I’m still a bit winded. He’s dressed in finery again, all velvet and leather and brocade, which is quite a shame after I’ve seen him shirtless. His eyes are as cold and hard as the first night I arrived, which makes me want to back away.
He sure doesn’t look ready to play the role of Wes.
I swallow and try to calm my heartbeat. “What’s happening?”
“Quint got you out. It’ll be a real challenge to get you back in, because they won’t fall for that twice, but we’ll worry about that then.”
“What are we doing?”
He grabs two leather packs from beside the hearth. He tosses one at me, and I catch it against my chest. Then, without a word, he moves to the window, swings a leg over the sill, and disappears into the darkness.
All the air leaves my lungs in a rush. I sling the pack over one shoulder and peer out the window after him. There’s a thick, heavy rope attached to the ironwork below the window, and it creaks with his weight.
My heart is in my throat again.
This was my idea, but it’s terrifying.
“Remember how to climb a rope?” he whisper-calls up to me.
“Did you think I’d forget in two days?”
He grins, and in an instant Cruel Corrick is gone, leaving Wes in his place. “Then step quick. We’ve got rounds to make.”
The night air is cool, with a bit of wind to grab tendrils of my hair and toss them into my eyes. The dark sky hangs heavy with clouds, only a bit of lighter gray in the distance to reveal the location of the moon. Rain feels like a distant promise that might not be kept. Far across the palace grounds, flames flicker against the sky and my heart stutters, thinking of the attacks, but then I remember the arch of torches we spotted during our carriage ride. Stonehammer’s Arch, the proclamation of love his great-whatever-grandfather once made.
I hope you fell a lot.
Never once.
I’m barefoot, dew clinging to my feet as I slip through the darkness to follow him. I can’t tell who he is tonight, or which personality is going to show itself when he decides to let me know what’s going on. He’s moving so silently that I don’t dare to make a sound either. I have no idea what guards patrol out here or who we might encounter.
I sure hope he doesn’t expect me to play the role of outlaw in my nightgown. Then again, he’s not dressed like Wes. There must be clothes in these packs.
The farther we walk, the darker the night gets. Grass and dirt squish between my toes, turning Corrick into a shadow, while I’m a ghost in my pale-green nightshift. My hammering pulse has long since slowed to a normal pace. Gradually, the lights of the palace become smaller as the flaming torches of the arch grow closer, dripping sparks.
“Here,” he finally says, slowing to a stop. We’ve been silent for so long that his voice is loud to my ears. He turns to look at me, and there’s tension around his eyes.
“Here what?” I whisper.
“You don’t need to whisper. There are no guards along the rear wall of the palace, because they guard the wall surrounding it. But I wanted us to get closer to the arch in case anyone was looking out the window.”
“You . . . you want us to be visible?”
“The opposite, actually.” He unbuttons his jacket and slips free of the sleeves. “Haven’t you noticed yet that when you look at the light, the nearby darkness seems darker?”
“No, I never really—” The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. He’s pulled his shirt over his head.
Corrick’s eyes flick skyward. “Maybe you should focus on changing.”
I focus on the shadows and lines of his chest in the darkness. “Uh-huh.”
He throws his shirt at my face, and I laugh under my breath, ducking to unbuckle my own pack. There’s a homespun skirt in some dark color, along with thick socks, rough boots, and a gray stitched chemise. With a start, I realize these are the clothes I was captured in. Freshly laundered, obviously, because they smell like roses and sunshine.
I glance up to find Corrick staring at me. He’s pulled a black shirt over his head, but that’s all. I can’t read his expression in the darkness.
I straighten. “What?”
“You laughed. I wasn’t sure that would ever happen again.”
I blush and look down, glad he can’t see my face. “Well.”
I’m not sure what else to say.
Well, I don’t feel like a prisoner right this moment.
Well, I forgot that Weston Lark was an illusion.
Well.
I’ve grown too quiet, and so has he, and the air seems weighted with . . . something. I shiver and shake out my skirt.
“Turn around,” I say.
“Why?” he says brightly.
What a scoundrel. I throw his shirt back at him. “You know why.”
He smiles wolfishly, but he turns around. I dress with extra care anyway, slipping the skirt under my nightclothes, then pulling the shift out through the neck of my chemise. The palace clothes were more lovely than anything I’ve ever worn, but there’s something comforting about slipping into the old Tessa. I use the shift to dry my feet and then turn my back for him, balancing on one foot to pull on my socks and lace up my boots. Fabric rustles as he finishes changing behind me. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, on the flickering torches of the arch, watching how embers fall in tiny bursts, defying the night before burning out in the water below.
“Ready?” he says.
I turn around. My breath catches again.
He’s not shirtless. He’s not the King’s Justice. He’s . . . he’s Wes.
I’ve known the truth for days, and he proved it once before, but this . . . this is like seeing a ghost. His mask, his hat, his clothes. He’s Wes. He’s Wes.
It’s too much. I can’t help it. I stumble forward and throw my arms around him. My breath is hitching, and I’m trying to stop tears from falling. I’m failing.
