There’s a knock at the door, but Corrick doesn’t move. “That will be supper,” he says. “Enter,” he calls.
A serving girl who looks a bit tired and rumpled carries in a tray. She sets it on the side table, then curtsies to the prince. “Your Highness. Master Quint.” Her eyes land on me, and she quickly glances away. “Will you be needing anything else?”
“No,” says Corrick.
“Yes,” says Quint. “Prepare a suite for our new guest. Be sure the closet and washroom are fully stocked. Fresh linens, too.”
“Of course.” She curtsies again, then slips out the door.
“I’ll leave you to dine,” says Quint. “I’ll speak with the captain for suitable guard assignments. I believe four should be enough to prevent any further . . . shall we say, wandering?” He looks at me pointedly.
“Wait. A room for me?” I squeak. Nothing here makes any sense.
They ignore me. “What are you thinking?” says Corrick.
“I’m thinking she shouldn’t remain in your room any longer than necessary. It’s the middle of the night, so rumors haven’t had a chance to spread. You said she’s been adjusting the dosages on your runs. Perhaps she could have brought some medicinal insight to the palace? Surely we can spin something better than a punishment of being chained to your bed.”
“Surely,” Corrick says woodenly.
Quint pulls a little booklet from his jacket and jots a note. “I’ll draft an announcement by midday for you to review.”
Then he’s gone, and once again, I’m alone with the prince. Corrick moves to the side table, where a massive array of steaming food is making my mouth water. I can smell something sweet and something savory, and there must be fresh bread because the scent of the yeast is heavenly. My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten. I don’t want to move any closer to him, but I inhale deeply.
Corrick picks up a piece of fruit and holds it up to the light. The skin is glistening red. “Honeyed apple, Tessa?”
All of my hunger dies. “I hate you,” I grit out.
He tosses it to me, and I catch it automatically, since the alternative is letting it smack me in the face.
“As I’ve said in the past,” he says, “that will definitely work out for the best.”
A large, ornate table sits on the opposite side of the room. When I didn’t move, Prince Corrick filled two plates and set them on the table, making a show of setting them across from each other, not beside each other. He holds out a hand to one of the seats and looks at me pointedly.
I really am hungry. Every breath reminds me of how little I’ve eaten lately. It took everything I had to set that apple on the floor.
I stick to the wall. “No.”
“You decline an invitation to dine with the brother of the king?” He feigns a gasp. “What will the kitchen staff say when your plate returns untouched?”
“I don’t think you want my hands near a knife right now.”
That earns a rakish smile, and for a moment he looks so much like Wes that my heart swells and aches before shattering into a million pieces. Maybe he can read it on my face, because his mouth forms a line. “Sit. Eat. I know you’re hungry. What’s to be gained by refusing?”
Nothing, really. I don’t have a good answer, and the question feels like a challenge. I take a deep breath and walk to the table. I’m sure there’s some court etiquette I’m supposed to follow, but I have no idea what, and if he expects a curtsy, he’s not getting one. My heart thumps along in my chest, and I have to remind myself that he’s not Wes, he’s the King’s Justice. He’s not a friendly outlaw. He’s a cruel man with no empathy.
I ease into the chair, and he does the same. My spine feels like a steel rod. I can’t relax. I pick up the roll from my plate. It’s still warm, and dusted with salt. I tear a tiny piece and shove it into my mouth.
It’s not salt. It’s sugar, and it’s everything. I want to shove the whole thing down my throat at once.
I can feel him watching me, so I keep my eyes on anything else. The filigreed place settings. The embroidered tablecloth. The gravy in a small pool beside four thick slabs of poultry.
I have so many questions, but they would all reveal my feelings about a man who doesn’t exist, and I won’t give any of that to Prince Corrick. He’s already taken too much. I tear another small piece of bread and say, “Quint knows the truth. About you. And me.”
“Yes.” He pauses. “He is the Palace Master. And a friend. There is very little that goes on here that Quint doesn’t know about.”
“But . . . but the king doesn’t know.”
“No.” Corrick glances away. “I never wanted to put Harristan in a position where he would be forced to deny it.”
“If you were caught.”
“Yes.”
“I could tell everyone,” I say, finally meeting his eyes with a glare. “Reveal your secret. The King’s Justice is secretly a smuggler stealing from the royal elites.”
“Go right ahead,” he says mildly. “You wouldn’t be the first prisoner to come up with a clever story.” He slices a piece of meat. “If you decide you don’t want to stay here, it’s a good way to earn yourself a trip to the Hold.”
“If I decide? Is that a joke?”
“I didn’t lure you into the palace.” His voice has turned hard. “In fact, when you forced my hand, I did my very best to convince you that tensions were high and you would do well to stay out of the Royal Sector for a while.”
When I forced his hand. When we stood in the woods, and he didn’t want to make a run for supplies. He tried to talk me out of it, and I shook him off and demanded revolution.
A revolution I now realize he could never be a part of.
Of course he had to kill off Weston Lark. I might as well have done it myself.
