CHAPTER TWELVE
The next day passed slowly under the heavy gray clouds that Mira dearly wished would part. She was freezing, again, despite the heavy cloak around her, despite the hat and mittens and everything that Ingrid had insisted she take. Mira had tried to turn her down but was pleased she hadn’t let her; she couldn’t imagine her discomfort without the heavy winter gear. Just a small sliver of sunlight was all she hoped for, but all morning she was denied it.
The annoying thing was that Tarquin was hot underneath her, so despite her wanting to keep her distance from him, she found herself stretching out and pressing every bit of exposed flesh she could against his warm back.
He’d been acting like himself that morning, which she was relieved to find. She didn’t think she could handle his admiring gaze or soft touches. She still felt a little bad about leaving, but she didn’t know how she could possibly have stayed.
Mira was relieved when they finally stopped, and more relieved when she saw their accommodations. They entered a large building that was furnished as opulently as the royal palace. Through the front doors was an open room, seemingly carved from marble, with a ridiculous fountain and a large desk with an older man behind it. His height gave him away as a shifter, and as Tarquin turned to speak with the man, Mira wandered across the room.
A large arch opened into another, larger room, this one full of round tables and chairs, and music from a small orchestra ensemble floated out of it. There were a fair amount of people of all shapes seated around the tables, some eating, and as she watched, a small woman stood and stretched her gossamer wings. Mira gaped at her unashamedly. Tarquin had mentioned different kinds of beings, but not this. She hadn’t imagined anything like this.
She drifted back to where he stood.
He had two fingers spread on the desk.
“One room,” she corrected. He turned his gaze down at her, and she just shrugged. “It seems like an awful waste of money just to pretend we’re not going to fuck,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice despite the hotelier being close enough to hear.
“Obviously,” he said, “but I assumed you would need somewhere to run off to when we were done.”
She glared daggers into his back as he ascended the stairs, following behind the man who’d laughed nervously and then turned to show them to their room.
After Mira had splashed water on her face and examined the room, pleased to find a bathtub, they’d gone back downstairs together to eat. She ate quickly, starving after the day, and then sipped at her wine, enjoying the music and the warmth of the hearth at her back and having a full stomach.
“You look relaxed,” Tarquin said, interrupting her peaceful silence.
“I’m always relaxed,” she said.
“You’re not.” He set down his drink and examined her across the little table. “I’ve almost never seen you truly relaxed. And you’re smiling.”
“I always smile,” she said.
“No,” he said, “you always laugh. You laugh at everything, even when it’s inappropriate— especially when it’s inappropriate. But I don’t think I’ve seen you relaxed and smiling in the whole time I’ve known you.”
She aimed a glare at him.
“Yes, that’s the Mira I know.”
“I’m comfortable,” she said, settling back in her chair and closing her eyes. “This music is nice. No one here knows me; no one’s judging me. I’m planning my bath when I decide I’m ready to go upstairs. There’s nothing uncomfortable about this moment. Of course I’m relaxed.”
“Are people normally judging you?” he asked. “You’re quite popular at the palace. All of the ladies look up to you.”
She couldn’t help the snort that escaped her. “They don’t look up to me,” she said, “they hate me. Half of them are afraid of me. I don’t know why.”
“I think you’re wrong,” he said, leveling his gaze at her. “They all wore gowns until you stopped, and a week later half of them dressed like you. Eloise cut her hair because yours is short. Even Ingrid is painting her lips red, occasionally, because of you.”
She opened her eyes and watched him. “Please stop,” she said. “I’m trying to be comfortable.”
“Yes, it’s so much more comfortable to believe that you’re hated.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why the fuck do you care what I think about anything?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t understand you. I don’t think that what I see when I look at you is anything like what you see.”
She wanted to ignore that, but found herself asking, “What do you see?”
His eyes searched over her face that she’d turned into an immobile mask. “Confidence,” he said, but then shook his head. “That’s the wrong word. Authenticity? You’re just yourself; I don’t think you know how to be anyone else. I admire it.”
She sat rigidly in her chair, staring at his dark eyes.
“Sometimes, though,” he continued, “I see someone underneath. Still you, still yourself, but you’re terrified and lonely and desperate for approval and companionship, and I don’t think you know how to get either.”
She narrowed her eyes again, ready to tell him to leave her the fuck alone, but he interrupted her.
“I don’t think you see that you already have those things, Mira. The women at the palace do look up to you. You said that awful thing about Maggie’s marriage and they teased you for it, sure, but a week later Maggie asked you to help her select a wedding dress. No one was holding a grudge against you about it, except for yourself.”
“They’re all friends and I’m just—” she stopped herself.
“You’re this untouchable figure, Mira. They’re friends because they spend so much time together, but you spend all your time stealing from the dead or hiding in your bedroom or fucking me. You don’t tell anyone about yourself, so to them you’re mysterious and probably up to important things. They don’t know that you’re wasting your days just as much as they are, except you’re doing it alone.”
“Except when I’m fucking you,” she spat.
“No,” he said, calmly. “You’re alone then too, because you’ve decided to close yourself off from the world. Even when I’m inside of you, I don’t get to see the real you.”
She rose from her seat, anger growing in her chest despite not really knowing why. She glared at him. “I’m going to have a bath, I’d like to be alone for it, please.”
“I know,” he said, infuriatingly relaxed. “Should I get my own room?”
“Don’t bother,” she said, sighing heavily as she looked down at him. “We both know where you’ll end up.”