“I know people keep secrets from me,” he says. “I didn’t think you were among them.”
If his voice was harsh or full of censure, I’d deny it. But Harristan is rarely like that with me, especially not when we’re alone. There are few people who have his full trust in the palace. I might be the only one. For the barest instant, I wonder if this might chip away at it.
“I keep no secrets that put you at risk,” I say.
“I know,” he says equably.
Of course he does. But it puts my mind at ease.
But then he says, “I’d like to talk to her.”
I wonder how that will go. I imagine Tessa throwing a punch at my brother, or tossing a drink in his face. There are a million things she could say that would end with her in the Hold—or worse. There are a million questions Harristan could ask—and a million wrong answers that will put Tessa in danger.
But he’s the king, and no matter how much power I have, he has more. I nod. “I’ll arrange it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tessa
I should be in a prison cell.
Honestly, I should probably be hanging from the sector wall with daggers in my eyes, a warning to anyone else who might want to sneak into the palace.
Instead, I’m in a room that’s six times the size of the one where I live. I have a washroom to myself, which I’ve never had in my life, and it’s stocked with stacks of linens and towels, in addition to a dozen jars of soaps and lotions and crushed petals that smell of lavender and roses. There are two faucets branching over the tub, and I’m shocked to discover that one dispenses warm water. In the boarding house, if we want a bath, we boil water in a stockpot, then use the washtub behind the kitchen.
The lighting here is brighter than I’m used to. I know electricity runs in the Royal Sector, but seeing it from the shadows is different from sitting beneath an electric lantern and knowing it will never burn out or need more oil. Six small levers are affixed along the wall beside the bed, and I gingerly test each one, to discover that every lantern is connected to its own switch.
The closet isn’t overly full, though it’s been stocked with linen underthings, soft silken stockings, and half a dozen dresses made from miles of silk, lace, brocade, and satin. Lace-up boots and velvet slippers and shining shoes line the floor in three different sizes. Everything reeks of wealth and extravagance—and, to my surprise, modesty. The sleeves are tasteful and full. No neckline will reveal any more than a hint of cleavage. They’re all beautiful, and the corseted backs will keep them from being shapeless, but after Corrick practically tore my dress off in front of his guard, they’re not at all what I expected. Did Quint select these clothes? What did he say?
The king will never allow you to keep her here as some kind of tortured concubine.
No one will expect it either. Not in these clothes, anyway.
Every time I move, I expect a guard to come barreling into the room and rip my arms off. I locked the door, so I’ll have at least a moment’s warning.
Like that would help me do anything more than panic.
I remove the torn dress and slip into one of the sleeping shifts in the closet, then belt a dressing gown over the top of it all. I lie on the bed and turn all the switches off, then stare at the ceiling, flickering with gold from the firelight.
I’ll never fall asleep here. I wonder if I’ll ever fall asleep again.
I should be thinking of everything I’ve learned about Corrick and this twisted secret that allows him to torture his people in the daylight while saving them at night. I should be thinking of Karri and Mistress Solomon and how they’ll react when I don’t return. I should be thinking of how long I’ll be kept in a room like this, before I’m ultimately tossed in the Hold.
I should be thinking of a way to get out of here.
Instead, my apothecary mind is thinking about King Harristan. I’m thinking about the way he started coughing and couldn’t stop. I’m thinking of the note of fear in Corrick’s voice when he said, “He is not sick.”
My brain was still spinning with panic, but I know what that cough means.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.
I can’t help myself. They have the best medicine here in the palace. They dose themselves three times a day, Wes used to say—which is probably true, since Wes was Corrick, and he was presumably receiving all of those doses.
Is the elixir beginning to fail? Is the king somehow more susceptible to the fever? Or is someone affecting his dosage of the Moonflower, like some kind of reverse poisoning, where they prevent access to something he needs? I have no way of knowing, and I’m certain no one will feed me the answers. I already slipped into the palace. I don’t need to start inquiring about ways to make the king sick.
