I’ve only ever seen the Circle in the early hours of the morning, and only when I’m sprinting through the deserted streets of the Royal Sector with stolen petals in my pack. In the dark, the dais is gray, the tables and chairs unremarkable, the pots of flowers drab and lifeless.
When Corrick leads me out of the carriage, I’m jolted by the difference.
Now, yellow and white roses spill from massive pots set among the tables, filling the air with a rich aroma. Stained-glass lanterns hang suspended on wires strung above the patrons, casting a flickering multicolored glow across the crowded space. No walls separate those dining from the cobblestone streets, but dozens of carriages line the way, bored attendants waiting with the horses. In the Wilds, it’s rumored that the elites would spend a week’s worth of silver just to dine here.
I look around at the painted faces, the elegant finery, and I think it might be true.
Every eye follows us from the carriage to our table.
Our presence here must have been prearranged, because our table is at one end of the dais, set apart from the others, with room for the guards to stand between us and the other diners. Wine has already been poured, and a basket of steaming bread sits between us. It’s simultaneously private yet not at all. If the guards were steel bars, this would be a cage. Conversation is loud in the night air, but the space between us hangs heavy with silence again.
Corrick sits in his chair as comfortably as he lounged on the velvet seat of the carriage, and he takes a lazy sip of wine.
I’m perched on the edge of my chair, and I want to drain my entire glass and ask for a dozen more.
The prince is watching me. “Second thoughts?” he says.
“Quint said it would be public, but . . . I didn’t realize it would be like this.”
He lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “We could have dined in the palace, but that would have been worse.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Worse?”
“Here, few people will dare to approach our table.” He takes another sip of wine. “In the palace, we wouldn’t have had a moment of privacy.”
“And you think we have that now.” I pick up my glass and limit myself to a sip.
“Not as much as I’d like, but Quint wants people to see you as a potential ally to the throne.” His voice turns dry. “Not the outlaw who, according to rumor, slipped into the palace to assassinate the king.”
I cough on a sip of wine. My rash decision to enter the palace feels like a nightmare I wish I could shake off. “Of course.”
He glances past the guards, and his expression goes still. “Lord.” He downs the rest of his glass.
“What’s wrong?”
“Our evening is about to get less private.”
I follow his gaze and see a man weaving between tables.
Corrick looks at me, and his eyes spark with devilry, reminding me of Wes. His voice drops, like we’re co-conspirators. “If you want to throw a drink at this man, you have my full permission.”
I blink. “Wait. What?”
But he’s standing, smoothing his jacket, his face transforming into the darkly beguiling Prince Corrick.
If he’s standing, I probably should as well. I shove myself to my feet. A man steps between the guards without hesitation, so he must be someone of importance. He’s not much older than Corrick, maybe Harristan’s age, with a goatee that’s so thick it appears to be glued onto his face. It does nothing to hide the sour pinch to his mouth. He looks like a man who isn’t attractive at all but clearly believes he is.
“Consul!” Corrick says joyfully, like he’s greeting a long-lost friend. “Have you dined this evening? Join us.”
The man stops short. His eyes narrow. “Corrick.” He glances dismissively at me. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner with your . . . guest.”
He says guest as though Corrick invited a sow to leave a mud pit to sit at this table with him.
I don’t want to throw my drink. I want to throw that dagger.
“Nonsense,” says the prince. “Tessa, you have the honor of meeting Consul Allisander Sallister.”
Consul Sallister. Moonlight Plains. The man who would volley for power if he could.
A serving girl appears with another chair for the table. Another fills Corrick’s wineglass before vanishing. Invisible.
I wish I were. The tension between these two men is palpable. My heart thrums against my ribs, but I paste a smile on my face and curtsy. “Consul. I am honored.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “I understand from Harristan that our argument in the Hold was a misunderstanding.”
“Our argument?” Corrick blinks as if startled. “Allisander,” he says smoothly. “Did you truly think I would ban you from the palace?”
“I question your actions,” the consul says, his voice low and vicious—but not so low that nearby tables aren’t getting an earful. “I question your motives. Last week, you had eight captives and three escaped. Today, I brought you a dozen rebels and instead of interrogating them, you’re coddling them.” He glances at me pointedly. “To be frank, I’m surprised they’re not at this table with you.”
I flinch.
Corrick doesn’t. “You brought me a dozen unconscious rebels,” he says evenly. “I will question them and punish them in due course.” He pauses. “I will not do it over dinner, however.”
I shiver at the chill in his voice.
Consul Sallister leans in. “You promised my supply runs would be safe—”
“I promised guards, which you received.”
“—and you promised an end to these attacks—”
“Which you know I cannot guarantee.”
“—which you’ve made no effort to stop, if the new evidence of these Benefactors is to be believed.”
Silence falls between them like a blade. Corrick’s eyes are blue ice. The consul’s cheeks are red, his shoulders tight. I twist my fingers together. I wish Quint were here to talk about the tablecloths or the design of the lanterns.
