Bride Of The Beast

The knitter

The second morning was quieter than the first, the kind of heavy, suffocating silence that usually precedes a storm. I had spent the dawn hours standing in the center of my room, letting Calani adjust the binders until I could only take air in short, measured sips.

My ribs ached with a dull, constant throb, but the silhouette in the mirror was convincing, a slender, fragile girl with skin like porcelain.

The meat from the night before still sat heavy in my gut, a reminder of the "beast" I was expected to satisfy. I needed to get out of the room.

The walls felt like they were closing in, the stone sweating cold moisture, and the cloying smell of the rose-water and lead-white powder was starting to make me nauseous.

I thought of a place to go, somewhere no one would bother me. The solarium came to mind. Feeling suddenly grateful to Denis for showing me the place, I told Calani I was going there to "pray," a lie that the guards at my door accepted with bored, dismissive nods. Not that they cared much anyway.

The solarium was a glass-walled gallery on the southern wing, designed to catch what little warmth the winter sun offered.

It was mostly empty, save for a woman sitting in a high-backed chair near the far window, surrounded by heaps of thick, colorful wool that looked out of place against the grey stone.

She looked up as I entered. She wasn't an Alpha; her presence was soft, lacking the aggressive, suffocating heat that usually radiated from the Caravian nobles.

She was older than me, with silver threading through her dark braids and a face lined with deep, easy smiles that seemed to have been earned through years of ignoring the court's drama.

For a moment, I wanted to turn back, certain this was just going to be another Jearna in disguise.

"You must be Raven," she said, her voice warm and lacking the sharp edge of a challenge. "I’m Marilyn. My husband sits on the Council, though he mostly just sits there to nap while the others argue about taxes and border skirmishes."

I dropped into a shallow, practiced curtsy, my skirts hissing against the floor. "Lady Marilyn."

"Oh, sit down, child. My knees ache just looking at you in those stiff skirts," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

She held up a half-finished scarf, the needles clicking a rhythmic, domestic tune.

"I’ve been told I should be down in the Great Hall preparing for the 'sacred hunt,' but I’d much rather be here. Politics is a cold business, and I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime. It’s bad for the joints."

I sat, surprised by the lack of scrutiny in her gaze. She didn't look at me like I was a prize to be won or a problem to be solved, she looked at me like I was a person. It was a disarming feeling, one that made the mask I wore feel heavier than ever.

"You look terrified," she said simply. It wasn't an insult or a taunt. "And you have every right to be. This kingdom is hard on things it thinks are soft. They like to pretend everything is about destiny and ancient blood, but mostly, they just like to watch things run."

"I am trying to be brave," I whispered, grateful that for once, I didn't have to act. The honesty felt raw in my throat.

"Bravery is just doing what you have to do while your blood is turning to ice," Marilyn said, her needles never stopping. She reached into a small wicker basket beside her and pulled out a dried sweet-plum, offering it to me on a napkin.

"Eat. You’ll need the sugar for the run. And don't listen to the priests or the Alphas. The Black Ridge isn't a holy place, it’s just a mountain with too many shadows. It doesn't care if you're a Princess or a peasant. It only cares if you know where to step."

I took the plum, the small, mundane kindness making my throat tighten. "You don't think I'm bad for the prince?”

Marilyn laughed softly, "I think you’re a young soul caught in a very large, very old gear. The Council sees signs in their porridge if it helps them keep power. But I’ll tell you a secret, Raven. The men in this castle think they run the world because they can grow fur and howl at the moon. But it’s the ones who keep their heads when the world goes mad who actually survive the winter."

She leaned in, her eyes twinkling with a spark of rebellion that I hadn't expected. "If you find yourself near the Old Weir in the Ridge—the place where the water used to run before the Great Slide—stay to the left of the stone markers. The ground is solid there, even when the snow melts and turns the rest to mud. My brother used to hide there to avoid his lessons. It saved his skin more than once when the hunt-masters were out looking for him."

For the first time since I’d crossed the border, I felt the tension in my shoulders drop—just a fraction. She wasn't testing me for weakness. She wasn't looking for a way to use me. She was just a woman offering a hand to someone she thought was a girl in trouble.

"Thank you, Marilyn" I said, and the name felt right in my mouth.

"Don't thank me yet. Just make sure you come back tomorrow morning so you can tell me how much you hated the cold," she winked, pulling a long strand of green wool from her basket. "I’ve got a sweater started for you. It’s a hideous shade of moss, but it’ll keep the wind out of your bones. I expect you to be alive to wear it."

I stayed with her for an hour, watching the needles click and listening to her talk.

I walked back to my chambers later that morning, the dried plum still sweet on my tongue. My father had declared me dead to the South, and the Council was waiting for the Prince to tear me apart, but in a small, glass-walled room, a stranger had promised me a sweater.

It was a small, fragile reason to stay alive, but it was the first one I’d had that wasn't built on a foundation of fear.

As I entered my room, I saw the wooden stave leaning against my bed. The sun was moving higher, the shadows beginning to stretch toward the afternoon.

"Calani," I said, my voice steady as I looked at the dress laid out for the ceremony. "Help me check the binders again. I want them tighter."