The room was beautiful. Arin hated it.
Not the way she'd hated the cell — the cell had been honest in its ugliness, all damp stone and rust and the stink of things left to rot. This room lied. It lied with silk curtains the color of crushed berries, with a carved mahogany bed wide enough for three people, with a window that let in just enough moonlight to make the gilded edges of everything glow.
It lied with the vase of fresh winter roses on the table. As if someone had thought, the girl from the border village will feel at home if we give her flowers.
She'd counted the stones in the eastern wall twice. Forty-seven across, thirty-one up. The western wall had forty-nine. The ceiling she couldn't count because the candlelight didn't reach that far, and she'd stopped trying after the charm had pulsed and Dhaelon's voice had whispered, You're wasting time, little thorn.
