I have to duck into a shop to ask for directions so I can find the address Mistress Solomon specified. The closer I get to the center of the city, the larger the houses grow. More gold, more silver, more wasted wealth.
I’ve never walked right up to one of the houses to ring the bell, and it feels unnatural, as if slipping through open windows and picking locks is the preferred means of entry. A steward answers and takes the parcel, looking down his nose at me haughtily. “This was to be delivered an hour ago,” he says.
As if it matters. I hastily bob a curtsy, though he’s probably not someone who deserves it. “Forgive me,” I say. “Please don’t tell my mistress, sir.”
He huffs through his nose and closes the door in my face.
I give the closed door a rude gesture, then turn around.
Now what?
I have to walk. If I don’t walk, that steward might come back out and call for a patrolman. There are fewer shops here and more houses. I try to backtrack to where I first asked for directions.
Instead I turn a corner and find myself staring up at the palace.
If the houses looked wealthy, the palace looks like an ostentatious abomination. It’s massive, stretching four city blocks wide, with white bricks edged in lavender that practically climb into the sky. The front is wide and flat, with two towers at either end. Two massive fountains spray water high in the air, bubbling and splashing on the way down. Carriages roll past, and footmen leap into action, opening doors, carrying parcels, rolling out carpets.
The palace shouldn’t be white. It should be red with blood, or black with death, or honestly, it should be a charred pile of rubble that I would skip through, and happily.
I slide my hand into my pack. The muslin of ground thimbleweed root is wrapped tight, but it’s still there.
That’s too much. You’ll end up killing someone.
My feet carry me forward against my will. I don’t want to be here, but it’s almost as if my body is working against me. Rumor says that the Moonflower elixir they mix in the palace is ten times the strength of the crushed petals Wes and I used to steal. I’m not sure what I’m going to do—it’s not like I can walk right in and ask for some.
But that guilt and loss is still pooled in my chest, wrapped up as tightly as the muslin pack. So many people are sick. I’ve left so many with no access to medicine. A small sample from the palace might be enough to cure ten times as many.
Much like in the shopping district, it takes me a longer moment to notice the commoners surrounding the palace, the laborers, the men and women working in drab attire, sweeping the streets and cleaning the gutters and brushing the horses. As I wander past them, I begin to feel invisible, too. I wonder if this is why it’s so easy for the royal elites to ignore the people outside the walls of this sector. Are we all invisible to them?
A group of younger women in homespun skirts and wool trousers are walking toward the palace, and out of curiosity, I fall in behind them. The guards at the gate paid attention to me when I was gawking at the consul, but maybe they won’t pay me any mind if I look bored and inattentive.
My heart is hammering in my chest as we approach the eastern side of the palace, but I keep my eyes forward, on the backs of the girls who are chattering away about some scandal involving Consul Cherry and Consul Pelham having secret meetings right underneath the king’s nose. Another girl chirps that she’s heard that one of the consuls is sneaking money to the rebels. I don’t know any of the players, so I can’t follow their conversation, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I wait for a guard to shout out, or to stop me, or for one of the girls to notice that I’m following them, but no one says anything at all.
Just like that, I’m inside the palace.
It takes everything I have to keep from falling against a wall and pressing a hand over my chest.
I am inside the palace.
I have no idea what to do.
The doorway here leads into an area for servants, because, although the decor is still rather splendid, the floor is worn and the wallpaper scuffed in spots. The girls have moved into a room where uniforms are hung from racks along the wall, and they’re quickly disrobing.
This is ridiculous. Someone is going to find me. I’m going to be dragged through the streets behind a horse or hung from the sector gates or something.
One of the girls must notice my attention, because she begins to turn. I quickly duck away from the doorway and hurry down the hall.
There are workers everywhere down here, some assembling cleaning supplies, others working on repairs to small bits of machinery, some polishing leather or mending clothes or embroidering finery. A few glance at me, but most are so wrapped up in their own duties that they pay me little mind.
I need to get out while I can.
I don’t. I keep thinking about the elixirs and petals that must be stored here in the palace, the ones that can cure so very many people.
I keep thinking of the poison in my pack, of the fact that the king and his brother are likely somewhere inside these walls, plotting how they’re going to execute the next smuggler.
The thought launches a swell of fury and fear into my chest, and I breathe deeply so I don’t begin screaming.
Mind your mettle, Tessa.
Oh, Wes. My eyes fill. I press a hand to my mouth so I don’t openly sob.
I need to find a place to hide. To think. To question my sanity.
And then, as if fate granted my wish, I notice a small closet filled with linens that seems wide and dark and cool. Without a thought, and while no one is looking, I close myself inside and tuck myself into the back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tessa
When I first locked myself in, I could hear the low rumble of people working in the hallways. I occasionally had to hold my breath when someone would come into this supply closet. Now, everything has been silent for so long that I’ve begun wondering if it’s safe for me to take a chance at coming out. There are no windows, no way for me to measure how long I’ve been down here. I think of that pocket watch that the consul had, how just knowing the time of day is a luxury they aren’t aware of.
It feels like hours.
