Page 19 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“Speaking of,” I continued, “apparently I’m going to live to eight hundred years old.”

Niamh clapped a hand to her mouth. Beside her, Maxence lifted a shoulder. “I think I read that in a book once.”

“Did you?” I asked, raising my brows.

“Well it makes sense, doesn’t it?” he reasoned. “Vampires have all sorts of supernatural abilities, and they live for a millennium. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because she’s human,” Niamh pointed out.

“Not in a traditional sense,” he replied. “I always knew there was something off about you, by the way.”

I scowled.

“People are going to talk, you realize,” he warned. “It’s not every day a chambermaid is named to the council.”

I shrugged. “Let them.”

The following evening, a pair of guards arrived in the kitchens to escort me upstairs. Mrs. Cathers nearly barred them entry like an agitated guard dog as Niamh pulled me into a quick hug. As we exited the kitchens, a chambermaid we often referred to as “Loud Nathalie” leaned toward a tow-headed valet.

“I heard she bewitched His Majesty,” she said, making no effort to lower her voice. “That’s the only explanation.”

I rolled my eyes as we rounded the corner. In just two days I had been discovered practicing magic, rescued from certain death by the King himself, and promoted to a station I’d never even dreamed of. I wasn’t about to let a bit of gossip ruin my night.

The suite the King had reserved for me was bigger than my family’s entire cottage in Wealdstone. In the middle sat a four-poster bed garnished with violet sheets and plump pillows stuffed with down. There was a sitting area beside the large, paned windows that looked out onto the foothills to the west. They were bathed periwinkle in the light of the setting sun.

The room had an adjoining washroom with its own bathtub. I was far more used to standing in a mildewy wooden bucket in the communal washroom in the cellars, shivering as I bathed myself with water from a pitcher, or simply diving into the deepest part of the creek behind our cottage in Wealdstone. But this was a proper tub, made of porcelain and filled to the brim with bubbly rosewater. I practically melted into it, the grime of my former station dissolving into the sudsy water.

I flexed my fingers, the soapsuds pooling around my brittle fingernails. Only two days ago, I was scraping dirt from between the castle flagstones. I would have never imagined then that the King of Valen would ask me to join his council or be his personal guest at the Winter Solstice ball. I sank further into the water until only my face was uncovered. It was all too good to be true.

When my skin had turned pink and my fingertips pruny, I wrapped myself in a fluffy robe, exited the washroom, and sank onto the bed losing myself to sleep.

The next day flew by in a blur with visits from seamstresses and trips back and forth moving my things into my new room. Late in the afternoon I came back into the chamber to find that a beautiful gown the same shade as a goblet of red wine had been laid out on the coverlet. I ran my fingers along the fabric, my eyes tracing the shape of it. It would hang off the shoulders, with a plunging neckline that almost made me blush. It was tight at the waist, with a bodice that tied in the back.

After I had bathed again—I was unused to such luxury—a knock at the door alerted me that Niamh had arrived. She had enlisted herself to help me prepare as she was, in her words, concerned that I had no idea what I was doing. “Letlas save me,” she said, eyes wide as she took in the room. “All this for you?”

I smiled, showing her to the seating area where a tray of cold meats, cheeses, and figs had been laid out. “I can’t eat all this by myself,” I insisted as my stomach gurgled nervously.

“You won’t catch me complaining,” she giggled, popping a cube of cheese into her mouth. “This is unbelievable.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s too good to be true, right?”

Her smile softened. “Don’t say that. You deserve this.”

I dropped into the seat opposite her, tucking my feet beneath me. “Thanks, but do I?”

“So what do we have to work with?” she asked, ignoring my question as she poured herself a healthy serving of wine.

I gestured at the bed. “Gods!” she said, coming to her feet. “This is exquisite.” She ran her finger gingerly along the fabric as if afraid it might fall apart at her touch.

“It’s too fine,” I said, running a hand through my damp hair. “I’m going to dirty it somehow.”

She cast a disapproving look in my direction. “Not unless you get so nervous that you decide to run away from the King. Seriously, you have to calm down.” She handed me her cup, which I accepted, gratefully. “Drink. Now.”

I relented, watching her over the rim of the glass. Her gaze flicked back and forth between the gown and me. “I think this is going to fit perfectly,” she said. “Did he have your measurements?”

I nodded. “His seamstresses measured me this afternoon.”

“They have exquisite taste,” she said with an approving nod. “Come.”