Page 114 of Consort's Glory
I know that scent.
A fragment of memory she did her best to bury burst to life behind her eyes. She barely registered Olivier’s biting reply. “Do I? Really? You don’t think I know exactly what you’re doing? You think you can come after our most vulnerable and we’ll just stand by and let you do it?”
A dark room. Too dark to see anything except the shapes her mind conjured. Soft walls, soft floor, but spongy, like the weird stuff they put on playgrounds so kids don’t scrape their knees too bad when they fall. The sense of time passing in between bouts of screaming hysteria and the snap of her bones breaking themselves, over and over, her muscles shriveling and expanding in agonizing bursts. And hunger. So much terrible hunger.
A muffled voice from far away: “…not eating enough. It’s not good for her. I’m going… help the…”
“Olivier.” Theodore’s voice was hard, his authority snapping like a whip through the fog of an agonizing memory. Margot shook herself.
No, she had to be wrong. Her memories of that time were shattered. A week of hell, existing in total darkness as her body turned on itself in a process that no witch could explain to her; the only time in her life when she had contact with her elvish relatives as they took over her care for what she later learned was called the change.
What did it say about her family that the only time they bothered with her was when it required locking her, hysterical, terrified and without explanation, in a padded pitch-black cell for a week?
Margot never saw their faces. She couldn’t remember a kind word. All she recalled was someone forcing water down her throat periodically. The scent of iron in her nose as her blunt claws tore through her skin, desperate to end the pain.
The endless, pressing darkness.
She was sixteen when the change hit her like a truck. It only took a week, but that week wiped away any fantasies Margot might have harbored about one day walking openly as a half-breed. If that was what being an elf was, she doubted she could survive any more of it.
The scars of that week lingered still if not in the flesh, then in the way she still couldn’t stand the dark.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I promise you, I haven’t spared you more than a passing thought in months. I definitely haven’t been plotting to hurt you or your family.” Theodore snorted. “I have been pleasurably distracted.”
“Really?” The single word was laced with so much contempt, it made even Margot recoil.
There was a rustle of paper, then the sound of something slapping against a hard surface. “What do you call this, then, Sovereign?” Olivier didn’t give Theodore time to answer. “This is how you’re getting back at us for opposing Delilah’s abdication. You found her, and now you’re using her to hurt us. You know, I’ve never liked you, Solbourne, but this— I didn’t know you were capable of this kind of cruelty. She’s an innocent, for Glory’s sake!” A sharp intake of breath followed. In a voice that trembled with rage, Olivier continued, “If you don’t release her to our custody this instant, I swear, I will tear your throat out where you stand.”
There was a curious stillness in the bond, as if Theodore was so surprised that nothing, not even annoyance or worry or amusement filtered through it. In an odd voice, he said, “I can assure you that she is not a prisoner.”
The sound of paper crunching, as if it was snatched up quickly and crumpled in a fist, came with an unfamiliar, hair-raising growl. “First, you stage a bombing to send a message. Then you take her into your custody and shove her in a hole somewhere so we can’t get to her. I don’t know what you’re holding over the Collective to get them to put out that farce of a statement but— Now you say to my face that she isn’t your prisoner? What are you doing with her, then, hm? What the fuck else could you want with her other than to try and keep us in line?”
Darling. Theodore’s voice was cautious, indecipherable. Will you join us for a moment?
Margot’s heart slammed against her ribs. Is he… Is he talking about me?
It was a stupid question, but her brain couldn’t process what she overheard. Of course Olivier had to be talking about her. But… why?
Just come in, darling,Theodore coaxed. I don’t think he’s going to listen to a thing I say, so this may be the most expedient option. He paused before speaking again, his mental tone hardening. You don’t have to worry. I won’t let him hurt you.
Her answer was immediate. I know.
Good. Will you come in before he tries something foolish?
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” Olivier’s voice rose, his fury beating at the walls in a raw, magical wave. “Don’t walk away from me, damn it! Fucking answer me!”
Margot jumped. That raw bellow, full of rage and tightly bound worry, hit her like a hammer-blow. She stood, frozen, as her husband pulled the door to the study open. Reaching out to cup the side of her head, Theodore half-turned to arch a brow at a man she couldn’t yet see. “Olivier du Soleil, meet Margot Elloise Goode. My consort.”
Margot took half a step into the room, her heart in her throat. Theodore stepped with her. His hand slid down to cup the back of her neck as she stood face to face with one of the most powerful elves in the country.
She knew Olivier’s face in passing. For all that he was young, Olivier was known the world over for his startling financial acumen and ruthless business practices. Although the businesses he owned were prosperous and his many, many employees never had a bad word to say about how he handled things to the media, the elf was also known for burning down rivals with cold efficiency.
Every few months, the news would run some story or another featuring the latest du Soleil conquest. Usually they would throw up a grim-faced headshot clearly torn from the du Soleil’s own PR department, but sometimes they caught him exiting an m-jet or train, or climbing into a car no doubt headed for the du Soleil territory of Malibu.
She was passingly familiar, then, with the stark, bone-white hair carefully combed behind pointed ears. She knew the aristocratic features, elegant in all the ways Theodore was hard, almost blocky. She knew the copper skin tone, a shade off from true topaz. She even knew the bright, burnished gold eyes, though they were often concealed by dark sunglasses.
What she didn’t expect was his towering height, greater even than her husband’s, nor the expression of slack-jawed shock on his severe face.
The crumpled newspaper hanging loosely from his limp fingers and featuring a grainy photo of her and Theodore climbing into a car, their hands intertwined, was also unexpected. Above the photo, she could just make out a headline that read, SOVEREIGN AND HEALER? THE MATCH OF THE CENTURY!
