BTS: A Court of Embers

9: Songs of the Faeries

There was no place in this castle that Maren felt safe. She considered the library and thought twice at the presence of Fae ink and what she could unleash. She also remembered Namjoon closing Genevieve's book. The last thing she wanted was to face an advisor if she refused to face a prince. Her next option was the garden, but the dining room had a clear view of the courtyard. So did many of the ladies' rooms. Even the boutique was a risk if Emberlynn were in there arranging more ensembles to hide her scars--

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, a sharp pain stabbing Maren all the way into her lower back. She whirled on them, her own hand slapping their touch away. Through clenched teeth she said, "Do not touch me."

Vernice craned her neck back in surprise, putting both of her hands up in surrender. "I apologize. Are you hurt?"

Maren glared. Not at her, but at the beaded clips in her hair, at the dress that she wore. Fae accessories and apparel meant to dress humans as dolls. A promise of luxury that equated to playing with food. It made her so angry that she pivoted and stormed down the hall.

"Maren, tell me what is going on." Vernice marched after her.

What was there to say? How could she even begin? There were so many images, words, ways to go about it that every combination seemed incorrect. The weight of the accusation was enough to put a lump in her throat, to steal her voice altogether. The jumbled sentences fell over one another, her emotions becoming more tangled in response.

"You have to talk about it. It's the only way you'll feel better when you're this upset."

"Don't tell me what I have to do." Maren huffed, walking faster.

Vernice gathered her skirts in both hands, jogging ahead. Maren ignored her, ready to pass her by until she heard a door knob shift. Vernice held the door open to a small drawing room, bold eyes commanding entry rather than asking for compliance. "Hurry," said Vernice.

Maren glared daggers, but slipped inside. The room was circular with a set of couches in the middle surrounding a low table. The walls were a tasteful pink, the upholstery of the sitting area matching the style with rose-tinted cushions. It smelled of flowers from the bouquet in the center, the scent likely reinforced by the picture frames of dried buds and petals labeled by name on the walls. Vernice closed the door and went to lean on one of the glass cabinets, watching Maren warily, cautiously.

"Keep your voice down, by the way," Vernice warned.

"There is nothing to talk about," Maren snapped.

"You're lying." Calmly, Vernice crossed her arms. "I'll wait."

Maren dug her fingernails into her palms. It was all she could do to not march to the couch and throw a pillow at Vernice. To not rip one of those clips out of her beautiful hair. She'd been clear that there was nothing to discuss. It was not a difficult concept to grasp. It was not hard to leave someone alone or to let them feel the way that they felt. In fact, she'd grown so sick of being told how to conduct herself, that she slowly turned to the only other girl in the room.

"My name is not Penelope," she said. "My name is Maren. I do not have parents that I remember, I do not have a noble title, I do not even have a sliver of silver in my name. I did not come here for a beastly prince neither did I come here to make friends. Is that understood?"

Slowly, Vernice's lips curled upwards into a feline grin. "Good. Go on."

That riled her up. Irritated her to absolute core. She glowered, unable to stop herself. The rage boiled over. It overflowed.

"I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone. I am sick of giving answers that fall on deaf ears. None of you even listen. What pisses me off the most is that even if you may never hear a word of mine, you never fail to ask something of me. To demand, I should say. The next person that does that is going to answer for it."