He catches me, and at first I think he’s going to set me upright or make a bratty comment about how I really need to stop crying on his shoulder, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me, his arms tight against my back.
Eventually, my breathing steadies, but I don’t raise my head. He’s warm and sure and real against me, his breath whispering against my hair.
“Forgive me,” he says quietly, and his voice is rough. I squeeze my eyes closed again. His thumb drifts across my cheek. “Please, Tessa. Forgive me.”
I take a deep breath—but there’s so much. Too much? I don’t know.
I think of that moment when the Hold exploded, how he was about to kiss me, and I stopped him.
He’s not Wes, not really.
I’m not quite ready to let him go yet, though.
Eventually, I remember that we have things to do and lives to save. I draw back and look up into those eyes I know so well. “We can’t stay here.”
He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.
I blink the last of my tears away. “Do you—” I have to clear my throat. “Do you have a mask for me?”
“Yes.” He pulls one from his pack, along with a hat.
I tie it into place and swallow hard against the lump in my throat.
Now he’s staring at me the way I was just staring at him, and I have to force myself to look away and tie up my pack. “Where . . . um, where are we leaving these?”
“There’s a chest outside the gate. Do you remember how I told you to escape from the carriage? That’s my exit.”
I nod and sniff and shoulder the pack, then fall into step beside him. We slip silently through the grass.
The dark and silence begins to feel too weighted, so I say, “What if someone comes to your room?”
“Quint will stay in my quarters and periodically call for food and wine until we return, so it will give the impression that I’m toiling away over those reports. My brother retires early, so he’s probably asleep.”
“What if someone insists on speak
ing to you?”
“The only person who can truly demand my presence is Harristan, and that’s rare.” There’s a note in his voice that belies how casually he answers. “Quint has a cache of answers anyway. I’ve been called to the Hold, I’ve been asked to review a funding request before it’s submitted to the king, I’ve been asked to mediate something that doesn’t need mediation . . .” He shrugs.
I glance at him. “Why does Quint cover for you?”
“In the beginning, I think it was because I convinced Harristan to let Quint have his job. He’s young for his role as Palace Master, and you can already tell my brother doesn’t suffer fools. But Quint is more savvy than he lets on, and he took me by surprise when he caught me sneaking back into the palace. I’m not sure what he thought I was doing, and at first we were both a little wary about it, but gradually I started to take him into my confidence.” He pauses. “Quint is a good friend.”
That heavy note is back in his voice.
“Something is wrong,” I say softly.
“No.” He glances at me, then gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, not any more than usual.”
“Tell me.”
He says nothing for so long that I begin to think he won’t answer, and when he does speak, he only says, “Look. The gate.”
It’s exactly as he described, and it’s smaller than I expected: only about three feet high, barring the way to what appears to be a dark tunnel. As promised, there’s a wooden trunk that appears to be decaying with rot, but when Wes—Corrick, I sheepishly remind myself—throws open the lid, the interior is dry and clean.
The tunnel is black and our breathing echoes, and I’m glad for his company, because this narrow space would be terrifying alone. Something skitters over my boot and I gasp, but he grabs hold of my hand to steady me, and I continue on.
“This used to be a spy tunnel,” he whispers, but his voice is loud anyway. “A hundred years ago, there were a dozen, all over the Royal Sector. Some have caved in, but there are a few, like this one, that prove useful for any princes-turned-outlaw.” He pauses. “Harristan and I used to use them all the time.”
“He did this too?” I say, surprised.
“No. When we were children.” Another pause. “Harristan was often unwell, and our parents would dote on him. He was never allowed to do anything. It drove him crazy. He’d convince me to sneak into the Wilds with him. It would take him twice as long to scale the sector walls, but he’s the one who taught me how to do it.”
I imagine the king and the prince as boys, sneaking through this tunnel, eagerly whispering, daring each other, challenging order and rules the way Corrick does now. It’s harder to imagine Harristan as a sickly child, but I consider his coughing fits, and my apothecary brain wonders if he has some lingering illness that’s masquerading as the fever.
That note is back in Corrick’s voice, but for the first time, I can identify it. Longing. Loss. Sadness. Regret.
“Something has happened with King Harristan,” I whisper.
“He thinks I’m working with the smugglers,” he says simply.
“Wait.” I wish I could see his eyes, but the tunnel is pitch-dark, and his expression is a mystery. “What?”
“You heard me.” Corrick takes a long breath. “They’ve been pointing fingers since we first learned of the Benefactors, but I never expected anyone to suspect me. Allisander suspects that you’re a part of it, too. That’s why I couldn’t come to you today. Harristan all but accused me this morning. His guards are reporting to him on my movements. He tried to get Quint to talk.”
My chest is suddenly tight. “But—but you’re not! You’re—you’re—”
I break off. He might not be the kind of smuggler Harristan is imagining . . . but Corrick isn’t completely innocent either.
“Tessa. I know.”
We walk in silence after that, our feet scraping against the walls of the tunnel, until we eventually burst free into the woods. It’s misting rain now, and I don’t recognize where we are, but I’m sure we’re nowhere near the workshop. He wouldn’t have been that careless. Not to keep this secret for so long.
