Crystal Storm
Page 42
“Yes,” Magnus replied. “I’ve only just been reunited with my grandmother, but she strikes me as the sort of woman who can get pretty much anything she wants.”
“And this is all so that this magical stone will save your father’s life.” Cleo said this without emotion, but a hardness had formed behind her aquamarine eyes.
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Magnus said, agreeing with what was left unspoken. “But this must be a necessary measure on the way to our ultimate goal.”
“Finding Lucia.”
“Yes. And breaking your curse.”
She nodded. “I suppose there’s no other way.”
He watched her carefully. “Was it only information you came to my room seeking, or is there something else you require this evening?”
Cleo raised her chin so she could look him directly in his eyes. “Actually, I need your help.”
“With what?”
“All the riding we’ve been doing. It’s done horrific things to my hair.”
Magnus raised a brow. “And . . . you came here needing my help to chop it all off so it’s no longer a problem?”
“As if you’d allow that.” She grinned. “You’re obsessed with my hair.”
“I’d hardly call it an obsession.” He twisted a lock of the warm golden silk around his finger. “More like an often painful distraction.”
“I apologize for your suffering. But you will not be cutting my hair, tonight or ever. The innkeeper’s wife was kind enough to give me this.” She presented him with a silver-handled hairbrush.
He took it from her, looking at it quizzically. “You want me to . . . ?”
Cleo nodded. “Brush my hair.”
Just the thought of it was ludicrous. “Now that I’m forced to dress as a common Paelsian, you mistake me for your servant?”
She shot him a determined look. “It’s not as if I can ask Milo or Enzo . . . or, for goddess’s sake, your father or grandmother to help me.”
“What about the innkeeper’s wife?”
“Fine.” Cleo snatched the brush back from him with a scowl. “I’ll go ask her.”
“No, no.” He let out a sigh, half-amused now. “I’ll help.”
Without hesitation, she returned the brush to him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He stepped aside to make way for her. She walked in, sat on the end of his cot, and looked at him expectantly. “Close the door,” she said.
“Not a good idea.” Magnus left the door ajar and slowly came to sit behind her. Awkwardly and with great trepidation, as if about to skin and clean an animal for the first time, he held the delicate brush up to her hair. “I’ve never done this before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
What a ridiculous sight it must have been: Magnus Damora, son of the King of Blood, brushing a young woman’s hair at her request.
And yet . . .
Whenever Magnus took on a task, he preferred to do so thoroughly, to the fullest extent of his abilities. He applied himself in the same way now as he took up a lock of Cleo’s long, silky hair in his grip and slid the brush down the length of it. The warmth of her hair slid through his fingers, making a pleasant shiver course down his spine.
“You’re right,” he told her, his voice low. “Horribly tangled. Irreparably so, I think.”
He was only teasing her—her hair was perfect, just as it always was—but then he came to the first knot.
She winced. “Ouch.”
“Apologies.” He froze in place, but then frowned. “However, you did ask me to do this.”
“Yes, of course I know that!” She sighed. “Please continue. I’m used to being tortured by my attendants, and they’re used to ignoring my wails of pain. You can’t possibly hurt me any more than they have. Only Nerissa has the skill to do this without pain.”
“Yes, I’ve heard how very skilled Nerissa is,” Magnus said, unable to keep from grinning. Now, having a more complete picture of Cleo’s hair-brushing history, he tackled the task at hand with more determination. “So much hair, so many opportunities for tangles. Why do women bother?”
“Perhaps I should braid it like a Paelsian chieftain?”
“Yes, I imagine that would be a look befitting an Auranian princess, even one forced to wear an ugly cotton dress,” he said drily, not letting on how amused he was by the image. “Every girl in Mytica would want to copy it.” As gently as possible, he worked the brush through another section of hair that currently resembled a pale yellow bird’s nest. “You should know, I mean to claim the bloodstone for myself.”
“I assumed so,” she replied.
That surprised him. “You did?”
She nodded, and the hair slipped out of his hands, covering the tantalizingly bare nape of her neck. “I saw it in your eyes when Selia first mentioned it. It was the same look I saw in your father’s eyes.”
“And what look is that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Magnus put the brush down. Gently, he guided Cleo by the shoulders until she was mostly facing him, then took her chin gently in his hand. “Yes, it does. What look did my father and I share?”