My brain won’t stop working, though. My father used to talk about how too much medicine was sometimes worse than not having enough. Could the king be taking too much? They have the best apothecaries and doctors here, though. Surely. His dosage is likely well monitored.
If the medicine is losing its effectiveness . . . I don’t want to think about the ramifications of that.
And if King Harristan dies, that means Corrick becomes king.
I don’t want to think about the ramifications of that either. No matter what he said in his chambers or what he did as Weston Lark, he’s still responsible for a great deal of suffering. Corrick can’t undo that. He’s terrifying enough as King’s Justice. I can already tell that King Harristan has a limit. He didn’t like the way Corrick was planning to . . . abuse me.
I have no idea where Prince Corrick’s limits are.
I doubt I want to find out. I doubt anyone in Kandala wants to find out.
My belly is full, and this room is so quiet and warm, such a contrast to those minutes when I was pinned on the cold floor, Prince Corrick’s fist tight in my hair. I shiver without meaning to.
But then he sat there at the dinner table, when it was just me and him, and for the briefest of moments he was like Wes again, a little funny and a little fierce.
I press a hand to my chest as my eyes well. My heart aches with each beat.
Wes isn’t dead. My brain wants to rejoice.
But Wes wasn’t real. A tear slips free.
“Miss.” A hand rests on my arm. “Miss.”
I jerk and shove myself upright. I didn’t expect to sleep, but I must have. My limbs feel heavy and slow to work. The room is flooded with early morning sunlight—I didn’t draw any of the curtains last night. I’m still in a sleeping shift and the belted dressing gown, but I never drew a blanket over myself.
A serving girl in a blue dress and a light-gray apron stands over me. She has ink-black hair tied into a tight twist at the back of her head, dark olive skin, and brown eyes. Something about her is familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe she was among the girls I followed into the palace yesterday.
“Forgive me, miss,” she says. “Master Quint asked me to have you dressed and ready by half past eight. I’ve drawn your bath.”
“I locked the door,” I say.
“I knocked,” she says. “But you were asleep.” She pauses. “The guards have a key.”
I’m not quite awake enough yet. I blink at her. She’s young, maybe even younger than I am. I see that two guards are now inside the room, standing passively by the doorway. I wonder if they’re here to make sure I don’t get out of hand. They don’t look too concerned, however. If anything, they look bored. I guess I’m not an exciting sleeper.
“How—” I begin. “What—”
“It’s half past seven,” the girl says. “My name is Jossalyn. We have little time.”
“But—it’s not going to take me an hour to bathe.”
“No, miss. But you’re meeting with the king at midmorning, so—”
“I’m what?” I scrub my hands over my face. Anxiety forms a pit in my stomach. “Wait. Did you say—the king?”
“Yes.” She hesitates, then wrings her hands a
bit. “I’ve called for breakfast. If you bathe now, it will be delivered by the time you dry.”
I don’t understand how she could say something like you’re meeting with the king in the same breath as talking about ordering food, but I shove the hair back from my face. “I can’t—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I can’t meet with the king.”
“It is by His Majesty’s request,” she says, as if that answers everything.
I glance at the guards by the door. They’re both standing stoically, but I’m sure they’re paying attention to every word we say now. One is older, and must be pushing sixty, though the other is younger and cast a long glance in my direction when I said I couldn’t meet with the king.
I’m not sure how I can tell, but it’s obvious that I’ll meet with the king if they have to drag me there by my toenails.
My heart stops in my chest and takes a moment to start working again.
Wes. Help me.
There is no Wes. There’s only Corrick.
I didn’t expect to survive the night, but I’ve made it till morning. I press my fingers into my eyes and take a long breath. I would give anything to open my eyes and be back in Mistress Solomon’s shop, Karri giving me a crooked smile.