“And here we are,” I whisper. Against my will, my eyes well again, and I sniff back the tears and shove more bread into my mouth. “Who did you hang in your place?”
“A true smuggler,” he says easily. “He might have gotten away with Moonflower petals, but he thought to spend a few minutes taking advantage of the lady of the house, and her son heard the commotion and rang the alarm. I hear the man beat her rather badly before he was discovered.”
I’m staring at him. I’m not sure what to say.
Corrick takes a sip from his glass. “Surely you don’t think we were the only ones sneaking into the sector to steal medicine. It wasn’t difficult to plant a mask on him.”
I remember the alarms and lights from the night Wes went missing. I thought they were for him.
My mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut. “You . . . you said you worked in the forges. You said you were from Steel City.”
He shrugs and runs a hand across the back of his neck, looking abashed. “It was as good a place as any other. I have an interest in metalworking, so I can speak to it a bit.”
It’s so difficult to remind myself that he’s not Wes. His manner has changed again, and he’s more relaxed now that we’re alone and I’m not punching him in the crotch. I was wondering how he wore two faces, but after seeing him with different people, I’m thinking he has dozens of faces that he shows when the need arises. I have no idea which is real, but his easy manner is making it hard to remain tense and frightened. If I close my eyes, we could be back in the workshop, sitting by the fire, trading silly banter.
No. I can’t. I can’t forget that he’s Prince Corrick. He could snap his fingers and have me executed right here.
I draw a shaky breath. “What—” I have to clear my throat. “When I was in chains—when you—when that other woman spoke for me—”
“Consul Cherry. Of Sunkeep.” He takes another bite of food, as if my emotions weren’t crumbling to pieces right in front of him.
My mouth stalls. I swallow. He was so harsh. That’s what I’m having the hardest time reconciling. He was so playful and decent as Wes.
He sets down the fork and looks at me. That’s a
lmost worse. His eyes are so piercing. No wonder prisoners beg for death.
But then he says, “Ask your question, Tessa,” and his voice is soft and low and familiar, no hint of ice or steel in his tone.
I draw a breath. “You knew it was me,” I say. “When I was lying there in chains. I couldn’t see you, but you could see me. You had to know.”
“I knew.”
“And . . . and you were so cruel.” For all my rebellious bravado, my voice won’t rise above a whisper now. I need to understand. I need him to explain it to me.
“I told you,” he says. “Cruelty is expected. Necessary, in fact, in front of Consul Cherry.” His eyes flick to the door and back to mine. “In front of my guards, who will gossip about whatever they see and whatever they hear.”
I study him. I consider the way he threw me on the ground when the guard burst through the door. The way he adjusted the fabric over my shoulder once the door was closed.
The man on the gates was hung for being a smuggler, but he was caught raping and beating a woman. Isn’t that what Corrick said? That part isn’t public knowledge—just the smuggling.
Meanwhile, Corrick is allowing people to think he’s abusing me—when he hasn’t actually harmed me since the moment I woke up in the pile of pillows. I consider the food in front of me, or the way Quint is preparing a room.
“Why would you want people to think you’re horrible?” I say.
He inhales as if to speak, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say, because he gives a slight shake of his head. “Why did you really sneak into the palace?” he asks quietly.
“I told you. I hoped—I hoped to steal medicine. I hoped to help the people we left vulnerable when Wes—when you—when we stopped.”
“You made it into the servants’ passageways, so you would have had quick access to our rooms.” He pauses. “You know what they found in your pack. Did you seek to kill the king?”
I say nothing. My mouth goes dry. To even admit the thought crossing my mind is treason. It was only a moment, but I thought of it.
I wonder what my father would think of me right now. Did I fail? Or did I make the right choice?
“Did you seek to kill me?” Corrick adds.
I wet my lips. I won’t say yes—but I can’t deny it either. “I couldn’t do it,” I whisper.
“You’re not a killer.”
I nod. He knows I’m not.
His eyes go hard again, like twin slabs of ice in the moonlight. “Kindness leaves you vulnerable, Tessa. I learned that lesson years ago. I’m surprised you haven’t.”
Years ago. When my parents died?
No, that’s ridiculous. That wouldn’t have affected him. But I realize that I’m forgetting—again—that he’s a member of the royal family, and he’s faced his own losses.
So . . . when his parents died? What does that mean? He’s changed faces again, and I’m not sure what’s safe to say.
Corrick wipes his hands on his napkin. “Eat your dinner. I’ll take you to your room so you can get some sleep. You’ll need it. Quint will be banging on your door at sunrise.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Corrick
I don’t want to take Tessa to another room. I want to keep her here, right here, where I know no one can hurt her. Where she can’t take any actions that will force my hand.
I want to sneak her out of the palace and over the wall and back into the workshop, where we can stand in the quiet firelight as Wes and Tessa.
Where I can help my subjects instead of harming them.
