I nod. That was about what I’d pegged him as. “And how do I knowyou’retelling the truth?”
“I don’t look twenty-seven?”
“You do, but for all I know, maybe you have magic that changes your appearance. The Queen looks very young, and she’s supposed to be your mother?”
“Stepmother,” he corrects, a gruffness to his voice. “And we do have magic that does that, but she really is that young.”
My stomach dips. It’s like the texts say? How they keep themselves looking young? Withblood.
“She’s married to your father?”
“Was,” he says curtly, hands tightening around the reins. “He’s dead.”
It’s apparent that this is a sore topic for him, and I feel a little guilty for stumbling on it so soon. “Sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be.”
“Wouldn’t that make you King?”
“No,” he says firmly. “Morin is Queen.”
“Will you be King someday?”
“No.”
I chew over that. It was unheard of for a woman to rule in Eden. Their customs are obviously vastly different. The texts said that women do not submit under their men, however, it still seemed odd to me that a widowed queen would take precedence as ruler.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says bitterly.
Wait…why is he apologizing? What had he mistaken my silence for? “What do you mean?”
“Sorry to disappoint any ambitions you had about becoming Queen,” he clarifies.
I snort. I hardly expected tolivelet alone become queen of the witches. “Why would I want that?”
With the way we’re connected, I can feel his shrug. “Shades, if I know. Many people want that. Power, glory, notoriety…a pretty crown.”
“Well, I don’t,” I say brusquely. “Twenty-seven is quite old to be just now getting wed.”
“Avoided it as long as I could,” he says heavily. “Will you eat now?”
“Alright,” I agree, although a little worried about what it is he’ll try to feed me.
He rummages in the saddlebag and pulls the small parcel back out. I take it from him cautiously, unfolding the fabric to find an unfamiliar dark, grainy bread. I rip off a piece and sniff at it before hesitantly placing the smallest bite in my mouth.
It’s surprisingly good. Sweet. I continue picking off small pieces and chewing them slowly—eating half the portion before my still-knotted stomach decides I can’t handle anymore. I hold onto it for several minutes, unsure of what I should do with it.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“I’m full.”
“You’refull?”
“Yes, I’m full.”
He tugs it away. I expect him to place it straight in the saddlebag to maybe offer it again to me later. Instead, I hear the sounds of his chewing as he finishes it without hesitation.
We fall into silence again, but it feels somewhat amicable. I’ve settled more completely against him, his steady breathing at my back and the sounds of our galloping horse lulling me into a more relaxed state than I’ve seen in days. A million questions still burn at the back of my throat. I hold them back for now. Not sure exactly how to go about asking what it is he intends to do with me or if witches truly eat people as our tales tell us.
