Wicked Winter Book. 1

❅ Chapter 17 ❅

After Cleon left, I rummaged through a trunk that housed twenty or more gowns. There were no warm colors, only purples, blues, whites, and blacks. After a few minutes of shuffling and sorting through fabric, I chose a simple plum gown with long sleeve and a Queen Ann neckline. The bodice was fitted and encrusted with shiny black gems, and the waistline flared out into a full lace skirt. I struggled zipping it up, but then slipped into a pair of black flats and headed out the door.

I'd been out for three days, so having the castle completely fixed, or at least close, wasn't what I expected. Small gnomes and goblins muttered and shuffled about, carrying large blocks of ice or carving tools. Some bowed at the sight of me, other's hissed and ran away.

I'm never going to get used to that.

I let my feet guide me to the dining room by memory, too encaptured by the reconstruction going on around me to really notice when I passed through the threshold and into the room where my mother was waiting.

She sat at the head of the table, and Foster sat beside her. He stared at his plate, not touching his food. They seemed to be carrying on a heated conversation, as Foster's brow was creased with frustration. At the sound of my entry they silenced, and my mother smiled sweetly at me. I eye'd Foster, but he wouldn't meet my gaze.

"Good morning!" My mother exclaimed, bounding from her chair and grabbing my hand. Her skin was cold, but I didn't mind.

"Morning," I mumbled. I let her guide me to my seat, where a male servant pulled the chair out for me. I sat, my eyes searching for Foster out of the corner of my vision. He was still staring at his untouched food, an invisible battle raging in his mind.

"Good morning, General Quinn," I whispered, expecting a greeting in return. Instead a dark shadow cast over his face and he pushed himself back from the table forcefully.

"Pardon me," he grunted, and stalked out of the room.

I looked at my mother, confusion written clearly on my features, but she deliberately ignored my unspoken question. I tried not to be annoyed. "You should try the nightwalker eggs, they're quite delicious."

As if on cue, a plate of steaming black eggs were set down in front of me, the purple of the yoke jiggling slightly. Everything in this court was so cold - even the eggs. I picked up my fork and stabbed a mouthful.

"You know," my mother said between bites, "I need to know what your favorite dish is for the ball. All the courts are sending their ambassadors over to meet the queen to be."

I sighed, toying with a piece of browned potato on my plate. She was right, the eggs were delicious. "Do we really need to have this ball? What's the point of it anyway if I'm going to be queen in a few weeks? I could just invite them then."

"No," my mother snapped. She calmed herself. "No," she said more calmly. "That would be breaking tradition. Besides, I want to see your face light up when you experience your first ball."

It was a sweet gesture, it really was, but at this point and time I couldn't bring myself to care. A weight had been settled over my chest, and it crushed me, leaving no room for emotions like love, gratitude, or even a positive attitude.

I gave her a small smile.

Brunch carried on in silence, my mind wandering to places it shouldn't. Brief flashes of blue and white played over in my mind. Frozen bodies, the screaming, the blood. Zafira.

I choked on a bite of nightwalker egg as a tear slid from my eye. What had I done?

My mother watched me carefully, chewing slowly. "Is something wrong?"