by Maya Motayne
“Peepholes,” she murmured. A boy carrying a vase of flowers passed so close that she could smell its petals. She stepped back, holding the torch low. But no one seemed to notice. The guards must’ve used these passages to spy. Was she going to bump into one of them? Should she even keep the torch lit? Finn stopped herself from stamping out the flame.
She’d take the risk of using the torch to get through the passages faster, and then maybe she’d be less likely to bump into anyone at all. Hopefully. She swallowed hard and listened. She heard no footsteps. She moved on and walked down the winding passage, stopping at the occasional peephole. She looked into a library so vast it could house a village, and then into what appeared to be a training room where the walls were covered in an array of the finest weapons she’d ever seen. She had to stop herself from stealing one of the fancy machetes. But for the most part the palace was what she expected, immaculate and boring.
She walked until she found a ladder. Rung by rung she climbed in the dark, carrying the lit torch in her mouth like a dog would a bone. Sweating, she climbed until she got to the seventh-floor passage. The passage that led to the prince’s chambers couldn’t be reached directly from where she was. She would need to move through a bathroom to get to the passageway on the far side of the room. Then she’d have a direct route to the prince’s quarters.
Finn pulled open the slat and peered in. She saw a grand, sweeping bathroom with a sunken bathtub of black stone that was more like a pool. Around the rim was an assortment of soaps, lotions, and two bottles of wine. There were five different faucets, as elegant as swans’ necks, arching over the lip of the tub. What could you need five faucets for? And who drank while taking a bath? She rolled her eyes. Royals.
Warm, perfumed air wafted through the slat, but no one was in the tub. The surface was covered in the sudsy remains of a bubble bath. She waited, counting the seconds to see if someone had gone under. Nobody could hold their breath for that long.
There was no use in waiting any longer. Someone had likely just gotten out of the bath, and she had only a few precious minutes to find the passageway on the far side of the room before a servant came to clean. She twisted the bird on the wall and the passage swung outward. She scurried out and pushed it closed behind her. She felt naked—there was too much space and too little to hide behind. A voice called out from the tub, shattering the silence.
“Rosa, I’m ready.”
Finn and her shadow froze where she stood behind the tub faucets. Her eyes darted down. She hadn’t seen the boy because his body was hidden by the froth of bubbles. He kept his eyes closed. What a fool—she could kill him right now.
“Rosa!” he called a bit louder. “The hot towel, please!”
Finn nearly ran back to the wall, but whoever was supposed to be serving him had apparently stepped out. If he shouted one more time they might hear him or he might open his stupid eyes and notice a thief standing over him.
Finn clambered to the fine dish of steaming towels beside the lip of the tub where the boy leaned his head. She picked one up and draped it carefully over his eyes.
“Gracias.” He luxuriated in the water and breathed a long, dramatic sigh. “I’m trying to get as relaxed as I can, so that I don’t wring Alfie’s neck when I see him next. The wine’s for that too.” He reached a soapy hand out of the tub, grabbed the bottle, and took a swig. “He has me so maldito worried about him that I’m tense. Me! Do you know how hard it is to get me tense? The palace masseuse could barely work out the knots in my neck.” He paused, wrinkling his nose. “Rosa, did you stop by the kitchens? You smell like you’ve bathed in oregano.”
Finn didn’t answer him. She dashed across the room and looked for the bird in the tiled walls. Each tile was patterned, making it difficult to see something as small as the bird would be. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The steam clung to her skin.
“Rosa? You’re still there, aren’t you?” He raised his hand to take the towel off his eyes.
From the far side of the room, Finn gave a high-pitched “Mm-hmm!” The boy dropped his hand back into the water.
“Did you strain your voice?” he asked.
Scouring the wall in a panic, Finn gave a loud cough and said, “Mm-hmmm.”
“Something’s been going around. The steam will do you good. Clear the passages.”
If only she could find the maldito passages.
She heard footsteps beyond the double doors of the bathroom. Rosa was coming! Finn got on all fours, searching the tiles below her waist. There it was! A tiny bird jutted out no higher than her knee. Finn crouched and twisted it. A square of eight tiles pushed outward. She crawled into the darkness of the passage and hurriedly shut the door behind her. With a shuddering breath, she stood up, her hair frizzing from the steam.
She opened the slat, and there was Rosa picking up the boy’s clothes.
That was too close. This whole thing was too close.
Finn moved through the passages, peering at the map as she walked. She was passing a room labeled on the map as “Fallen Prince’s Rooms” when she paused. Finn had been far from the capital city when the prince had been killed. But she still remembered people weeping in the streets as if they’d known him. She’d been too busy trying to survive to shed a maldito tear.
Still, curiosity gnawed at her. Finn slid aside the slat and stared into the room. The curtains were drawn. Darkness swept through the room. Finn felt around the wall and found the little bird peeking out of the stone, twisting it until the passage swung outward.
Inside the room was a double bed swathed in deep red sheets and a mountain of pillows. Against the wall before the bed was a tall, glass-paned cupboard. It was full of beautifully carved figurines of animals. Whoever had made them must have been truly skilled. One figure of a dog chasing its own tail looked as if it would start spinning in the cabinet at any moment.