My chest is still tight. His brother accused him. The king accused him.
And still he’s here.
“I don’t have a lot of petals,” he says, “because I couldn’t risk someone alerting Harristan to my request. But Quint was able to gather enough for one round of doses.”
I bite my lip. “This . . . this is treason.”
“It always was, Tessa.”
I think of all the times we spoke ill of the king, of the cruel prince, of the way people were executed for doing exactly what we’re doing. I swallow.
“You’re risking yourself,” I whisper.
“Yes. So are you.” His eyes hold mine. “Let’s make it worth it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Corrick
When we were children, Harristan and I would climb out of the tunnel and leave our royal lives behind like shedding a skin. He might have been slower to run and climb, but he was always better with the people. Merchants would sometimes see a boy with too many coins for his own good and they’d try to con him out of them, but my brother could never be tricked or swindled. He used to say that being coddled and sheltered and wrapped up in blankets gave him a lot of time to study people. It’s truly a miracle I was able to keep Weston Lark a secret from him for so long.
No. It wasn’t a miracle. It was trust. He trusts me.
He trusted me.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to erase the memory of the look on his face when he asked me if I was involved with the smugglers. It’s etched as deeply as the moment I heard a boot scrape against rock in the Hold and I hoped he would appear through the haze of smoke.
Tessa looks at me, and I can feel the weight of her gaze. Always before, it was easy to forget everything that awaited me in the palace and lose myself to the persona of Weston Lark.
Today, it’s not. Tessa knows too much, and everything is at stake.
I suppose it always was, for her.
“If we discover who’s behind the attacks,” she says slowly, “what will you do to them?”
“It depends.”
She gives me a look, and I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It does.” I glance down and meet her eyes. “I can’t allow them to continue. You know that.”
“I do. I know.” But she swallows, and I realize this bothers her.
“Even if we stop the attacks, it won’t cure the fever,” I say. “But right now, Allisander has the right—and the motive—to restrict access to the Moonflower. I can’t do anything if he locks himself up in his sector. If I can prove to him that his supply runs are safe and that I’m not a rebel myself, I can work with Harristan to figure out a more equitable way to distribute the elixir, especially if you can prove that we can do more with less.”
“That’s a lot of ifs again.” She draws a long breath that shudders a little. “And it might not stop a revolution.”
“Tessa.” I look down at her and think of Quint sharing his worries in my quarters. If she runs, it would be nearly impossible to explain away, but I won’t force her to do this against her will. “I have a pouch of coins. If you want out—”
“No.” She shakes her head a little. “I want to do the right thing.”
“Hmm.” I look straight ahead. “The problem is that we all have different ideas of what’s right.” I sigh. “Including my brother. To say nothing of Allisander.”
“Sometimes things are just right,” she says forcefully. “It’s not fair that people are dying when we can help them. It’s not fair that Allisander can control so much—just because he has land and money. It’s not fair that you’re expected to—”
“Allisander is motivated by silver, so he’d likely consider it very fair—”
“I’m not talking about Consul Sallister. I’m talking about the king.”
Those words drop like a rock, and I’m not sure what t
o say. “It’s not a matter of expectation, Tessa.” My voice turns rough against my will. “It’s a matter of need.”
“When we were in the carriage, you told me you couldn’t leave him behind.” She pauses. “Do you think your brother is weak?”
I think of the way Harristan reads every plea, how the deaths of our people seem to weigh on him. How he rarely wants the details of what I do to maintain the illusion of control.
I think of how he dove to cover me when our parents were slaughtered.
Or how, afterward, he stepped into his role as king.
“I would never call him weak,” I say.
She’s quiet for a while, and then she says very gently, “Do you think, if you were no longer King’s Justice, that your brother would be able to maintain control?”
I’m not sure how to answer that either.
I suppose that’s answer enough.
She keeps her gaze forward. “When my parents died, I wasn’t sure how I would survive. It was all I could do to remember to eat. Sometimes I think that meeting you for . . . for this . . . was the only thing that forced me out of bed.” She pauses. “I can’t imagine having to run a country.”
“The consuls worried Harristan was too young, and they tried to make a claim for ruling in his stead, but he was nineteen and they had no legal right. And after Consul Barnard was outed as being behind the plot to kill them, we didn’t trust any of them. At every meeting, every interaction, they looked for weakness. They waited for us to fail. We had no one.” My throat is tight, and I wish this conversation weren’t summoning memories I try to keep buried. “We only had each other.”
“Barnard wasn’t working with any of the others?”
“We could never find evidence of it.” I shrug. “And then the fevers began to spread more widely, and . . . well, you know how Kandala has fared.”
“The morning I met with Harristan, he said that it’s easy to love your king when everyone is healthy and well fed, but a bit harder when everyone isn’t.” She sighs. “And I know what Consul Sallister would do if he were in charge. He talked about the prisoners like . . . like they weren’t even people.”
“His father was no better. Lissa Marpetta is greedy, but she’s never been like Allisander. She’s content to follow his lead when it comes to maintaining control, however. A bit of a silent partner.”
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