2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

CHAPTER
12
During that first week back, I wasn’t allowed out of sight of the house.
Some nameless threat had broken onto the lands, and Tamlin and Lucien were called
away to deal with it. I asked my friend to tell me what it was, yet … Lucien had that look
he always did when he wanted to, but his loyalty to Tamlin got in the way. So I didn’t ask
again.
While they were gone, Ianthe returned—to keep me company, protect me, I don’t know.
She was the only one allowed in. The semi-permanent gaggle of Spring Court lords and
ladies at the manor had been dismissed, along with their personal servants. I was grateful
for it, that I no longer would run into them while walking the halls of the manor, or the
gardens, and have to dredge up a memory of their names, personal histories, no longer
have to endure them trying not to stare at the tattoo, but … I knew Tamlin had liked
having them around. Knew some of them were indeed old friends, knew he liked the
manor being full of sound and laughter and chatter. Yet I’d found they all talked to each
other like they were sparring partners. Pretty words masking sharp-edged insults.
I was glad for the silence—even as it became a weight on me, even as it filled my head
until there was nothing inside of it beyond … emptiness.
Eternity. Was this to be my eternity?
I was burning through books every day—stories about people and places I’d never
heard of. They were perhaps the only thing that kept me from teetering into utter despair.
Tamlin returned eight days later, brushing a kiss over my brow and looking me over,
and then headed into the study. Where Ianthe had news for him.
That I was also not to hear.
Alone in the hall, watching as the hooded priestess led him toward the double doors at
its other end, a glimmer of red—
My body tensed, instinct roaring through me as I whirled—
Not Amarantha.
Lucien.
The red hair was his, not hers. I was here, not in that dungeon—
My friend’s eyes—both metal and flesh—were fixed on my hands.
Where my nails were growing, curving. Not into talons of shadow, but claws that had
shredded through my undergarments time and again—