“Perhaps,” I say, and my voice sounds wispy. I swallow. “Perhaps if word spreads that your apothecaries could make the medicine more effective, the supply raids will lessen.”
The consul’s eyes don’t shift to me. “What is she talking about?”
“Tessa’s arrival in the palace was unorthodox, I’ll admit,” says Corrick, “but she has presented evidence to Harristan that perhaps the dosages could be made more effective.”
“Or more people could die,” says the consul.
A new tightness wraps itself around my chest. He’s not wrong. My theories are only that—theories based on the small population of people in the Wilds. More people could die.
“Or more could live,” says Corrick. “Which I believe is an outcome we should all hope for.” His tone is cold, and hope feels miles away. “Don’t you agree, Allisander?”
“You are going to contradict the royal physicians for some . . . some girl? You go too far, Corrick. If there is another attack, I will halt my supply runs until you have determined who is responsible.”
I suck in a breath. This man controls the greatest supply of Moonflower petals in Kandala. If he stops providing it, people will die.
I’m not the only one who thinks so. A whisper flies through the crowd beyond the guards.
Corrick takes a step forward, and the night is full of so much dangerous potential that I wonder if he’s going to strike the other man or order the guards to put an arrow through his back.
Instead, Corrick drops his voice to a level that won’t be heard away from this table. The edge leaves his tone. “It’s been a long day for us both. I let my temper get the best of me earlier. I was angry that the Benefactors seem to be funding these attacks, and I can’t force answers out of unconscious thieves. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you.” He pauses. “Let’s not allow a few heated words to come between us.” He gestures to the table. “Please. Join us.”
The consul hes
itates, but now he looks uncertain instead of furious. “My supply runs—”
“Allisander.” Corrick claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends. His voice is no longer soft, and I can see necks craning to hear. “I’ll grant you whatever you need to protect your people. As always.”
Allisander clears his throat. “Very well.” He glances at the table. “I will not intrude on your dinner.”
“Will you be staying at the palace this evening?” says Corrick. “Perhaps a game of chess in the morning. We could discuss some alternative methods of protecting your deliveries.”
“Good.” Consul Sallister tugs his jacket straight and takes a step back. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“I look forward to it,” says Corrick.
After the consul leaves, I expect Corrick to look aggrieved, but he doesn’t. He extends a hand toward my chair. “Forgive the interruption. Please. Sit. Have you tried the bread?”
I sit, but I stare at him. He’s so formal and polite all of a sudden. This is like Prince Corrick Number Four. Or maybe Number Nineteen. I’ve lost track.
He must notice my bewildered expression. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m upset about what just happened,” he says, his tone low enough that his words are for me alone, but as perfectly even as when he mentioned the bread. “The cheese is very good, too. Try some. I insist.”
“Ah . . . sure.” I tear a piece of bread, trying to remember which knife was for cheese during my lesson with Mistress Kent.
Corrick lifts one of his and taps it with his index finger, so I look for my own. Out of everything, these tiny kindnesses from him are the most unexpected. I follow his lead and spread cheese across the surface of the bread, then take a bite.
It’s divine. The cheese melts onto my tongue, and I nearly forget what just happened.
But now that we’re eating, the other patrons go back to their meals. Conversation regains the near-cacophony volume from before Corrick and Allisander argued.
I study the prince. He’s such an enigma. Every time I think I understand the slightest thing about him, he does something new that doesn’t quite make sense. I can’t even tell who just gained ground—and who lost it.
He takes another piece of bread and slathers it with cheese. “I sense that you have questions.”
“Who just yielded? Was it you or him?”
“He did,” says Corrick. “But it looks like I did, which is what matters. I can’t have the entire Royal Sector thinking Allisander will blockade access to the Moonflower petals. I’m surprised he didn’t start a riot right here.”
“He really controls so much?”
“Yes. But he also doesn’t want to cease his shipments, because we’d be forced to rely on Lissa Marpetta alone, which would mean her prices would increase, and he doesn’t want to give up one single coin of profit—or the illusion of control.” Corrick sighs, looking irritated. “But if outlaws keep attacking his supply run, it won’t be worth it to him. Especially if someone with money is funding the attacks.”
Outlaws. My chest is tight again. “He said you have . . . prisoners.”
“I do.”
I keep thinking of the way King Harristan said, It’s the same to the night patrol. I have to force myself to swallow the food in my mouth, because it’s turned into a tasteless lump. “What . . . what are you going to do to them?”
“I’m going to question them and see what they know.” He pauses, his eyes holding mine, his tone level. “And then I will act accordingly.”
He doesn’t say this in a challenging way, but I feel like he’s thrown down a gauntlet anyway.
On the day of the execution before the gates, I remember thinking of how horrible the king and the prince were. Prince Corrick stood on the stage, so cold and uncaring. I longed for a crossbow to shoot them both, to free Kandala from their tyranny.
But I didn’t know about Consul Sallister then. I feel like that shouldn’t matter when people are dead . . . but after meeting him, I realize that it does.
