ISKERA
Grace is fast—preternaturally fast.
By the time I finish my two-hour marathon in the bathroom, my room has been transformed.
I had spent the first hour in a state of primitive shock, standing under a stream of hot water—the first true hot shower of my life—before sinking into the clawfoot tub. One of the staff must have prepared it before fleeing the room, because the water was a clouded, steaming lilac, scented heavily with vanilla and dried flowers.
I stayed until my skin prinkled and the water turned bone-chillingly cold, reluctant to leave the first bit of peace I've ever known.
Now, finally emerging from that peaceful space, wrapped in a plush, pink silky robe, I stop dead. My bed—a massive, queen-sized sanctuary with a dark mahogany canopy and ivory silk hangings—is covered in boxes. Dozens of them.
The room itself is a dream I wasn't prepared to wake up in. It's vast, with heavy velvet curtains the color of midnight moss draped over tall windows. There's a long, tufted suede couch at the foot of the bed, a matching armchair in the corner near a stone fireplace, and a mahogany vanity table that looks like it belongs to a queen.
The wardrobe is open, revealing a row of dresses already hanging there, swaying slightly in the breeze.
I frown at the sheer volume of it. Grace managed all of this in two hours? I suppose what money couldn't do simply didn't exist in Vane's world.
Tentatively, I pick up a yellow sundress from the bed, only to let out a small gasp when a lace-trimmed pair of silk underwear falls from the folds. My face heats up instantly.
Underwear too?
Nox's voice echoes in my mind for the first time since we arrived. What did you expect, little vessel? Did you want to go naked? Desperate much?
"Shut up!" I hiss at the empty room, but she only laughs, a dark, melodic sound. I'm not desperate. And besides, it's not as if Vane is going to touch me.
I dress quickly, the silk sliding over my skin. A small, genuine smile touches my lips when I realize the fit is perfect. I find the tag resting at the nape of the dress' neck. A new dress. My very first new dress.
Maybe this deal isn't a total disaster if it means I finally stop wearing Seren's hand-me-down rags.
I stroll to the couch and sit, reaching for the first box on the table. Inside is a sleek, black smartphone. I chuckle, my fingers trembling as I reach for another box—hoping for another "first" for the girl from the attic—but the door suddenly swings open.
The box slips from my hand, hitting the rug with a muffled thud. I don't even know why I'm so jumpy.
"You are finally done bathing? I almost thought you'd grown gills," Grace says, smiling as she carries a silver tray into the room.
The cloying, delicious scent of garlic and rich sauce hits me, making my stomach growl loud enough for her to hear.
I push the boxes aside immediately to make space. Grace laughs, setting the tray down on the low table. "Hungry, I see."
I nod, my mouth watering at the sight of dishes I've only ever seen from a distance on special occasions, like Seren's birthdays.
I pick up a fork and dive into a plate of steaming spaghetti. I roll it around the prongs the way I saw Seren do once, lifting the saucy strands to my mouth. I actually moan as the flavor bursts across my tongue.
"You like it?"
"Yes! It's incredible. Did you make this?"
Grace shakes her head, settling into the armchair across from me. "No, we have a cook for that. My job is organizing the house and making sure everything runs smoothly—which, right now, includes taking care of you."
She watches me eat, her gaze curious. After a few minutes of her silence, I feel the old nerves crawling back.
"What?" I ask, my fork pausing mid-air.
She shrugs. "I'm just surprised. Confused, honestly. By the Prince's actions, by your presence... and by the fact that I'm still whole and healthy even though I shook your hand. I'm starting to wonder what else the stories lied about. And what exactly the Prince is planning, especially considering his announced marriage to the Vampire Countess…"
The Countess again. I feel a flicker of curiosity. How would a vampire take the news of Vane breaking an engagement for a curse like me?
"You don't talk much, do you?" Grace continues. "Where did you two meet, anyway?"
I swallow a large mouthful of pasta, reaching for the water glass to keep from choking. I look at her earnest face. She's been nothing but kind, but I remember Vane's warning.
He wants our meeting kept a secret. I can't tell her the truth, but I can't just shut her out either.
"In the grassy outlands," I lie, my voice smooth.
She frowns. "I thought you never left the attic."
I shrug, returning my focus to the food. "I sneak away sometimes. A girl has to breathe, right?"
She smiles, though her eyes look skeptical. "Of course. Well, I'll be leaving you to your rest. Don't forget to ring me if you need anything."
I nod, even though I have no idea if "ringing" involves the phone or a bell I haven't found yet. The thought vanishes as I dive back into the meal.
I'm not sure how much time passes, but my peaceful moment is shattered when the door is pushed open—roughly, this time.
A girl steps in, fuming. She looks slightly older than me and is dressed in a stunning, high-fashion gown that screams "not a maid."
"Who are you?" I ask, surprised by the boldness in my own voice.
She sneers, kicking the door shut behind her with a sharp bang. "Someone who is going to make sure you get out of here."
I set my cutlery down slowly, the pasta suddenly turning to lead in my stomach. "If you won't introduce yourself properly, then I'm afraid you are the one who will be leaving."
She looks genuinely shocked, her mouth falling open before she breaks into a loud, mocking laugh. "Oh my gods, this is insane. A curse telling me to leave? What, is it because Prince Vane brought you here? Do you think that makes you special?"
I say nothing, watching her with a cool curiosity that seems to irritate her more.
"In case you didn't know, blackie," she spits the word like a slur, "you are just a tool to prevent his marriage to those bloodsuckers. Don't think for a second that because he knew your dress size, you actually mean something to him. He is not yours."
"Then is he yours?" I ask, ignoring the strange, warm flutter in my chest at the realization that Vane was the one who specified my sizes.