The thought comes as a blow.
Something must flicker in my expression, something that exposes a flash of vulnerability or weakness, because Allisander steps forward and says, “Yes, Corrick. I would.”
“Very well. You are banned from the palace until you can remember that I am King’s Justice, and you are Consul of Moonlight Plains. You will not countermand my orders with guards I provided for your protection, and you will not—”
“You cannot ban me from the palace.” He looks like he wants to knock me into the wall.
“Shall I find you a cell among your friends? They seem crowded. Perhaps you could share.”
His hands have formed fists, and his eyes are cold. “No,” he says through gritted teeth.
I raise my eyebrows.
“No,” he says again, “Your Highness.”
“Remember that,” I snap. “Yours is not the only sector with the Moonflower.” I turn and head for the stairs without waiting to see if he follows or not.
I’ve been waiting for Harristan for twenty minutes, and I’m about ready to tear the wallpaper from the walls. Instead, I’m looking at stacks of paperwork that are accumulating in front of me: detailed accountings of each sector’s medicinal allotment, along with the most recent census per town, as well as death records and health records and crime records. More information than I could ever care to need.
“What is all this?” I ask a page as he carries yet another stack into my quarters.
“By order of the king, Your Highness,” he says, before offering a quick bow and leaving the room—just to reappear minutes later with more. He looks at the laden table doubtfully.
I want to tell him to toss it all in the fireplace.
“Just stack it on the floor,” I say.
I sent word to Quint, hoping he’d bustle through my doorway with information about Tessa’s meeting with my brother, but apparently he’s been dealing with some kind of issue with the kitchen staff.
I have no idea what Harristan is doing—or why he’d send me all this. I sent word to him, too, and my brother’s response was a terse, “Later.”
I move to the side table and pour a glass of wine.
The page returns with another stack. Lord. I pour the wine back into the bottle and switch to brandy.
I enjoy details, and I’m not opposed to digging through mountains of documents, but this . . . this is a bit much. I’m not even sure of the purpose.
I want to send word to Tessa, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t be read and gossiped about—and I need to know how her meeting with Harristan went so I can decide how I want our interactions to be viewed.
I also can’t stop thinking about these Benefactors, and what that means. Is someone behind these attacks, these raids? For the people to take such a risk would require funding of some sort. Or medicine. Otherwise the risk to the people is simply too great.
If these attacks continue, Allisander will slow his shipments. The risk to Kandala is too great.
On my final night as Weston Lark, I asked Tessa if she knew who they were, and she didn’t. She wouldn’t have lied to Wes. I wish we’d had one more night, one more chance to talk to the people.
But of course I’ve undone any chance of that.
I drag my hands through my hair. I’m exhausted, and it’s hardly the middle of the afternoon.
When the page appears with more, I snap, “Enough.”
He flinches and almost drops them all.
I sigh. “Put them on the floor. I’ll send for you when I’ve reviewed what you’ve brought.”
In a year, most likely.
Finally, an agonizing hour later, the guards announce my brother. After the way he made me wait, I expect him to come storming in, but instead, Harristan strides into my room casually, letting the door fall closed behind him.
“Corrick.” He takes one look at the stacks of folios and paperwork and frowns. “What’s all this?”
“You tell me.” I take a sip of my drink. “It was sent here by your order.”
“Oh. Yes. The girl claims our dosages in the Royal Sector are too high. Will you see if we have data that may corroborate this? The palace physicians are looking into it, but you’re better with all this.” He waves a hand at the piles.
Meaning he doesn’t have the patience—or the time—for it. I don’t either, really. My heart is thumping at what Tessa told him. “And when would you like this analysis?”
He eases into the chair across from me and lifts the cover on a folio before letting it fall closed. “Tomorrow.”
I choke on my drink. “An entire day, Harristan? Why not in an hour?”
“I will not have her staying in the palace if her reasons for being here are not valid.”
I set my drink down and stare at him. He stares back at me.
Last night, in the quiet darkness of his quarters, he said that I was keeping secrets from him—but he didn’t demand answers. He doesn’t demand them now either. But his position is clear.
I am both surprised and not that Tessa was able to somehow convince my brother that her reasons for being in the palace were valid. Not just valid, but . . . beneficial.
“I’ll go through the reports,” I say quietly.
“Good.” He reaches for my glass of brandy and takes a sip. “You do realize you can’t ban Allisander from the palace indefinitely.”
I grimace. “I didn’t realize the news would reach you so quickly.”
“He issued a complaint almost immediately.”
“From the palace steps, I imagine.”
Harristan doesn’t smile. “As a matter of fact, yes.” He hesitates. “Even if our dosages are faulty, we cannot alienate our primary supplier.”
“Allisander grows too bold.”
“For all of Arella’s demands for leniency, her sector is not a major supplier for Kandala. Nor is Roydan’s.”
I know this. He knows I know this. He sets the glass on the table and I take it. “Stringing people up outside the gates hasn’t stopped the smugglers,” I say. “If anything, they grow bolder.”