In the bottom row of the cabinet was a fox figurine. It sat up, its tail curled forward, a clever look on its face. Finn smiled and caught her reflection in the glass, just as vulpine as the fox. The memory of the boy in the fox mask flashed in her mind. He may have bested her once, but he was too soft to be a fox. Finn had the edge for it.
She opened the case and filched it, dropping it into her pocket. She hadn’t stolen a machete, so she’d let herself have this trifle. As she stepped back into the passage, her eyes scanned the room one last time. She knew it belonged to a dead man, but still, there was something particularly sad about the room. As if it were waiting for him to come home to it. But there was no time to think on that. Finn walked into the darkness and moved on.
Finally, she found herself in the passage to the prince’s quarters. She opened the slat. The room was empty, but certainly lived in. Clothes were strewn on the bed. Books were left open on a redwood desk. Finn opened the passage door and slid in, pushing it closed behind her.
The room smelled like what Finn guessed was the cologne the prince wore. Or maybe the soap he used. Something clean and soft that lay on the nose, subtle as a feather.
Her brow furrowed. She’d smelled it before.
The sound of servants talking in the hall outside jarred her back to the present. She opened the prince’s drawers and carefully fingered through rows of fine clothes with fabric that slid over her fingertips like water. She searched the pockets for the key and found none. She opened his tall armoire and even crawled in to search for hidden compartments. Still nothing.
She moved to the drawers of his bedside table, where a corked bottle of pale, cloudy liquid sat. She looked through the drawers, knocking on them quietly with her fist. She heard a hollow thud. Finn’s heart jumped. She pressed on the wood and the panel gave to reveal a hidden compartment beneath. She reached in and her fingers closed around something narrow and cold. She pulled a golden key as long as her hand out of the drawer. This had to be it! Then there was a noise, the quiet twist of the doorknob. Someone was coming.
She pushed the drawer
closed, not bothering to close the hidden compartment, and rolled soundlessly beneath the bed. Someone walked into the room. Their steps were quick, almost harried. Finn watched as a simple cream skirt moved quickly around the bed and came to a stop in front of the bedside table, right before Finn’s nose. The skirt’s hem was torn, the fabric rougher than any noble would deign to wear. Whoever this was, they had to be a servant.
Finn heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked. Then there was sniffling and the telltale swishing of a bottle being shaken. Was the servant crying?
The feet dashed out the door.
9
The Dinner Party
The palace’s banquet room was full of mingling nobles.
Servants moved through the room seamlessly with trays of finger foods and goblets of chilled sangria. The hall felt strangely empty, and Alfie knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it. This was the first dinner they’d had since Dezmin had been taken. Not only was Dez gone, but everyone who had been discovered to be connected to the assassination and the failed coup was absent as well—they were either in prison or they’d taken their own lives in shame.
Alfie had nearly been driven mad with suspicion in the first months after Dez’s disappearance. There had been no sign of rebellion or tension to signal the attempt on the royal family’s lives that ended with the loss of Dez. Alfie had drilled everyone who had questioned the families involved, his parents included. Each one came to the same conclusion—the coup had been attempted by a small group of nobles who wanted more power and were willing to kill for it. That girl with the monstrous propio who had disappeared Dez into that dark hole could do nothing but name the ones who had pulled her into the operation—Marco Zelas, Alonso Marquez, and Maria Villanueva. She knew little else about the larger meaning behind it all, but from those names the king had ferreted out the rest of the betrayers.
If there had been a revolt by the poor, the mistreated, then Alfie could more easily rationalize it. But nobles putting their lives on the line for more power when they already held so much? And if those noble families had been willing to spill royal blood, how many more in this room were willing to do the same? A chill rolled up his spine.
Alfie could feel the nobles in the room whispering about it even when their lips were still or when they bowed to him in deference. The echoes of what had happened and what was to come for the kingdom were everywhere. Alfie would give anything to have Luka distract him from it all, but that wasn’t an option today.
Luka moved through the party expertly, engaging all he met with sparkling conversation, but whenever Alfie came near him he would find a polite, subtle way to pull away. Luka had been raised in the palace and knew how to put on a good face during important occasions. But Alfie could feel the anger rolling off him in waves each time they made eye contact.
“Prince Alfehr.” A soft voice spoke, startling Alfie where he stood.
He was so distracted by wanting to get a chance to speak with Luka that he hadn’t noticed Aurora approach him. She’d had to cough lightly to get his attention.
“Aurora!” Alfie said before bowing low. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long since we’ve spoken.”
To say Aurora was beautiful was a terrible understatement. Her skin was dark and rich, but her eyes were a nearly translucent gray that shone against her complexion like stars against the night sky. But her beauty wasn’t why Alfie was so unnerved by her. His heart sputtered whenever he saw her because Aurora might become his wife in a few years’ time.
Aurora curtsied, the fabric of her silver gown whispering against the floor. “Yes, we haven’t spoken since . . .” Her voice petered out.
