Her dreams were always troubled, in this house. Maybe that was because she’d been trapped in one, when she’d arrived…or maybe it was the reverent quiet that surrounded the bedrooms, like the silence of tombs. Maybe it was the knowledge of servants tiptoeing past the doors, day and night, tending to their every need. Maybe it was the stillness. The scent of tended gardens, instead of decaying castle stone, or forest loam, or brine.
It certainly wasn’t the bed. Croe was sunk into a soft mattress, silk sheets tangled around her waist, downy pillows cradling her raven-maned head like perfect fucking clouds. Ordinarily she would have been naked to the hips, but with the arrival of Ned on the scene she’d begun wearing a tanktop to sleep, unwilling to expose herself to another woman’s son if he happened to wander in. (Even if he was, ostensibly, her son.) Despite this development in bedroom modesty, more of her skin was visible than anyone outside her immediate circle had ever glimpsed. Her tattoos had long been the subject of rumor and speculation, hidden beneath a uniform of black from neck to fingertips and toes. In a way, her bare form looked more fierce and threatening than the clothed one. It was certainly healthier than it had ever been. Well-fed and moderately rested, she was as fit and sleek as a greyhound. Even now, sprawled in troubled sleep as she was, Croe had the appearance of someone who could spring into action at any given moment.
A caged songbird, indeed.
That was, perhaps, what everyone misunderstood about her. Croe was not a criminal mastermind, or an ambitious sociopath; she was an opportunist and survivor. The birds of war do not make the war themselves – they circle the battlefield, waiting for their moment to pick the bodies clean. And while the castle may have been her cage, and the anklet her jesses, you cannot change a carrion bird no matter how much you feed it by hand, or teach it to speak, or smother it in unasked-for luxuries. No matter how much you make it love you.
And Croe did love Mallos. Enough that it tempered many of her baser instincts. But also enough to make her wild.
She was aware that he had moved, in some half-conscious corner of her mind. Her hand drifted over the place he’d vacated, feeling the warmth that was beginning to cool, fingers tightening minutely on the sheets. After a moment, she stretched and sat up, crossing one leg under her and peering sleepily at their surroundings. Early…it was awfully early for him to get up voluntarily. Especially for something so trivial as a trip to the bathroom. Then again, Mallos had not exactly been himself lately. She cocked her head at him when he reentered the room, a fall of dark hair half-obscuring one black eye. Her hands folded in her lap.
“Taking a page from Ángela’s book?” she inquired gently, conscious of his mood. “Turning into a morning person? Whatever will Alvarez think…”
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