“For certain. They sneak right into the palace and find themselves in my brother’s room.”
I drain the glass and look away. “Lord, Harristan.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to press me for more information. My brother is no fool. He knows there’s more to Tessa than what I’ve said. He admitted as much last night.
But he simply glances at the papers and stands. “You have much to do.” He claps me on the shoulder before turning for the door. “I’ll take care of Allisander.”
“Thank you.”
I can’t say it aloud, but I’m thanking him for more than just handling an irritated consul. I’m thanking him for his trust. For allowing me to keep my secrets.
For allowing me to protect Tessa.
He knows it, too, because he offers a small smile. “You’re welcome, Cory.”
Then his smile is gone, and he’s reaching for the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Corrick
Quint is sprawled in a chair in my quarters, eating strawberries while the sun sets in the window behind him. He’s been talking about nothing for at least twenty minutes, and usually I don’t care, but my nerves are so on edge that I’m ready to have my guards drag him out of here.
“And then,” he’s saying, “Jonas told the guards that the girl was his niece, if you can believe that. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.”
I fight with the gold buttons on my jacket, then jerk it off my shoulders to toss onto the bed alongside the others I’ve tried and discarded. “I feel like there must be a matter somewhere in the palace that needs your attention.”
“More than likely.” He picks up another strawberry and twists the stem free. “Try the black one again.”
I frown. That’s the jacket Geoffrey first pulled from my wardrobe—and likely the one he expects that I’m still wearing. I yanked it off when I
realized it reminds me too much of what I do for my brother, which makes me worry it will remind Tessa of what I do for my brother. I reach for the red one instead.
“Absolutely not,” says Quint.
I sigh and set it aside, then run a hand across my jaw.
Quint sets the strawberry down and walks past the pile on my bed, heading for my wardrobe. “Honestly, Corrick. The girl has seen you in wool and broadcloth.” He surveys the contents for a moment and pulls a garment free. “Here.”
The jacket is a deep-blue brocade, with a faint pattern of leaves in a slightly darker shade, with a black silk collar and silver piping. The buttons are burnished silver. It’s soft and simple and I’ve never worn it—it’s nothing I would normally wear.
“No,” I say.
“You don’t want to be the prince. You can’t be the outlaw. Shall we come up with another identity?”
“Quint.”
He holds open the jacket like a valet. “You know the salon will be packed with courtiers at this hour. Do you want to leave your girl to the vipers?”
No. I don’t. And he’s right: it doesn’t matter what I wear. I can’t be who she wants me to be. I sigh and slip my arms into the sleeves. “She still hates me.”
“She hates that you lied. There’s a difference.” Quint steps around to face me. He bats my hands away from the buttons, then takes them up himself.
“I had no idea you knew how to button a jacket,” I say, feigning wonder.
“Hush.” He finishes the last button, brushes invisible dust from my shoulder, and steps back.
I tug at my shirtsleeves and realize that he’s studying me. This is what most people miss about Quint: he seems scattered and shallow, but underneath, he’s a keen observer who sees everything and forgets nothing.
“What?” I say.
“I heard what happened in the Hold today. With Consul Sallister.”
“How I banned him from the palace?” I grunt. “Harristan had a few words about that.”
“No. About how you ordered that the prisoners be fed and treated.”
I frown. “Sallister had most of them beaten half to death, Quint. If he wants to find out who’s behind the raids on his supply runs, he needs to leave me someone to question.”
He says nothing.
I roll my eyes and turn for the door. “Now you have nothing to say?”
“Tessa may be safe, and she may not like the truth,” he says quietly. “But here, you can only be Prince Corrick.”
“I know.”
“You can only be the King’s Justice.”
I want to be irritated, but I’m not. Maybe I needed the reminder.
My voice is just as level as his. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Of course not.” Quint reaches for the door. “Your evening awaits, Your Highness.”
Quint was right. The salon is packed with courtiers. I spot Jonas Beeching in the corner, and the consul is sharing a drink with a young woman with raven-dark curls that spill down her back. She appears to be half his age, and I wonder if this is the niece Quint mentioned. Jonas must feel my gaze, because he begins to look up, so I glance away. He’ll want to emphasize the need for his bridge request for Artis again, and I have no desire to play politics tonight.
But then, just for a moment, I glance back, thinking of that moment at the table when Allisander mentioned that Jonas’s request for too much silver might have something to do with the Benefactors who are funding the rebels. I turn that around in my head, and it doesn’t quite seem to fit. Jonas is too complacent, too happy to allow the world to keep turning as it always has because nothing bad affects him personally.
I scan the crowd for Tessa, wondering if any of the ladies have sunk their claws into her yet. Gossip fills the air like a haze, and though voices drop when I draw near, I catch a few scattered comments as I stride through the room.
Apparently she’s an apothecary.
I heard she spent the night with the prince.
I don’t care what some girl says, my physician recommends four doses a day.
She’d better watch her throat.
I roll my eyes and take a glass of wine from a passing servant with a tray.
