But I still feel numb.
Egg’s body is at my mercy, warm and alive beneath my hands. I could cut his throat and Clover’s, slice their jugulars with any one of the jagged bits of glass I keep well hidden. I should do it, I tell myself. But I’ve already wasted too much time. I leave them living.
As expected, the Arvens are trained enough in their duties to have locked my bedroom door behind them. No matter. A hairpin is just as good as a key. I pop the lock in a second.
It’s been a few days since I stepped outside my prison, and then I was leashed to Evangeline, guarded on all sides. Now the hallway is empty. Dead lightbulbs march down the hall overhead, taunting in their emptiness. My electrical sense is weak, barely a spark across the darkness. It has to come back. This won’t work if it doesn’t come back. I fight a swell of panic—what if it’s gone for good? What if Maven took my lightning from me?
I sprint as fast as I can, holding on to what I know of Whitefire. Evangeline took me left, to the ballrooms and the great halls and the throne room. Those places will be crawling with guards and officers, not to mention the nobility of Norta, dangerous on their own. So I go right.
Cameras follow, of course. I spot them at every corner. I wonder if they shorted out too, or if I’m entertainment for a few officers. They might be making bets on how far I get. The doomed endeavor of a doomed girl.
A service stair takes me down a landing, and I almost knock over a servant in my haste.
My heart leaps at the sight of him. A boy, my age, maybe, his face already flushing as he holds on to his tea tray. Flushing red.
“It’s a trick!” I shout at him. “What they’re going to make me do, it’s a trick!”
At the top of the stairs, and the bottom, a pair of doors bang open in succession. Cornered again. A bad habit I’ve developed.
“Mare—” the boy says, my name trembling on his lips. I frighten him.
“Find a way; tell the Scarlet Guard. Tell whoever you can. It’s another lie!”
Someone seizes me around my middle, pulling me backward, up and away. I keep my focus on the serving boy. The uniformed officers ascending from below shove him away, pressing him up against the wall without thought. His tray clatters to the floor, spilling tea.
“It’s all a lie!” I manage to get out before a hand clamps over my mouth.
I try to spark, reaching for lightning that I still barely feel. Nothing happens, so I bite down hard enough to taste blood.
The Security officer drops his hand, swearing, while another comes up in front of me, deftly grabbing my kicking legs. I spit blood in her face.
When she backhands me, the action full of deadly grace, I recognize her.
“Good to see you, Sonya,” I hiss. I try to kick her in the stomach, but she dodges with boredom.
Please, I beg in my mind, as if the electricity can hear me. Nothing responds, and I choke back a sob. I’m too weak. It’s been too long.
Sonya is a silk, too swift and agile to be bothered with the resistance of a weak girl. I glance at her uniform. Black piped with silver, with the blue and red of House Iral on her shoulders. Judging by the badges on her chest and the pins on her collar, she’s a ranking officer of Security now. “Congratulations on the promotion,” I growl in frustration, lashing out because it’s all I can do. “Done with Training so soon?”
She tightens her grip on my feet, her hands like pincers.
“Too bad you never finished Protocol.” Still carrying my legs, she rubs her face on her shoulder, trying to wipe away the silver blood on her cheek. “You could use some manners.”
It’s only been a few months since I last saw her. Standing with her grandmother Ara and Evangeline, dressed in mourning black for the king. She was one of many who watched me in the Bowl of Bones, who wanted to see me die. Her house is famed for their skill not just in body, but in mind. Spies all, trained to discover secrets. I doubt she believed Maven when he told everyone I was a trick, a Scarlet Guard creation sent to infiltrate the palace. And I doubt she’ll believe what’s about to happen.
“I saw your grandmother,” I tell her. A daring card to play.
Her flawless composure does not change, but I feel her grip on my legs weaken, if only a little. Then she dips her chin. Continue, she’s trying to say.
“In Corros Prison. Starved, weakened by Silent Stone.” Like I am now. “I helped free her.”
Another might call me a liar. But Sonya remains quiet, her eyes anywhere but me. To anyone else, she looks disinterested.
“I don’t know how long she spent in there, but she put up more of a fight than anyone else.” I remember her now, flashing across my memories. An old woman with the vicious strength of her namesake, the Panther. She even saved my life, plucking a razor-sharp wheel out of the air before it could take my head. “Ptolemus got her in the end, though. Right before he killed my brother.”
Her gaze falls to the floor, brow furrowed slightly. Every inch of her tightens. For a second I think she might cry, but the threatening tears never spill. “How?” I barely hear her.
“Through the neck. Quickly.”
Her next slap is well aimed, but without much strength behind it. A show, like everything else in this hellish place.
“Keep your filthy lies to yourself, Barrow,” she hisses, ending our conversation.
I end up in a heap on my bedroom floor, both cheeks stinging, with the crushing weight of four Arven guards washing over me. Egg and Clover look a bit rumpled, but healers have already seen to their injuries, whatever they were. Pity I didn’t kill them.
“Shocked to see me?” I drawl at them, chuckling at the horrific joke.
In response, Kitten forces me into the scarlet gown, making me strip in front of them all. She takes her time in the humiliation. The dress smarts as it pulls across my brand. M for Maven, M for monster, M for murder.
I can still taste the Security officer’s blood when Kitten shoves the speech cards into my chest.
The full strength of the Silver court has been summoned to the throne room. The High Houses press together in their usual riot. Every color is an assault, a firework of gems and brocade. I join the chaos, adding blood red to the collection. The doors to the throne room seal shut behind me, caging me in with the worst of them. The houses part to let me pass, forming a long corridor from the entrance to the throne. They whisper as I go, noting every imperfection and every rumor. I catch snippets. Of course they all know about my little adventure this morning. The Arven guards, two in front, two behind, are confirmation enough of my continued status as prisoner.
So Maven’s newest lie is not for them this time. I try to puzzle out his motives, the turns of his labyrinthine manipulations. He must have weighed the costs of what to tell them—and decided bringing his closest nobles in on such a delicious secret was worth the risk. They won’t mind his lies if he isn’t lying to them.
As before, he sits on his throne of gray stone slabs, both hands clawed to the armrests. Sentinels have his back, lining the wall behind him, while Evangeline takes his left, standing proud. She glitters, a lethal star, with a cape and slashed gown of intricate silver scales. Her brother, Ptolemus, matches in a new suit of armor, close as a guardian for both his sister and the king. Another bitterly familiar face holds Maven’s right. He does not wear armor. He does not need armor. His mind is weapon and shield enough.