She met his gaze with hers, her expression now wary. “A look of icy greed, like this stone is something you would kill for.”
“And this is all so that this magical stone will save your father’s life.” Cleo said this without emotion, but a hardness had formed behind her aquamarine eyes.
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Magnus said, agreeing with what was left unspoken. “But this must be a necessary measure on the way to our ultimate goal.”
“Finding Lucia.”
“Yes. And breaking your curse.”
She nodded. “I suppose there’s no other way.”
He watched her carefully. “Was it only information you came to my room seeking, or is there something else you require this evening?”
Cleo raised her chin so she could look him directly in his eyes. “Actually, I need your help.”
“With what?”
“All the riding we’ve been doing. It’s done horrific things to my hair.”
Magnus raised a brow. “And . . . you came here needing my help to chop it all off so it’s no longer a problem?”
“As if you’d allow that.” She grinned. “You’re obsessed with my hair.”
“I’d hardly call it an obsession.” He twisted a lock of the warm golden silk around his finger. “More like an often painful distraction.”
“I apologize for your suffering. But you will not be cutting my hair, tonight or ever. The innkeeper’s wife was kind enough to give me this.” She presented him with a silver-handled hairbrush.
He took it from her, looking at it quizzically. “You want me to . . . ?”
Cleo nodded. “Brush my hair.”
Just the thought of it was ludicrous. “Now that I’m forced to dress as a common Paelsian, you mistake me for your servant?”
She shot him a determined look. “It’s not as if I can ask Milo or Enzo . . . or, for goddess’s sake, your father or grandmother to help me.”
“What about the innkeeper’s wife?”
“Fine.” Cleo snatched the brush back from him with a scowl. “I’ll go ask her.”
“No, no.” He let out a sigh, half-amused now. “I’ll help.”
Without hesitation, she returned the brush to him. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He stepped aside to make way for her. She walked in, sat on the end of his cot, and looked at him expectantly. “Close the door,” she said.
“Not a good idea.” Magnus left the door ajar and slowly came to sit behind her. Awkwardly and with great trepidation, as if about to skin and clean an animal for the first time, he held the delicate brush up to her hair. “I’ve never done this before.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
What a ridiculous sight it must have been: Magnus Damora, son of the King of Blood, brushing a young woman’s hair at her request.
And yet . . .
Whenever Magnus took on a task, he preferred to do so thoroughly, to the fullest extent of his abilities. He applied himself in the same way now as he took up a lock of Cleo’s long, silky hair in his grip and slid the brush down the length of it. The warmth of her hair slid through his fingers, making a pleasant shiver course down his spine.
“You’re right,” he told her, his voice low. “Horribly tangled. Irreparably so, I think.”
He was only teasing her—her hair was perfect, just as it always was—but then he came to the first knot.
She winced. “Ouch.”
“Apologies.” He froze in place, but then frowned. “However, you did ask me to do this.”
“Yes, of course I know that!” She sighed. “Please continue. I’m used to being tortured by my attendants, and they’re used to ignoring my wails of pain. You can’t possibly hurt me any more than they have. Only Nerissa has the skill to do this without pain.”
“Yes, I’ve heard how very skilled Nerissa is,” Magnus said, unable to keep from grinning. Now, having a more complete picture of Cleo’s hair-brushing history, he tackled the task at hand with more determination. “So much hair, so many opportunities for tangles. Why do women bother?”
“Perhaps I should braid it like a Paelsian chieftain?”
“Yes, I imagine that would be a look befitting an Auranian princess, even one forced to wear an ugly cotton dress,” he said drily, not letting on how amused he was by the image. “Every girl in Mytica would want to copy it.” As gently as possible, he worked the brush through another section of hair that currently resembled a pale yellow bird’s nest. “You should know, I mean to claim the bloodstone for myself.”
“I assumed so,” she replied.
That surprised him. “You did?”
She nodded, and the hair slipped out of his hands, covering the tantalizingly bare nape of her neck. “I saw it in your eyes when Selia first mentioned it. It was the same look I saw in your father’s eyes.”
“And what look is that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Magnus put the brush down. Gently, he guided Cleo by the shoulders until she was mostly facing him, then took her chin gently in his hand. “Yes, it does. What look did my father and I share?”
She met his gaze with hers, her expression now wary. “A look of icy greed, like this stone is something you would kill for.”
