Digby rolls his eyes. “No.” He turns on his heel, walking away, clearly satisfied that I’m not going to throw another hissy fit and break something else.
“Oh come on, just one?” I call after him, but he keeps going, just like I knew he would. It makes me smile a little bit wider.
When I’m alone again, I sit down and sigh into the broken mirror, the distracting playfulness with Digby leaking out of me all too soon. I study the three images of myself for a moment, and then I get to work, letting my ribbons carefully comb through my tender scalp so I can plait my hair. I imagine it’s a lot like a soldier putting on armor.
At least for now, while daylight burns, I know I’m safe. For now, I still have time.
But tonight, as soon as dusk descends and the stars burn, I’ll be expected to play the part of King Midas’s favored pet. I’ll be expected to behave.
But one question burns in my mind for the entire day: What would happen if I didn’t?
Chapter Nine
I take my time brushing and braiding, doing everything slowly, as if moving at a crawling pace will prolong my fate somehow. I’m pretending that I’m not operating on borrowed time.
You can pretend a lot of things in life. You can pretend so well that you even start to believe your own deceit. We’re all actors; we’re all on pedestals with a spotlight shining on us, playing whatever part we need to in order to make it through the day—in order to help ourselves sleep at night.
Right now, I’m going through the motions, refusing to let my mind think of what’s going to happen tonight. But my body knows. It’s in the tightness of my chest, the labored inhales coming from constrictive breaths.
I try to distract myself and stay busy, but there’s only so much harp a girl can play, only so much sewing one can tolerate before she goes out of her mind with boredom.
At one point, I’m so jittery with nerves that I just start walking the circle of my cage, the bars probably making me seem like an agitated tiger pacing in its enclosure.
Bright side? The burn on my hand feels better. There’s only a small slash along the center of my palm, making my golden skin look more orange than its usual cool gleam. My stomach still hurts, but my scalp is fine...so long as I don’t touch it.
Looking out the single window in my room shows nothing but a rabid snowstorm blowing a confetti of white against the pane. It’s nearly nightfall. I wish I could string up the sun and keep it tied in the sky, but wishes are for stars, and I hardly get to see any of those anyway.
Fulke’s and Midas’s armies should’ve reached Fourth Kingdom’s borders by now. I could go into the library to find out for sure, but that’s the last place I want to be today.
I still think they’re crazy for attacking King Ravinger’s land. Not only is Midas breaking a centuries-old peace pact, but Ravinger isn’t exactly known for his magnanimous kindness. They call him King Rot for a reason, and it’s not just because of his power of decay and death. It’s said that his viciousness makes everyone near him cringe.
His land is one of withering corrosion, but it’s also a place where he lets wickedness flourish. His power allows him to deteriorate anything he wishes. Crops, animals, land, people...but I think his cruelty might be the worse evil.
I hope Midas knows what he’s doing, because making an enemy of someone like Ravinger is dangerous. If Midas fails, I’m not sure any amount of wealth could buy him out of the consequences, and that scares me. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be so confident in the ability to solve all his problems with gold.
Midas takes wealth for granted—and why wouldn’t he? One look around, every surface, every possession, it’s all gold. He knows that he’ll forever be as rich as he wishes.
Queen Malina believes that I’m garish and gaudy, but what about this entire castle and everything in it? The soles of her shoes are golden silk—for only her sweaty feet to ever appreciate. The structure of the dungeons beneath the palace—pure gold for the withering prisoners to die in. Even the toilets we piss in are gilded.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that this much wealth...it becomes meaningless after a while. Empty. You can have all the gold in the world and yet lack everything of real worth.
But maybe...maybe the underlying reason for Malina’s hatred of me isn’t that Midas keeps me here even though he’s married to her. Maybe the queen simply wishes that Midas had gold-touched her. Because of what it represents. Because of the way he calls me his Precious.
And just like that, I find myself feeling sorry for her. For her childless, loveless marriage. For losing the kingdom before she could even take it. For having to compete against a gilded orphan girl.
As I contemplate all of this, I lean against the gold bars to stare at the snowfall outside. That jealousy, if that’s what it is, has festered for years. There’s no way for me to do anything about it now. What’s done is done. The queen will never look at me with anything other than hatred. That’s simply the way it is.
But if she’s jealous that Midas hasn’t gold-touched her, she doesn’t understand at all. I won’t deny the fact that there are benefits of being gold-touched...but there are disadvantages too.
No one sees me for anything but the metallic glimmer of my skin. No one looks past the pure gold threads of my hair. Aside from the whites of my eyes and teeth, I’m just a golden statue to everyone. A fixture to be seen and not heard.
A commodity to be bought for