“Since the funeral,” Alfie said, finishing her sentence. He felt a heavy weight on his chest at the mere thought of that day. Of watching the dueño perform the service, speaking words of Dez’s spirit moving on to a place of peace—words that did nothing but rub salt into Alfie’s grief. Aurora had been Dez’s betrothed before he died. Now her future was up in the air. The king and queen had yet to decide if she was to become Alfie’s betrothed or if Alfie should marry a royal from an allying kingdom to strengthen foreign relations in the aftermath of Dez’s death. Alfie himself didn’t know which option made the most sense, but he didn’t think it was right just to pass Aurora from prince to prince as if she were an object. Maybe she’d truly loved Dezmin and wouldn’t consider any other; Alfie couldn’t say.
After a silence stretched between them, Alfie couldn’t stop the apology rising within him. “I’m so sorry that everything that happened has led to . . . that now your life is not what you thought it would . . .” He couldn’t get the words right. “I’m just sorry that everything has happened as it did. And I’m sorry that everything is uncertain now.” The apology sounded clunky, but he hoped she would understand.
She gave him a small, knowing smile, as if she could read his thoughts. “It’s not your fault, Prince Alfehr. And I’m hardly the only one with an uncertain future now. I’m sorry for you and your family too.”
Alfie nodded, feeling the awkwardness trickle away. “Thank you, Aurora.” He smoothed his tunic and swallowed before posing his next question. “I never asked you this before, and I know I may be overstepping but . . . Did you and Dez . . . ,” Alfie began, his voice lowering. “I just want to say that if you and Dez loved each other and you would rather not be considered as my betrothed, I will do everything within my power to guide my parents against matching us. You and I, we don’t have to be anything that you’re not comfortable with.”
Aurora looked down for a moment, and Alfie couldn’t tell if he’d gravely disrespected her with such a question. But then she looked up at him, her eyes sympathetic. “I appreciate your concern, Prince Alfehr. Your brother and I were close, but only as friends. We both knew what this was. I was chosen to be a queen, not to be the love of his life,” she said lightly, but her eyes bore a sadness that Alfie recognized. “I still miss him though.”
“I know.” If they were not so obviously being watched by everyone in the ballroom he would’ve reached to touch her arm. “I do too. Every day.”
“And his memory, it’s everywhere in the palace, isn’t it?” she said, her eyes sweeping over the ballroom. “I’ve been avoiding coming to speak with you because I was afraid that it would be too . . .” She pressed her lips together in a thin line. “It must be hard.”
Alfie felt a lump in his throat. “It is.”
She gave him a watery smile. “We should talk about something else, shouldn’t we?”
Alfie nodded, his eyes burning. “How is your flame casting? Still as impressive as ever?”
Her smile turned into more of a smirk at that. She raised her hand and flexed her fingers. Alfie watched the beginnings of lightning crackling at her fingertips. It was the most difficult feat for a flame caster to learn and very few ever did. Not even Dezmin had been able to summon lightning. Yet Aurora had a handle on it before the age of twenty. Nobles seldom dabbled in elemental magic, but she was such a prodigy that her family sought to nurture her talent.
“Of course,” Aurora said triumphantly as she let the pinpricks of light at her fingertips fade. Then she leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. “We both know that the king and queen chose me so that they could have a grandchild who would light the palace on fire before they could even walk.”
For a moment Alfie was stunned into silence at her bluntness, but then the two burst out laughing. She was right: his mother and father had certainly been keen on her as a future queen not only for her standing and her beauty but also for her talent in both elemental and spoken magic. It was nice to be around someone who knew the smoke and mirrors of his world.
“Well, if that comes to pass, I’m a skilled water charmer, so we won’t lose the palace entirely.”
“Yes.” She laughed before saying to him softly, “No matter what happens, betrothal or no, we’ll be just fine, you and I.”
Alfie found himself nodding. “I t
hink you’re right.”
A comfortable silence wrapped around them, and for a moment, Alfie felt light.
Then he looked over Aurora’s shoulder and saw Tiago Vera approaching Luka. Though Alfie couldn’t see his face, he knew by the tightness of Luka’s shoulders that Luka was uncomfortable.
“Aurora,” Alfie said, “I’m sorry, but I must excuse myself.”
“It’s all right,” she said with a warm smile. She touched his arm, and he was happy for the comfort. “It was nice to speak with you, Prince Alfehr.”
“And you.” He bowed low to her again, holding it for an extra moment in respect to her. She curtsied before turning to walk to a group of other young noblewomen. As quickly as he could without calling the attention of the guests, Alfie began to dart across the room to Luka’s side.
“Luka,” Tiago crowed. “So nice to see you.”
Tiago and Luka had courted for months before Tiago had left Luka for one of his friends. Luka had spiraled into a sadness that Alfie had never seen on him. He’d only been sixteen, his first heartbreak. That pain was something Alfie never wanted to see marring his spirit again. To this day, Tiago was hell-bent on reminding Luka of how thoroughly he’d crushed him.
Even if Luka refused to speak to him, Alfie wasn’t going to let him handle this alone. He sped to Luka’s side and cleared his throat. Tiago’s triumphant smirk fell away.
“Your Highness,” he said, dropping into a low bow. Alfie had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Welcome home. It’s been so long since I saw you last.”