“Miss?” says Jossalyn. She leans in until her voice is hardly louder than her breath. “The guards have been ordered to assist if you refuse to prepare.”
I jerk my fingers down. “Right. Fine. Time for a bath.”
I haven’t had assistance in the bath since I was a child, but Jossalyn seems unwilling to leave me alone, and I suspect my options are her or the guards, and I know which I prefer. I dunk my head under the water, and when I come up, she’s ready to scrub my hair.
“I can really do this myself,” I say.
“Yes, miss.” She doesn’t stop. Her fingers work my tangled tresses into a rich lather that smells of vanilla and sweet cream. In any other situation, this might be relaxing: the uncannily warm water, the soothing scents, the gentle pressure of her fingers. But I’m naked with a stranger, there are armed guards in the next room, and I’ll be facing King Harristan in a matter of hours.
In the Wilds, a lot of people call him Harristan the Horrible. I wonder if he knows.
The instant the thought comes to me, I’m terrified I’m going to say it out loud. In front of him.
If you throw a glass of liquor at my brother, I really will have to cut your hands off.
My chest feels tight. I sit still while Jossalyn pours water over my head to rinse my hair, and I imagine my eyes are burning from the suds instead of everything else.
What does he want? Why would he want to see me?
Jossalyn laces me into a gown with fabric softer than I’ve ever felt against my skin. The bodice and underskirt are a rich purple, but the material stretched over top is sheer and white, floating in a dozen layers to create a finished product in lavender. The neckline curves gently across my collarbones.
Jossalyn lays a towel across my shoulders and unbinds my wet hair. “Come,” she says. “Your breakfast awaits.”
The food looks every bit as delicious as it did last night. Maybe more so. But I only nibble at a bit of sliced fruit because my abdomen is so tense. The room is so silent, with Jossalyn combing through my damp hair while the guards stand near the doorway.
This almost feels worse than prison.
No. That’s such a stupid thought. The Hold would be awful. Probably.
“Be sure to take your elixir,” Jossalyn says, and my eyes fall on the small glass cup near my plate. The color is dark amber, so much richer than what we mix in the workshop, which barely colors the water at all.
I take a sip. It never tastes good, but concentrated, it’s worse than usual. I can’t believe they drink this three times a day. I hope they don’t make me do that.
Such a waste.
Jossalyn weaves my hair into a complicated braid that she pins in loops to the back of my head. Then she ignores my eating and begins smoothing a creamy lotion into my cheeks. I wonder if she’s used to doing this, preparing women in the palace while they go about ordinary tasks like eating. I get the sense that I could be spinning in circles or having a lively conversation, and she’d be right there, patiently applying cosmetics.
Invisible, the way people were in the streets yesterday.
I glance at her and try to hold still while she works. I’m technically a prisoner, but she isn’t treating me like one. She spared me any rough treatment from the guards, which I’m sure further hesitations would have caused. “Thank you,” I say softly. “For your kindness.”
“Yes, miss,” she says absently, but I feel her hand hesitate as if I’ve surprised her.
“Do you . . .” I clear my throat. “Do you know if I . . . if I’m meeting with the king alone?” Her eyes meet mine, questioning, and I clarify, “Will Corrick be there?”
Her hands go still, and she glances at the guards, then back at me. “I do not know the agenda of His Highness, Prince Corrick.” She says these last words with gentle emphasis. “Though Master Quint should, and you can inquire when he arrives.” She dabs at my eyelids with her fingertips.
His Highness, Prince Corrick. I’ve never had to consider royal protocol, and even though I know Weston Lark was all a farce, it’s hard to remember that I can’t just call him Corrick either. I swallow. “And . . . how do I address the king?”
Her voice drops, and she swipes a small brush through a pot of pink powder. “You address him as Your Majesty, though you should wait for him to address you first.” Her eyes meet mine for a moment. “No one addresses the king by name unless they have been invited to do so.”
I nod quickly.