I mentally realign everything that happened the morning before the execution that turned into calls for revolution—and the morning afterward. Wes was unsettled. Troubled.
I think that very few people truly deserve what they get, Tessa. For good or for bad.
I told him he only deserved good things, and he looked away.
He saved me on the night my parents died. He’s saved me countless times since.
He’s been responsible for the deaths of countless people, too.
The king’s voice is loud in my memories.
Every smuggler has a story to justify their actions. The penalties are well known. How can I turn a blind eye to one type of thievery and not another?
There are too many layers here. I thought it was as simple as right or wrong . . . but it’s not. My chest feels tight again, and my eyes go hot.
Corrick picks up his wineglass. “If you cry, I’ll be forced to comfort you.”
His tone says he’s teasing—but also not. It helps chase my tears back. “However will you manage?”
“Well. Forewarning that I’ll have to do something truly abhorrent to keep up my heartless reputation.”
Something tells me he’s not wholly teasing about that either. Any emotion dries up. A serving girl appears with platters laden with slabs of beef surrounded by root vegetables and a fluffy circle of pastry painted with honey.
Once she’s gone, I look at Corrick, who taps his finger against his fork before picking it up.
I mirror his movements gratefully, and we eat in silence for a moment.
“Do you think the royal apothecaries will really listen to me?” I venture softly.
“Harristan has ordered it. They will.” He rolls his eyes. “And he’s delivered a room full of records for me to review by tomorrow, so if I can find any evidence to back what you’ve already discovered, it will help.”
I straighten. “Really?”
“Yes. Between that and dealing with Allisander’s prisoners, it’ll likely take me all night.” He gives me an ironic glance. “I’m so very appreciative.”
“Why you?”
“Why not me? As much as you might like to imagine it, I don’t ride around in velvet carriages and order executions all day.”
He’s challenging me again. Not directly, but I feel it.
In a way, that reminds me of Weston Lark, too.
Corrick slices another piece of food. “Don’t pity me too much.”
“I don’t pity you.” I feel a bit breathless again. Every moment I spend here changes the way I feel about him and the way I feel about myself. “If you’re trying to figure out a way to make the medicine more effective for all of Kandala, I’m going to help you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Corrick
The White Room is one of my favorite spaces in the palace. We’re on the top floor, and the windows are massive, allowing the best view of the entire Royal Sector. Sunlight floods the room during the day, while the moon and stars gleam among a wide swath of blackness during the night. The walls are all white, but hung with abstract paintings in every color: swirls and slashes of yellows and reds in one, flickers of black and shades of pink in another. Wide stripes of gray and green and blue coat a wide canvas that hangs above the hearth. The room always seems to gather quiet and calm, a space for peaceful reflection.
When we were young and Harristan was in poor health, he would sit bundled by the fireplace, and our mother would paint with whatever colors he requested. I would grow bored and beg to leave, but he would sit for hours.
Harristan rarely comes here anymore. He says the room reminds him of what it felt like to be weak. I think the truth is what makes him feel weak: this room reminds him of our mother and what we lost.
Tessa turns a page, and I have to remind myself to focus. I had servants bring the stacks of paperwork here because the table is large and the lighting abundant—but my thoughts are full of uncertainty, and now I wi
sh we’d remained in my chambers.
My attention should be on these documents. On the disparity between the deaths in far southern sectors like Sunkeep, versus those that lie closer to the Royal Sector like Artis, Steel City, and Trader’s Landing. On Tessa’s notes, and whether we can convince people to adjust their dosages. On Allisander’s threats, made in the open air of the Circle. On the prisoners still waiting to be questioned.
My attention should be on Harristan, on whether his medicine is truly working.
Instead my focus is on Tessa, bent over a sheaf of papers in the drawing room, wisps of caramel hair coming loose from her pinned curls. My attention is on the tiny yet precise movements of her fountain pen as she takes down information as she reads. My attention is on the soft pink of her mouth and the gentle curve of her cheek and the determined look in her eyes.
My attention is on the fact that, out of every diversion available in the palace, she asked to read dry, boring documents.
My attention is on the fact that, instead of claiming escape, she stayed in the carriage.
Likely, neither of these choices have anything to do with me.
But still, she stayed.
“This would go a lot faster if you were reading, too,” she says.
“I am reading.” But I’m not. I have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve turned a page.
“Hmm.” Her pen keeps moving.
I can’t decide if I’m amused or irritated. “Are you accusing me of something else?”
She ignores me and shuffles through the papers she reviewed earlier. “Sunkeep receives less medicine than the other sectors.”
“Consul Cherry’s sector has fewer people.”
She frowns. “And significantly fewer deaths.”
“Some speculate that the high heat somehow staves off the fevers.”
She looks back at her notes. “But there are fewer deaths even in the winter months. If heat had anything to do with it, there would be fewer deaths in all sectors during the summer months. Artis seems to fare the worst in the summer.”
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