Maybe the king tried to sneak her into the palace.
Perhaps she’s carrying his bastard.
I choke on my drink.
Well. That will come as a surprise to Harristan.
I don’t see Tessa, and it takes effort to keep from pulling my pocket watch free. Across the room, Jonas looks like he’s gathering the nerve to approach me. If Tessa doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to have to find someone else to talk to or I’ll be forced to listen to him.
“Your Highness.”
The quiet voice speaks from beside me, and I turn to find myself facing Lissa Marpetta. She and Allisander control the supply of Moonflower in Kandala, but she doesn’t annoy me half as much as he does. She doesn’t annoy me at all, honestly. She’s nearly twice my age, and she was once close with my mother. I often wonder if that’s part of the reason she never pushes me or Harristan too hard. Many of the consuls think she is passive, a woman who was once close with the royal family, who later lucked into wealth and power. Harristan disagrees. He thinks she’s clever. While Allisander has no hesitation in speaking out for what he wants, Lissa always seems happy to let him fight the battles while her sector reaps the rewards.
“Consul,” I say. “I thought you’d returned to Emberridge.”
“I heard there were developments in the palace, and Allisander sent word that I should return.”
Of course he did. “A misunderstanding,” I say smoothly. “The girl brought evidence to the palace that our dosages require a closer look.”
She studies me. “You would believe the word of a girl from the Wilds over your royal physicians?”
“I believe we should listen to anyone who might suggest a way to make the medicine more effective.”
Lissa hesitates. “With all due respect, Your Highness, I would suggest that you proceed with great care.”
I take a sip of my drink. “You think I would be reckless?”
“I think your parents were too trusting of those outside the palace.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I was quite fond of your mother. I do not want to see the same fate befall you and your brother.”
I look back at her, and some of my agitation dissipates. It’s rare that any of them take a moment for sentimentality with us, especially now. I nod. “Of course, Consul.”
She moves away, and I drain the last of my glass. I didn’t need the reminder about my parents. I don’t need the reminder that Tessa’s theories are just that—theories.
A sudden hush descends on the room as someone new seizes their attention. I see a fancy dress, a fair complexion, and a pile of curls, and my eyes almost dismiss the newcomer as another courtier . . . until I realize it’s Tessa.
She’s been dressed in a striking gown of crimson velvet, though the skirts are split down the side to reveal a swath of sheer cream-colored voile when she moves. Her arms are bare, though someone has wound a lengthy stretch of red satin ribbon in a complicated pattern along her forearms, and it’s tied off just above her elbow. Her expression is aloof, her mouth unsmiling, her eyes flinty. Led by guards, she could easily look like a prisoner, but instead, she looks like a queen.
Her steps slow as she enters the room, her eyes searching the faces.
The whispers have begun anew. Tessa’s stoic countenance begins to give way, and I can tell she’s hearing some of the comments. Her gaze begins to flick left and right, looking less aloof and more panicked.
I step across the room. “Tessa.”
She gives a little jolt, then looks up at me. An attendant has lined her eyes with dark colors and brushed pinks across her cheeks. Her lips are a lighter red than the dress, and they part slightly when she gasps.
Tessa must realize she’s staring, because her eyes go cool and she clamps her mouth shut. She takes hold of he
r skirts and drops into a curtsy that somehow manages to be both graceful and belligerent. Clearly etiquette lessons went well. “Your Highness.”
Only she could turn a curtsy into an act of defiance.
I bow in return, then offer my arm. “Shall we?”
She hesitates, uncertainty flickering behind the boldness in her eyes. Every person in this room is watching her reaction, waiting to see how she’ll proceed—and how I’ll respond. Half are simply curious, but half are undoubtedly waiting for a bit of vicious entertainment, something they can whisper about once I’m gone. Some of them are probably hoping blood will spill.
Quint’s warnings are loud in my head. You can only be the King’s Justice.
Maybe Tessa can read the shift in my expression, because her hand lands on my arm weightlessly. I can feel her fingers trembling.
She’s still afraid of me. That pierces a hole in all of Quint’s warnings.
A part of me wishes I could undo it, but I have no idea how to undo all of what I am. I consider the way my parents died, and I don’t even know if I would.
The doors swing open as we approach, the cool night air swirling against my skin. The cobblestone road in front of the palace is bustling with activity. Horses and carriages come and go, servants and footmen scurrying about. Somewhere, a horse whinnies, and a man shouts for a porter.
A footman stops in front of us and bows. “Your Highness. Your carriage is ready.”
“A carriage,” whispers Tessa.
“Did you think we would walk?” I say, leading her down the steps.
In the sunlight, my carriage is a deep burgundy, but in the moonlight, it looks black. Silver accents glint in the light from the lanterns. Four horses stand in gleaming harness, tiny bells jingling when they toss their heads. The footman holds the door, and I offer Tessa my hand.
She narrows her eyes at me, ignores my hand, and climbs inside.
I’m about to follow, but Captain Huxley stops beside the carriage. “Your Highness.”
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