She shifts slightly closer, and her voice drops further. “It’s intriguing to hear that you’re an apothecary. The girls have been talking all morning about how you’ve brought news of a new elixir.”
“I—what?” I think of Quint’s musings last night, his need for spin.
“Surely it isn’t a secret. The guards are the worst gossips anyway. My sister says they earn extra coin for whatever they bring back to their captain.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. When I followed the serving girls yesterday, they were chattering about Consul Cherry and Consul Pelham, something about a scandalous carriage ride.
With a start, I realize I know Consul Cherry. Corrick called her Arella—the woman who spoke for me when he was being so cruel. She seemed forthright and determined—not the type to be embroiled in a scandal.
Then again, she was speaking in my defense—in defense of a presumed smuggler. Maybe that’s all it takes to generate a scandal around here.
“Jossalyn,” says the older man by the door.
She doesn’t even flinch, simply brushing a stroke of pink along my eyelid. “Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Master Quint inquires as to your progress.”
“Nearly done.” She sets the pot of powder aside and reaches for another.
The door opens anyway, and Quint enters the room. He’s carrying what looks like a folded booklet. His jacket is buttoned nearly to his throat this morning, but he still needs a shave, and his red hair is already slightly untamed. “Tessa,” he says. “I hope you’ve eaten.”
“I—” I’ve hardly touched anything. “Yes?”
Jossalyn leans down and dabs color on my lips. “Stand up,” she whispers under her breath.
I stand up so quickly that I knock my stool over. “Sorry. Your—” No. Wait. He’s not royalty. “Ah—Master? Quint.”
His eyebrows go up. Jossalyn giggles and rights the stool.
He glances at her. “You do lovely work, Jossalyn. She hardly looks like an apothecary from the Wilds.”
She tucks her hands into her skirts and drops into a fluid curtsy. “Thank you, Master Quint.”
I feel like I should be taking notes. Maybe she can go with me to meet the king. I want to grab hold of her hand.
Especially when Quint says, “Leave
us. She will be returned to her rooms at sunset to prepare for dinner.”
She curtsies again, then slips out the door.
“Thank you!” I call, but she’s already gone.
The guards exchange a glance, then follow, pulling the door closed behind them.
I’m left staring at Quint. Jossalyn was so peaceful in her manner that I began to forget that I’m a prisoner here. This dress feels too tight to breathe in. I want to run, to burst through the door and bolt down the hallway and say a prayer for escape. I press a hand against my abdomen and draw a shaky breath.
“Be at ease,” he says. “The Tessa I heard stories of could scale the sector walls without fear and pick window locks without leaving a scratch. Surely I’m not so intimidating.”
No. He’s not. I don’t understand how a man like this can be a friend to a man like Prince Corrick. His voice is so gentle that my eyes begin to well.
He pulls a handkerchief free and holds it out. “Don’t ruin Jossalyn’s handiwork.”
I take it but sniff the tears back. “Right.”
Then I realize what he said. The Tessa I heard stories of.
Corrick talked about me? Every time I think I begin to understand him, something else comes along to shatter the illusion.
Quint flips open the book he carries. The pages are filled with notes that look hastily written, and I notice there are ink smudges on his fingertips. “As I’m sure Jossalyn mentioned, you are to meet with the king at nine, per his request—”
“Why?”
“He is the king. He doesn’t need to say why. But likely about your medicinal insights.” He looks at me pointedly, and I nearly choke on my breath, but I force myself to nod.
“Afterward,” he continues, “Consul Cherry has asked to see about your welfare, if the king permits, which he likely will, as you seem quite well this morning—”
“Wait—I don’t—”
“I have quite a bit to get through, my dear.” Quint doesn’t look up. “At ten, you will begin your lessons with Mistress Kent—”
“Lessons? Lessons in what?”
At that, he stops with his finger on the page and looks up at me. “Etiquette.”
Defy the Night Page 14