A week later, Irielle had come to three conclusions.
The first was that she was absolutely not going to seduce Kaelith for her father’s benefit.
The second was that the demon castle was much less terrifying than the elf court had always implied, which was almost offensive in its own way.
And the third was that Kaelith was either avoiding her with spectacular dedication or lived according to a schedule invented by chaos, alcohol, and poor judgment.
Possibly all three.
In seven days, Irielle had barely seen her.
There had been glimpses, perhaps.
A voice in the corridor late at night.
Laughter somewhere far below.
Once, what she was almost certain had been Kaelith’s coat thrown carelessly over a chair in one of the lower lounges, accompanied by a half-empty glass and the lingering scent of wine.
But proper encounters?
No.
Nothing of substance.
Kaelith moved through the castle like a badly behaved rumor, all implication and disturbance and no fixed hours.
At first, Irielle had been relieved.
That was what she told herself.
It made things simpler.
Safer.
She did not have to think about her father’s order every time she entered a room.
She did not have to imagine herself approaching Kaelith with calculation in her mouth and shame under her skin.
She did not have to decide what she would do if Kaelith came close again, warm and reckless and impossible, with that dangerous half-smile and hands far too certain of themselves.
So yes.
Kaelith’s absence had been convenient.
And yet, after the fourth or fifth day of not seeing her, Irielle had developed a quiet irritation she preferred not to examine too carefully.
She did not want Kaelith’s attention.
She did not.
But if they were to spend six months legally trapped in the same life, then vanishing entirely felt childish.
It also felt rude.
Which, she supposed, was entirely in character.
Still, in Kaelith’s absence, the rest of the castle had made themselves unavoidable.
And kind.
That was the more destabilizing part.
No one had left Irielle alone long enough to feel truly abandoned.
Elysia checked on her in the mornings with soft concern disguised as casual conversation.
Malvoria did not hover, exactly, because demon queens did not hover, but she had an uncanny habit of appearing whenever Irielle looked too far inside her own head and drawing her into practical discussion before melancholy could settle properly into place.
Ruby and Violet had claimed her with cheerful shamelessness on the first day and had not stopped since.
Even the servants were warm in a way she still did not know how to handle, more likely to ask whether she had slept well than to bow and disappear like obedient ghosts.
It was all very disorienting.
Irielle sat now in the library, a heavy history of the early demon dynasties open across her lap, and let the deep hush of the room settle around her like cool water.
The library was one of her favorite places in the castle already.
Tall shelves in dark wood climbed toward a painted ceiling where constellations glimmered faintly under enchantment.
Ladders slid quietly along rails.
Thick carpets absorbed footsteps.
Afternoon light poured through enormous windows and turned the gold lettering on old spines soft and warm.
It smelled like paper, cedar, dust, and peace.
Which meant it was only a matter of time before Ruby arrived to ruin it.
Right on cue, the doors swung open with enough force to make one of the ladders shiver in offense.
Violet followed more calmly, silver hair braided back today, though the effect was ruined by the fact that she was clearly here for trouble too.
Ruby stopped beside the chaise where Irielle was reading and squinted down at the book.
“Oh,” she said, horrified, “boring book.”
Irielle looked up at her.
Then, before she could help herself, laughed.
It was not a great laugh.
Not loud.
Not reckless.
But it was real enough that Ruby grinned in instant triumph, as though she had won something.
“It’s your ancestor history,” Irielle said, glancing back at the page.
“Shouldn’t you care?”
Ruby flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her.
“I don’t care about those old people anyway.”
Violet, who had already drifted toward a shelf with the ease of someone born among these books and allergic to respecting them properly, said, “That’s why you are failing your history class.”
Ruby gasped.
“Shut up.”
“It is literally true.”
“You sound like Neris.”
“That is because Neris is also correct most of the time, which pains me.”
Ruby glared at her twin, then turned back to Irielle with the expression of a woman expecting sympathy from the wrong audience.
“Tell her it’s rude to insult family during library hours.”
Irielle folded one hand over the open page.
“It is not an insult if it is accurate.”
Ruby put a hand to her chest.
“You wound me.”
“You survive it beautifully,” Irielle said.
Ruby narrowed her eyes, not offended at all.
“You’re funnier than you pretend.”
That was not the sort of observation Irielle liked receiving.
It suggested she had relaxed enough to be read, and that felt dangerous.
So naturally, Violet piled on.
“She keeps forgetting to be intimidating with us,” Violet said, glancing over her shoulder from the shelf.
“It’s charming.”
“I am not trying to be intimidating.”
Ruby grinned.
“That makes it better.”
Irielle looked back down at the book simply to avoid smiling again.
The page described one of the early demon queens, a terrifying military reformer with six lovers, three assassination attempts, and a deep hatred of ceremonial embroidery.
Irielle rather liked her.
Ruby leaned across the arm of her chair to read the chapter heading.
“Why are you even reading that?”
“Because,” Irielle said patiently, “if I am living here, I may as well understand the history of the place.”
Ruby made a face.
I hate it.”
“I noticed.”
Violet, abandoning the shelves, came to sit on the edge of the rug instead, cross-legged and graceful in a way that made it seem deliberate rather than undignified.
“You know,” she said to Irielle, “you’re adapting surprisingly well.”
Irielle considered denying that.
But what would be the point?
The evidence was all around her.
A week ago she had arrived clenched tight with anger, suspicion, and the humiliating ache of displacement.
Now she knew which corridor carried the scent of fresh bread in the mornings.
She knew which balcony caught the last sun.
She knew the names of the library servants who pretended not to notice Ruby stealing candied nuts from the reading room tray.
She knew that dinner in this family meant conversation rather than strategy.
She knew, increasingly, when she would laugh before it happened.
That last one was perhaps the most alarming.
“It is easier than I expected,” she admitted.
Ruby blinked.
“That is almost a compliment.”
“Do not make me take it back.”
Violet smiled.
“Too late.”
Irielle sighed, but there was no real force in it.
She glanced down at the demon history again, then up at the twins, and had the brief, absurd feeling that this might be the strangest peace she had ever known.
And beneath all of it, like an inconvenient pulse, there remained Kaelith.
Absent Kaelith.
Unseen Kaelith.
Kaelith who had apparently decided the best way to deal with their marriage was to turn into vapor whenever Irielle might be nearby.
Coward, Irielle thought.
Ruby’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
Irielle looked up.
“What thing?”
“The one where you go quiet and look like you’re either thinking deep thoughts or planning a murder.”
“Both are possible,” Violet said.
Irielle closed the book over one finger to keep her place.
“I was reading.”
“No, you were hiding inside the book,” Ruby corrected.
“Which means it’s time to rescue you.”
“I do not need rescuing.”
Ruby stood at once, which was always a bad sign.
“Yes, you do.
Come on.”
Irielle lifted one brow.
“Where exactly do you think I’m going?”
Ruby’s grin turned bright and dangerous.
“Let’s go watch the demon soldiers training,” she said.
“It’s much more interesting.”