I sneak to the door and press my ear against the wood.
Silence. Absolute silence.
It still takes a while for me to gather the courage to open the door. Everything feels different now. Earlier, I was burning with rage and exhaustion, full of exhilaration from being able to get into the palace so easily.
Now, my thoughts have caught up with me, and all that’s left is panic that I’ll be discovered and Wes’s body will have some company along the gate.
My stomach rumbles, and my body alerts me that I have needs that haven’t been addressed in hours.
I need to get out of the palace.
Finally, I pull at the latch, and the door swings open.
The hallway is empty and dim; only a few flickering lanterns are lit at either end. The few windows I can see are pitch-dark. It must be very late.
Good.
No, not good. When I reach the end of the hallway, I discover that the door at the end is padlocked shut.
Well, of course it is. It’s the middle of the night, and the day laborers have gone home.
Voices suddenly echo down the hallway, and I duck into the room where the girls were changing earlier. My heartbeat is a steady thrum in my ears. Shadows appear in the doorway, and I bolt for the back half of the room. There’s nowhere to hide.
There. A door in the corner. It must be another storage closet. I grab hold of the handle, whisper a prayer that it’s not locked, and yank it wide.
It’s not a closet. It leads to a lush staircase with red velvet carpeting and walls painted with a fancy hunting scene. The steps seem to lead to a hallway at the top. The lights blaze brightly, but the air is heavy and quiet.
That said, in my homespun skirts, I definitely wouldn’t be invisible here, at this time.
I’m frozen in pl
ace and not sure what to do or where to go—but I definitely can’t stay here in this stairwell. Part of me wants to dive right back through that door and into the changing room, but another part of me worries that those people will be there again, and I’ll be walking right into discovery.
I need to move. Up I go.
At the top, I peek around the corner, but I find nothing. No guards, no one at all here, but I tiptoe forward regardless. My feet are practiced at sneaking, and I long for my mask and hat.
At the end of the hall, I peek around both corners, and again I see no one. I have no idea which direction is the correct way out of here, but based on how I got in here, heading right should take me toward the back part of the palace. Though the walls and flooring are more opulent here, this is clearly a servants’ passageway. Maybe I can find another staircase and sneak back down to another area that won’t be padlocked. Maybe—just maybe—I’ll find where the Moonflower leaves are stored.
Maybe you can find the king and end his tyranny.
The thought hits me so hard and fast that it pulls me to a stop. I’m alone. This passageway is unguarded. I could find the king, and I could end his life.
But as badly as I want to avenge my parents and Wes, I can’t bring my feet to move. I’ve spent the last few years risking my life to save others. I don’t know if I could look down at someone—even the king or his brother—and kill him.
I think of those daggers driven into Weston’s eyes. Nothing stopped that.
Not even me.
I swallow, my throat tight.
I wouldn’t even need to do something violent. There’s enough powder in my bag to lace the king’s water pitcher if I wanted to.
Still, my feet won’t move. I think of Wes standing in the workshop, declaring that he wasn’t a smuggler, that he wasn’t doing this to line his own pockets.
I’m not a killer.
The instant I have the thought, I can breathe again. My parents risked their lives to save others—and so do I.
I’m not a killer. I heal people; I don’t harm them.
A door a short distance away opens, and a man steps through. He looks to be in his early twenties, with vibrant red hair, a scruff of beard growth on his jaw, and a half-buttoned green brocade jacket. He’s carrying several books and papers, and he’s reading one of them as he steps through the door.
For half an instant, I think he’ll turn the other way without seeing me, that somehow my bizarre luck will continue. But his eyes lift, and he startles so hard that a few papers drift from the stack.
I take a step back and put up a hand. “I—I’m sorry—I—”
“Guards!” His expression has quickly shifted from surprise to alarm. He drops his books and throws open the door he just came through, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Guards! Secure the king! Secure the prince—”
“No!” I cry. “No—you don’t—this was—this was a mistake . . .”
Run, Tessa. Weston’s voice is like a whisper in my ears.
I dig my feet into the velvet carpeting and run. The stairs are behind me, but they only lead to a padlock, so I run directly at the red-haired man. He tries to grab me, but I throw a punch right at the base of his rib cage, and his grip slackens.
I’m loose and I’m running, and I’m about to burst through the first door I see. I thought my heart was pounding before, but now it’s sprinting in my chest, pulling me forward.
Two other doors open, and guards appear in front of me, weapons drawn.
It startles a short scream out of me. My feet skid on velvet. There are too many of them. I don’t even have time to fall on the carpet before two of them have a hold on my arms, and they’re dragging me upright.
They’re going to kill me. They’ll do it right here. Daggers will be plunged into my ears or they’ll cut off my head or they’ll burn me in pieces while I watch. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen what happens to traitors and smugglers. My breathing is a panicked rush that won’t let me speak. My vision goes spotty for a long moment, and I think I’m going to pass out. In a way, it’s a relief. I don’t want to be conscious. I don’t want any of this to happen. But my body still has needs, and the only thing keeping me from wetting myself is the idea that I want to die with some shred of dignity. The stars in my vision clear.
