The contract said one night's work. I read it twice, because I am Runa, twenty-eight, a bookbinder, and I know how a clause can hide in the stitching. I signed anyway, for a sum that would have paid off my workshop. That was three days ago, by my count. Down here, under the frozen lake, the courtiers tell me it has been a month.
The Winter Court is all blue light and long halls, and the ice above us creaks like a roof that hasn't decided whether to hold. They gave me a room, a fur, and a stack of the King's books to rebind. Every spine is cracked in the same place, as if someone kept opening them to one page.
Today they bring me before him. King Cael sits without a crown, hands folded, and the hall is so quiet I can hear the frost forming on my sleeves. They say he hasn't smiled in a hundred years. Looking at him, I believe it; his mouth has forgotten the shape.
“The clause is binding,” he says. “Seven years. I did not write it, but I cannot unmake it.”
“Then tell me who did.”
A murmur runs along the walls. Behind me, a courtier in silver laughs softly and I hear coins change hands. They are betting on me. On how long before I weep, or run, or freeze in a corridor I don't know.
The King rises and comes down the steps until he is one pace away. Up close, his eyes are the colour of the lake at dusk, and there is something behind them that is not cold at all. “Careful, bookbinder,” he says, so low only I can hear. “Down here, questions have a price, and I am forbidden to pay it for you.” He waits, and the whole court waits with him.
