A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 75: Please

Chapter 75: Please

It was one of her easier days. Not that many would say working away in the kitchens was pleasant—and it wasn't—but the palace cooks worked far away enough from the rest of the main wings that grinding away in a room full of steam as thick as smoke proved to be an effective break from the leering eyes of Amarantha's henchmen.

Galadriel didn't cook. Not unless the head chef asked for an extra hand on the sweets and pastries. But she swept and washed and swept and polished and scrubbed and swept. With so many feet moving constantly in and out, food being knocked to the ground, it felt like sweeping only made it worse.

She swore that she had only just put the broom back in its corner when one of the pale faeries clicked in Galadriel's face. "You—sweep. The floors filthy."

As mind-numbing as it was, Galadriel took the broom and went back over the same spots she had cleaned minutes ago. As her arms moved in that repetitive motion, the ring on her middle finger glowed with the light from the oven fire.

Her eyes went to the dark corners, where the cobwebs thrived. She could almost imagine that the shifting shadows, dancing with the chaos behind her were not natural. That they were the shadowsinger's, who had come to help her home.

"Girl." The head cook snapped her fingers in front of Galadriel's face again, her lips wrinkled into a purse. "If you spent as much time looking at shadows as you did sweeping, this place would be spotless."

Galadriel frowned. She hadn't realised it had become a habit—or that others had noticed. With a silent nod, she bowed her head and went to continue her chores, but the door slammed open before the bristles touched the stone.

The head chef twirled, hands placed on her wiry waist. "What do you think you're doing?" she bellowed to the two red-skinned faeries that had barged their way into her domain. "I may serve your queen, but you do not get served before food is ready!" The larger of the two pushed around her with a snarl, the other kitchen staff hastily moving out of his way. Galadriel recoiled, his inky black eyes heavy on her. The head chef was furious. "Not her. No, she has work to do. You can't come in here and take my staff." She had more balls than an Illyrian war camp.

The shorter spun. "Not your staff," he sang, each word given its own enunciation. "High Queen Amarantha's." Everything was Amarantha's around here.

The chef tightened her lips even more but said nothing as the larger of the two grabbed Galadriel's arm, the broom clattering to the floor as she gasped at the tight grip. "Where are we going?" she demanded with as much dignity as she could muster being dragged along like a misbehaving hound. The murmurs in the kitchen rose behind her.

It was impossible to tell where the faerie's eyes were pointed, the entire eye black and its tongue flickered in and out like a snake scenting the air. He gave her no answer, yanking her up a winding staircase. It was probably some High Fae prick of Amarantha's court that had some problem with her cleaning. Or maybe she was the next to be accused of having thieving hands.

But it was not a suit or bedroom she was being brought to. It wasn't even Amarantha's drawing room that she called Galadriel to at night.

The throne room was empty, save the six High Lords and Amarantha, seated on her throne upon the dais. Galadriel tried not to look at Rhysand too much as she was shoved into the circle they made around the throne. The High Lords stared at her, some with keen curiosity, others with apprehension, Beron with hatred. Galadriel's heart hammered when she caught Rhysand's expression. Concerned. Knees barking as they slammed against the cool, dark marble, her yelp echoed off the stone.

She bowed her head as she'd been trained to. "Your Majesty."

Amarantha lifted her chin. "How old are you, Galadriel?"