearing one... I had sometimes as a toddler. Even occasionally as a child. However, from my first day of apprenticeship for the garda, I had stopped. Dresses and skirts are cumbersome and a hindrance in just about every situation, as best I can tell. They're much more illogical in terms of efficiency — so much fabric needed to allow any range of leg movement! And then it will all get tangled around your legs and trip you if you swing them around too much! You have to worry about how to position yourself at all times for fear someone will get a look at your undergarments! And then of course there are the environmental drawbacks. Too much fabric making them too hot for summer, yet allowing all the icy air up around your legs in the winter. Always getting caught on things and tearing in the forest. Don't even get me started on what it's like to try and fight in one. Truly a disastrous piece of design for a garda.

    And yet now I was surrounded by them. Many in too-bright colors with embellishments that looked too fine for an artisan. Then again, this was the court. Nowhere was more extravagant than this. The worst part was knowing that they weren't some preset selection for every new female artisan. No, even with my abysmal knowledge of fashion I could see that the color selection would perfectly complement my golden skin tone, that the cuts of the dresses would flatter my height and athletic build, make me look regal rather than feral. However, I rather like looking feral. I yanked all the clothing out, hangers and all, and quickly rearranged it. All the bright things were shoved onto the back bar, where they could rot for all I cared. On the front bar went the white shirt from earlier along with a gray one and a black one of the same design, along with three more in the same colors of a slightly stiffer fabric with mother of pearl buttons running down the front. All made for the purpose of going under the bright tunics I had taken a single look at and shoved back with the dresses. I had also managed to locate three pairs of black leggings, one pair of black breeches, and one pair of charcoal gray ones. There were other shirts and trousers meant to go with the tunics, of course, but these were the only ones of mild enough colors for me to be willing to touch. I was trained to be stealthy, and lime green leggings were most definitely not stealthy. Mostly satisfied, I decided to hang up my own clothing as well, adding my plain white shirt and tan doeskin leggings, followed by my lace-up doeskin jacket, then my thicker, fur lined coat with the gloves in the pockets. Next, I rifled through the drawers. Two of these I emptied as well—full of underthings. Only most of them were covered in lace and ribbons and frills. Some were even partially transparent. What on earth did Caer expect me to be doing in my free time? When I returned the drawers, instead of one drawer for each type of garment, it was one drawer bursting full of all the things I would never wear and a notably emptier one of pieces that were plain or had easily ripped off frills. Finally, I stepped back, satisfied, and crawled into bed, already dreading the coming day.

It felt like no time had passed at all when I woke up to a man's dark silhouette outlined by the light filtering in from the slightly cracked door, his hand pressed over my mouth.

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I'm sorry I'm such an erratic writer! As always, I swear, even if the wait seems long, the project is not abandoned! I love Carbhan too much for that, and I despise writers who make their readers become invested in a story and then just drop them. I will not do that. Ever.