What I want never matters, so I lead her down the hushed hallway, our feet making little noise on the velvet carpeting. She’s barefoot, her hair long and unbound down her back, her hand clutching that scrap of fabric against her shoulder. My guards have the good sense to keep their eyes forward.
Quint has chosen the Emerald Room, which, contrary to its name, is decorated in shades of red and pink, from the satin coverlets on the bed to the heavy curtains that line the walls. The only element of green at all is the massive jewel hanging from the neck of the woman in the portrait over the fireplace. My great-grandmother. It’s a good room, nothing too grand for someone who is ostensibly a prisoner, but definitely a sign that Tessa is not someone destined for the Hold.
Four guards have been stationed by the door, which feels like overkill, but then I consider how easily she got inside the palace and I say nothing.
We stop outside the door to her room, and she glances at the guards, her eyes a bit wide.
“They won’t harm you,” I say. “Unless you try to leave.”
“That’s it?” she whispers.
“If you wake early, the guards can call for food.”
“You’re leaving me here. Alone.”
“Should I not?”
She shakes her head quickly, then steps across the threshold and turns to face me, as if she thinks I’m going to grab her arm and jerk her back out.
“And I can close the door,” she says.
“I recommend it.”
She stares at me for the longest moment, then grabs hold of the door and swings it closed softly. After a moment, I hear a key turn in the lock.
I glance at the man closest to the door. I don’t know every single guard by name, but I know Lieutenant Molnar. He’s older, well into his sixties, with thick graying hair. He served my grandparents, and then my parents, and now us. He’s quiet, but he knows his job, and he does it well. He follows orders and doesn’t gossip—and he’s senior enough that he won’t let the others do it either.
“You have a key?” I say to him.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Good.”
I should return to my own chambers, but I’m too rattled, too unsettled. I feel like I’ll never sleep again.
I hate you.
When she said it to Wes, she never meant it.
When she said it to Prince Corrick, I could feel her conviction in every syllable. I. Hate. You.
I walk past my chambers, guards trailing me as I stride down the hallway. They don’t usually shadow me everywhere, but I’m sure Tessa’s sudden appearance has their captain spooked.
I stop in front of Harristan’s door. His guards tell me he’s asleep, but I’m the only person they’d allow through without protest. I slip through the door like a ghost, carefully easing it closed so the latch doesn’t click. The only light in the room comes from the hearth, which has burned down to embers. A tray with teacups and saucers sits on the side table, but one is on the table near Harristan’s bed. Good.
I can hear his breathing from here.
Not good.
I rub my hands over my face and sit in the armchair near his desk. A leather folio sits on top of all his other documents, the seal from Artis.
I ease it off the desk and flip the cover open. They’ve submitted an amended request for funding. Jonas is wasting no time. I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Cory.”
I glance up. Harristan is blinking at me from the bed.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I say.
“So are you.” He pauses. “What did you do to the girl?”
“She’s sleeping in the Emerald Room. Under heavy guard.”
“No.” He gives me a look. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I fed her dinner and sent her to bed.”
He studies me. I study him back.
I want to tell him. I’ve wanted to tell him for years. He’d understand my drive to get out of the palace, to get out of the Royal Sector. He’s the one who taught me how to sneak out, how to scale the wall and get lost in the pleasures of the Wilds. He’s the one who always wanted freedom from this place.
I’m the one who got it, even if only for a short while, and it seems unfair to taunt him with the knowledge.
Even if it’s over. I’m done.
Regardless, it’s as treasonous an act as anything I could come up with. I was stealing from our subjects. I was act
ing in direct opposition to his orders—in direct opposition to orders I’m expected to enforce. If anyone found out, it would be a scandal beyond measure.
Harristan’s gaze is heavy, as if he can pick apart my secrets with nothing more than his eyes, and I finally have to look away.
He clears his throat. “I find it hard to believe that you’d offer leniency to someone who snuck into the palace to kill me.”
He’s right, but I can offer him this truth. “She snuck in to steal medicine. She meant no harm.”
“A smuggler?”
“Not quite.” I think of the books in her pack, the way Quint thought we would need spin. “She has many theories about how to adjust the dosage of Moonflower elixir to make it more effective.” This isn’t a lie, but it feels like one. I pause. “She steals medicine and distributes it among the people. For those who cannot afford it.”
That turns him quiet for a long time, as I thought it might. Regardless of what people think, Harristan isn’t heartless. The dwindling fire snaps in the hearth. “Do you think there are many who do this?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
“When the guards said someone breeched the palace, I thought revolution had finally found us.”
I think of the true smugglers who escaped, the way the crowd called for rebellion. “It still might.”
He falls quiet again, but this time, his eyelids flicker.
“Sleep,” I say softly. I stand. “I’ll leave.”
“Cory.” His voice catches me before I reach the door.
I stop and turn. “What?”
“There’s something you’re not telling me about her.”
My brother rarely dwells in details, and it usually serves him well. But there are times, like now, when something earns his focus, and it’s always hard to shake it loose.
I’ve been quiet too long, and the silence swells between us.
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