A gaggle of whispering servant girls spun past. They didn’t treat her presence as anything out of the ordinary. One even curtsied. What in four hells was going on? The king and queen rotted on the dungeon floor, and no one seemed to notice.
She leaned against the wall and gulped down air that didn’t smell like decaying flesh. King Ronan had tortured and murdered thousands of innocent women. His fate did not seem unwarranted. But Queen Rowena had not committed these atrocious acts, though she had looked the other way, pretending not to notice. Did that mean she deserved to die, too?
Mia closed her eyes, trying to will away the image, but the maggots crawled through her mind. Karri was there, too, the look of betrayal in her eyes as she bled out on the ground. Quin’s whole family: gone. He was alone in the world.
If she let that in, the truth of it, it would destroy her. She couldn’t afford to be destroyed.
Mia rushed toward the part of the castle where her family had stayed. There were no guards outside the door to Angelyne’s chambers; no one stopped her as she charged inside.
The room was empty. It smelled of lilacs and clean soap, and she saw necklaces and bracelets looped over knots of wood on the far wall, shimmering with stones; on the ivory dresser, hairpins, ribbons, and combs were neatly displayed. She could have kissed them for joy. Angie had been here, in these very chambers. There were no signs of distress.
“Little rose.”
She whirled around to find her father standing in the doorway.
“Father!”
She had expected to feel a firestorm of emotions when she saw him again: grief, confusion, rage. But all her feelings boiled down to one. Relief.
Mia ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He was thinner than she remembered, his face drawn and his shoulders slumped, but oh so alive.
“Father,” she said, her face buried in his jacket, tears pricking her eyes. “I know everything. I know you didn’t want to give me away to the royal family . . . and I know why you had to. I know about Mother and how you tried to help her . . .”
He smiled faintly, but his eyes were no longer gray. They were black, glassy and distant.
“Your mind is dazzling, little rose.”
But he said it without conviction, as if reading from a script. Mia frowned. Her father’s black eyes made it seem as if he were staring right through her. Foreboding slunk down her spine.
“Where’s Angelyne?”
He was silent. Mia’s heart, so ecstatic a moment before, tripped on its own rhythm.
“Where is Angie, Father? Is she all right?”
Silence. The hairs on her arm began to rise.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was a hollow bone with all the marrow sucked out.
He was lying.
Mia felt a clutch of terror. “Take me to her.”
Her father turned and walked out of her chambers, his arms held stiffly at his sides. Mia’s heart smashed through her ribs. She had a horrible sense of misgiving. Something wasn’t right.
They hurried down the glittering black corridors, past the watching chamber and the gardens, and through the Hall of Hands. She winced when the hands twirled as they walked beneath them, morbid thoughts spinning through her mind. If the king had suspected Mia’s mother was a Gwyrach, were her hands in the Hall? Had he collected them as trophies, sawed through the tendons and arteries and bones in her wrist?
The same wrist I touched, Mia thought, when I killed her.
She begged her knees to carry her forward, but her body felt broken, empty, a husk without a soul.
They stood outside the Grand Gallery. The air was laced with tantalizing aromas, savory meats and sweet puddings.
“We are expected,” her father said, and nodded to the guards, who threw the doors open. She felt her father’s hand, light and cool on her back, as he steered her into the Gallery. The heavy doors swung shut behind them, sealing them inside.
The room was full of people, and they were all perfectly still.
The long black feasting table had been set for a feast, steam curling off a lavish spread, as had the gray stone table across the gallery. Guests were dressed in silk gowns and tailored jackets, jewels on fingers, gems glinting around throats. Everyone held drinks or cutlery, their hands poised in midair, spines straight as books. The plates and platters were heaped high with food—cuts of roasted duck, smoked boar, trussed green goose, caramel courting cakes, gooseberry tarts, venison jellies, and candied fruits.
No one ate a morsel. No one made a sound.
The only noise was the cracking and popping of wood in the two giant stone hearths. Quin’s yellow dogs lay by the nearest fireplace, legs stiffly extended, chests rising and falling. They appeared to be pinned down by an invisible force.
Mia’s gaze swept the gray stone table like a lighthouse beam sweeping the sea. She knew every face. The Hunters sat in one long line, all facing the feasting table, though there were no longer thirteen: without Tuk, Lyman, or Domeniq, the Circle numbered ten. Mia had never seen the men so richly attired. The lone Huntress was nearly unrecognizable, dressed in a high-necked sable gown sleek as wet crow feathers in the firelight.
No one looked at Mia. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the feasting table.
The hierarchy among the royals had shifted. Queen Rowena’s seat was conspicuously empty, with Tristan sitting stiffly to one side. And there were several new additions: Domeniq and Pilar, their eyes as glazed and black as schorl.
But it was Quin’s face that rooted Mia to the spot. His eyes were as blank as the early days, back when she’d thought him an ice prince, and his uzoolion charm was no longer looped around his neck.
Her eyes swept to the left. When she saw who sat in King Ronan’s gilded chair, she sucked in her breath.
No. It couldn’t be.
Zaga presided over the Grand Gallery. Her face wasn’t frozen; it was beaming bright. She lifted her goblet high and tipped it toward Mia.
She had betrayed them.
The walls were closing in. Mia stepped back and immediately felt the guards step behind her, barring the door. She was trapped.
She turned to ask her father what he had done, only to find his face transfixed, eyes blacker than before. He was watching someone over her shoulder.
“Beautifully done,” came the lyrical voice.
A shape floated into her peripheral vision, a snowy-white gown richly embroidered with gold and green thread and emblazoned with the royal crest. Mia tried to make her eyes focus, but they could only absorb fragments: the slender waist, the heart-shaped face, the gloveless arms, the skin so pale it was almost diaphanous.
A golden crown kissed her sister’s head, shimmering in the light.
“Oh, Mi,” said Angelyne. “Welcome home.”
Chapter 57
Heart for a Heart
ANGIE STEPPED FORWARD AND kissed her sweetly on both cheeks.
“Aren’t you going to say hello? I suppose you’re not. Well, I’m happy to see you.”
Mia couldn’t breathe.
Angelyne held out her hand. “My stone, please, Father.”
Mia watched as her father fumbled with a chain around his neck. Only then did she realize he’d been wearing the moonstone pendant. He unlatched the clasp and placed the pearly gem in Angie’s outstretched palm.
“Thank you. You’ve been very agreeable. You may sit.”
Her father’s eyes were thirsty gray again—and fresh with grief. He reached out a quavering hand.
“Sit, Father,” Angie said, firmer this time. He turned on his heel and trudged to the feasting table, where he sank into his chair beside the others. Mia felt a cold so ferocious she staggered forward. It wasn’t just her own fear she was sensing. Everyone in the Gallery was afraid.