The man with red hair steps in front of me, but he’s looking at the guards. “Search the palace. She can’t be working alone. Is the king secure?”
The one pinning my right arm nods. “Yes, Master Quint.”
“I’m alone,” I gasp, and my voice is nearly a keening wail. “I’m alone. Please. Please. Please. This was a mistake.”
“It’ll do you little good to beg from me.” He’s not even looking at me. “Search her things. Take her to the throne room. I’ll speak to Prince Corrick.”
Prince Corrick. My muscles go slack. Fear wins, leaving no room for humiliation.
Master Quint glances down, sees that I’ve soiled the velvet carpeting, and sighs. “I’ll also send someone to clean that up.”
My underthings are wet and I can smell urine, but the guards have chained me tightly and left me lying facedown on the cold stone floor of what must be the throne room. I expected to be beaten and broken by now, but while they haven’t been gentle, the guards have been practical and efficient, chaining my wrists behind my back with practiced ease and then lowering me to the ground to wait.
My breath shakes and shudders against the stone floor, but the guards say nothing and do nothing. This uncertain waiting is the worst torture.
No, surely the worst torture is yet to come.
I was so foolish. Wes would never let me hear the end of this. Maybe I’ll find him in the afterlife, and he’ll roll his eyes at me and say, “Lord, Tessa. You really did need me around, didn’t you?”
Fresh tears squeeze free of my eyes.
I hear light footsteps approach, and I try to curl in on myself. I don’t want to be afraid. I want to rage and fight, but I’m pinned in place, and there’s nowhere to go. My eyes clench closed. “No,” I say, and my voice sounds broken and raw. “Please. No.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, girl.” It’s a woman’s voice, her tone landing somewhere between frustrated and disappointed. When her footsteps come closer, I peek up, and I find myself looking at a stunning brown-skinned woman in a floor-length emerald-green gown. “I can’t speak for anyone else in the palace, however.”
“This was a mistake,” I say to her. “I didn’t—I don’t know what I was doing.”
“It’s difficult to mistakenly find yourself in the middle of the palace at midnight,” says a harsh male voice, and I clench my eyes closed again. The words are so cold and edged that a chill grabs hold of my spine.
Another man speaks with the deferential authority of a guard. “We have searched the palace, Your Highness. We found nothing else amiss.”
Your Highness. That must mean Prince Corrick.
I was so stupid. I stood there and told Wes that we shouldn’t keep hiding, but now that’s all I want to do.
The woman straightens and says, “She’s just a girl. Clearly not a trained assassin.”
“You don’t think girls are capable of violence and treachery, Consul?” Booted feet step closer, but he’s behind me, so I can’t look at him. His eyes were pools of black from across the square when he was going to execute the eight prisoners. I don’t want to see what they look like up close. I’ll do worse than wet myself.
“How did she get in here?” he says.
“We don’t know.” The guard sounds a bit hesitant now. “We have not been able to discover her point of entry.”
“What are you doing here?”
It takes me a moment to realize that cold voice is speaking to me, and it’s clearly a moment too long because the prince grabs hold of my hair and pulls tight. “Answer me.”
It draws a squeak out of my throat. “I don’t know—I don’t know—”
His grip turns pai
nful. “Stop saying you don’t know.”
I’m not sure if it’s the command in his voice or the grip on my hair—or possibly just the sheer hatred I have for this man—but I grit my teeth and choke back my tears. My voice comes out like a broken whisper. “You killed . . . you killed my . . .”
“Who did I kill?” He says the words without any emotion.
I was wrong before. I should have tried to poison this man. I would be doing the world a favor. A tear slips down my face. “My friend.”
“What’s your name?”
I hold my breath. I wish he would just kill me and get it over with. I’m shaking so hard I’m sure he can feel it through his grip on my hair. I feel like such a coward, but it’s impossible to be brave.
His grip tightens until I’m sure hairs are beginning to pull free. “Your name.”
I don’t want to give it to him. All of Wes’s warnings to protect my identity are rattling around in my head. But I’m dying, so surely it doesn’t matter.
“Tessa.” The word is almost forced out of my mouth.
The woman speaks again. “How desperate does someone have to be to challenge your laws? If you kill everyone who holds a grudge against your actions, Prince Corrick, your brother will have no subjects left.”
He lets go of my hair and steps back. I can finally turn my head, but all I can see are his polished black boots.
“You overstep, Consul Cherry,” he says, and somehow, his voice is colder. Darker.
“Do I?”
“What would you have me do? Should I send every assassin on their way with a bag of silver and some sugared pastries for their trouble?”
To my surprise, the woman laughs. “This girl was clearly not any threat to anyone in this palace,” she says. “Your guards found no weapons.”
“They found ground powders in her satchel,” he says. “Do you suppose she was here to flavor Harristan’s tea?”
Any laughter fades from her voice. “You attempted to execute eight people, and there were calls for revolution in the streets. If you hang a pretty young girl from the gates, I believe you will be dealing with more than you bargained for.”
Defy the Night Page 10