JК
Mistrals Kiss :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 70 из 148”
There was a moment’s hesitation, as if the door wanted to give me a second to reconsider; then, when I didn’t, the door vanished. Sholto’s guards shifted, and Agnes startled as if something had goosed her. “Mortal flesh cannot control the sithen. Any sithen.”
“I would have agreed with you, until a few hours ago,” I said.
“How did you come here?” Sholto asked.
“I asked for a door to the dead gardens. It never occurred to me that any door I could conjure would bring me to your home, Sholto.”
“King Sholto,” Agnes corrected me.
“King Sholto,” I said dutifully.
“Why would that request bring you to our garden, Princess Meredith?” Sholto asked.
“Doyle told me to get us back to the dead gardens. I did just that: I called a door to the dead gardens. But I did not specify which garden, and you know the rest.”
Sholto stared at me. The triple gold of his irises — molten metal, autumn leaves, and pale sunshine — made his face beautiful, but it did not make the look one bit less intense. He stared at me as if he would weigh me with a look.
“This cannot be true,” Agnes said.
“If it was a lie, they’d have a better one than this,” Sholto said.
“Do you still believe everything that a piece of white sidhe flesh tells you, King Sholto? Have you learned nothing from what they did to you?” Agnes asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I guessed it had to do with the bandages he wore.
“Silence,” Sholto said, but there was something in his face, the way he turned, that spoke of embarrassment. The last time I’d seen Sholto, he had hidden behind a mask of arrogance, much as Frost did. Whatever mask he had built to hide behind in court seemed to have shredded, so that he now had nothing for his emotions to hide behind.
“May we approach you, King Sholto?” I asked, and my voice was clear, but softer. The tall, elegant, arrogant man whom I’d met in Los Angeles wasn’t the same man who stood before me now, shoulders slightly hunched.
“No, you may not,” Agnes said, in her strangely rich voice. Most night-hags spoke in a cackling voice, as if they’d swallowed gravel.
Sholto turned on her, and the movement cost him, for he nearly stumbled. It seemed to feed his anger. “I am king here, Agnes, not you. Me!” He thumped himself in the upper chest. “Me, Agnes, not you, me! I am still king here!”
He turned to us. The front of his bandages showed fresh blood, as if he’d torn stitches. Sholto was half highborn sidhe and half of the sluagh, and the sluagh were even harder to injure than the sidhe.
There was a moment’s hesitation, as if the door wanted to give me a second to reconsider; then, when I didn’t, the door vanished. Sholto’s guards shifted, and Agnes startled as if something had goosed her. “Mortal flesh cannot control the sithen. Any sithen.”
“I would have agreed with you, until a few hours ago,” I said.
“How did you come here?” Sholto asked.
“I asked for a door to the dead gardens. It never occurred to me that any door I could conjure would bring me to your home, Sholto.”
“King Sholto,” Agnes corrected me.
“King Sholto,” I said dutifully.
“Why would that request bring you to our garden, Princess Meredith?” Sholto asked.
“Doyle told me to get us back to the dead gardens. I did just that: I called a door to the dead gardens. But I did not specify which garden, and you know the rest.”
Sholto stared at me. The triple gold of his irises — molten metal, autumn leaves, and pale sunshine — made his face beautiful, but it did not make the look one bit less intense. He stared at me as if he would weigh me with a look.
“This cannot be true,” Agnes said.
“If it was a lie, they’d have a better one than this,” Sholto said.
“Do you still believe everything that a piece of white sidhe flesh tells you, King Sholto? Have you learned nothing from what they did to you?” Agnes asked. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I guessed it had to do with the bandages he wore.
“Silence,” Sholto said, but there was something in his face, the way he turned, that spoke of embarrassment. The last time I’d seen Sholto, he had hidden behind a mask of arrogance, much as Frost did. Whatever mask he had built to hide behind in court seemed to have shredded, so that he now had nothing for his emotions to hide behind.
“May we approach you, King Sholto?” I asked, and my voice was clear, but softer. The tall, elegant, arrogant man whom I’d met in Los Angeles wasn’t the same man who stood before me now, shoulders slightly hunched.
“No, you may not,” Agnes said, in her strangely rich voice. Most night-hags spoke in a cackling voice, as if they’d swallowed gravel.
Sholto turned on her, and the movement cost him, for he nearly stumbled. It seemed to feed his anger. “I am king here, Agnes, not you. Me!” He thumped himself in the upper chest. “Me, Agnes, not you, me! I am still king here!”
He turned to us. The front of his bandages showed fresh blood, as if he’d torn stitches. Sholto was half highborn sidhe and half of the sluagh, and the sluagh were even harder to injure than the sidhe.