Chapter 295: You’re A Terrible Liar

He looked up.

"Closer."

He shifted nearer on his knees. She leaned forward on her arms, out of the water, and cupped his face in both her wet hands.

"I didn’t know you’d come," she said. "If I had, I’d have asked you in. I wouldn’t have thought twice." She searched his eyes. "I’m not very good at this. I don’t know the rules. I don’t know who’s supposed to knock or when, or whether I’m supposed to send for you, or you for me. I’ve never done this before. Nobody has told me how."

"Neither have I," said Thorne.

"Then we’ll learn."

"All right."

"And next time you can knock."

His mouth moved.

"Knock?"

"On the door. Like a person." She smiled, a little unsteadily. "And if I’m ready, I’ll say the word. And if I’m not, I’ll tell you that, too. And you’ll go away and I won’t be hurt, and you won’t be hurt, and we’ll try again."

"That," said Thorne slowly, "is a much better system than standing in a corridor."

"I thought so."

"I could wait."

"I know."

"I’m very good at waiting."

"I’ve heard Draeven say that."

"He is lying. I am the better of the two." His eyes were soft. "I will wait as long as you ask."

Then he smiled.

It was the true one, the one she had seen only once, in the dark, after the fever had broken. It started small and spread slowly, until it reached his eyes, and she thought that it was possibly the most beautiful thing in the room.

"There," she said, softly. "That one."

"Which one?"

"That’s my favorite."

He turned his face and kissed her palm.

She lowered her hands. She was smiling. And something cold ran across her wrist, and she glanced down to see that the surface of the bathwater had begun, very faintly, to frost.

It happened at the edges. A thin white crust of ice, delicate as sugar, creeping out from where her arm rested. She had not felt it. She hadn’t been cold, or upset, or frightened. She had only been happy, and the frost spread anyway, in a pretty glittering lace that crackled when she moved.

"Oh," she said. "Look at that. The water must be...."

"It’s an old tub," said Thorne.

He did not look at the ice.

He looked at her face, steadily, and his voice was perfectly calm. His hand moved to the surface of the water and swept it once, lightly, and the frost melted at his touch like breath on glass. A thread of shadow slid from his sleeve and curled around her wrist, warm and protective, and was gone.

"It does that," he said. "The pipes are poor. Don’t worry about it."

"The pipes."

"Very poor."

She frowned at him. He gazed back, with the most innocent expression she had ever seen on his face.

"Thorne."

"Mm."

"You’re a terrible liar."

"I’m an excellent liar," said Thorne. "I am the Shadow King."

"You’re terrible at this one."

"Hold still. I need to wash your hair."

She let him change the subject.

She did not know why. Something in his voice, some unspoken gentleness, made her think that the lie was a kindness. She leaned back against the tub and closed her eyes and let him wash her hair, slow and careful, his fingers working the soap through the length of it. And a small, quiet part of her mind noted, without alarm, that the water was warm again, and that the pipes had never frosted before.

"There’s a council meeting at noon," Thorne said.

She was out of the bath by then, wrapped in a thick towel and sitting on a low stool by the fire. He stood behind her with a comb, working it through her damp hair. It was an absurd and gorgeous intimacy, and she was trying not to think about it too hard.

"Silas told me," she said. "At the door. I heard him."

"Did he say why?" He asked.

"No."

"Carrick Greythorne is still in the palace."

Her whole body went still.

It was a small stillness, nothing anyone else would have seen. Her hands stopped halfway to folding the towel. Her breath caught. Behind her, the comb halted, and she knew that Thorne had felt it, that he had been waiting for it.

"I know," she said, carefully. "Astraea told me. The elder, Cedric, said he had written."

"He has done more than write. Since he arrived, he has been sending notes to every house in the capital." Thorne’s voice was level. "He wishes to address the council. He claims he has information about the Mother of Dragons. He wants to present it in person."

"To the kings."

"To the kings. And to you."

"Me?"

"He asked for you by name." He moved the comb through her hair again, slowly. "He has requested that the king’s ward be present. He says he would like to see the girl for himself."

She sat very still.

Isolde’s father.

The man whose daughter had stood in the great hall and screamed that she had stolen jewels. The man whose daughter had put her in a cell, in chains, and might have hanged her if three kings had not walked in and said no.

She felt something cold and bright move under her ribs.

"Morgana." Thorne called out.

"I’m all right."

"You are not."

"I will be."

"You are shaking."

She looked down. Her hands were trembling in her lap. She folded them together, hard, and pressed them against her stomach, and drew a long breath.

"I don’t want to see him," she said.

"I know." He replied.

"I don’t want to stand in a room with him and have him look at me." Her voice was tight. "He’s her father. He knows what she did. He knows she lied and he’s going to smile, and I won’t be able to...."

"Morgana." Thorne called out and came around the stool.