Evangeline glances in my direction, her lashes dark and long. They flutter for a moment as her eyes waver, ticking back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. I take a small step away from Iris to put some distance between us. Now that the Samos daughter has a new rival to hate, I don’t want to give her the wrong impression.
“And you were betrothed to the king?” Iris pulls her hand back from Volo and knits her fingers together. Evangeline’s eyes move away from me to face the princess. For once, I see her on an even field with an equal opponent. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Evangeline will misstep, threaten Iris the way she used to threaten me. I have a feeling Iris won’t tolerate a word of it.
“For a time, yes,” Evangeline says. “And his brother before him.”
The princess is not surprised. I assume the Lakelands are well informed of the Nortan royals. “Well, I’m glad you’ve returned to court. We will require a good amount of help in organizing our wedding.”
I bite my lip so hard I almost draw blood. Better that than laughing out loud as Iris pours salt into so many Samos wounds. Across from me, Maven turns his head to hide a sneer.
One of the snakes hisses, a low, droning sound impossible to mistake. But Larentia quickly curtsies, sweeping out the fabric of her shimmering gown.
“We are at your disposal, Your Highness,” she says. Her voice is deep, rich as syrup. As we watch, the thickest snake, around her neck, nuzzles up past her ear and into her hair. Revolting. “It would be an honor to aid you however we can.” I half expect her to elbow Evangeline into agreeing. Instead, the Viper woman turns her attention on me, so quickly I don’t have time to look away. “Is there a reason the prisoner is staring at me?”
“None,” I respond, teeth clicking together.
Larentia takes my eye contact as a challenge. Like an animal. She steps forward, closing the distance between us. We’re the same height. The snake in her hair continues hissing, coiling and twisting down onto her collarbone. Its jewel-bright eyes meet mine, and its forked black tongue licks the air, darting out between long fangs. Even though I stand my ground, I can’t help but swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The snake keeps watching me.
“They say you are different,” Larentia mutters. “But your fear smells the same as that of every vile Red rat I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.”
Red rat. Red rat.
I’ve heard that so many times. Thought it about myself. From her lips, it cracks something in me. The control I’ve worked so hard to maintain, that I must keep if I want to stay alive, threatens to unravel. I take a dragging breath, willing myself to keep still. Her snakes continue hissing, curling over one another in black tangles of scale and spine. Some are long enough to reach me if she wills it so.
Maven sighs low in his throat. “Guards, I think it’s time Miss Barrow was returned to her room.”
I spin on my heel before the Arvens can jump to my side, retreating into the so-called safety of their presence. Something about the snakes, I tell myself. I couldn’t stand them. No wonder Evangeline is horrific, with a mother like that to raise her.
As I flee back to my rooms, I’m seized by an unwelcome sensation. Relief. Gratitude. To Maven.
I crush that vile burst of emotion with all the rage I have. Maven is a monster. I feel nothing but hatred toward him. I cannot allow anything else, even pity, to creep in.
I MUST ESCAPE.
Two long months pass.
Maven’s wedding will be ten times the production that the Parting Ball, or even Queenstrial, was. Silver nobles flood back into the capital, bringing entourages with them from all corners of Norta. Even the ones the king exiled. Maven feels safe enough in his new alliance to allow even smiling enemies through his door. Though most have city houses of their own, many take up residence in Whitefire, until the palace itself seems ready to burst at the seams. I’m kept to my room mostly. I don’t mind. It’s better this way. But even from my cell, I can feel the impending storm of a wedding. The tangible union of Norta and the Lakelands.
The courtyard below my window, empty all winter long, flourishes in a suddenly warm and green spring. Nobles walk through the magnolia trees at a lazy pace, some arm in arm. Always whispering, always scheming or gossiping. I wish I could read lips. I might learn something other than which houses seem to congregate together, their colors brighter in the sunlight. Maven would have to be a fool to think they aren’t plotting against him or his bride. And he is many things, but not that.
The old routine I used to pass my first month of isolation—wake, eat, sit, scream, repeat—doesn’t serve anymore. I have more useful ways to pass the time. There are no pens and paper, and I don’t bother to ask. No use leaving scraps. Instead, I stare at Julian’s books, idly turning pages. Sometimes I latch on to jotted notes, annotations scrawled in Julian’s handwriting. Interesting; curious; corroborate with volume IV. Idle words with little meaning. I brush my fingers along the letters anyway, feeling dry ink and the press of a long-gone pen. Enough of Julian to keep me thinking, reading between lines on the page and words spoken aloud.
He ruminates on one volume in particular, thinner than the histories but densely packed with text. Its spine is badly broken, the pages cluttered with Julian’s writing. I can almost feel the warmth of his hands as they smoothed the tattered pages.
On Origins, the cover says in embossed black lettering, followed by the names of a dozen Silver scholars who wrote the many essays and arguments within the small book. Most of it is too complex for my understanding, but I sift through it anyway. If only for Julian.
He marked one passage in particular, dog-earing the page and underlining a few sentences. Something about mutations, changes. The result of ancient weaponry we no longer possess and can no longer create. One of the scholars believes it made Silvers. Others disagree. A few mention gods instead, perhaps the ones that Iris follows.
Julian makes his own position clear in notes at the bottom of the page.
Strange that so many thought themselves gods, or a god’s chosen, he wrote. Blessed by something greater. Elevated to what we are. When all evidence points to the opposite. Our abilities came from corruption, from a scourge that killed most. We were not a god’s chosen, but a god’s cursed.
I blink at the words and wonder. If Silvers are cursed, then what are newbloods? Worse?
Or is Julian wrong? Are we chosen too? And for what?
Men and women much smarter than me have no answers, and neither do I. Not to mention, I have more pressing things to think about.
I plan while I eat breakfast, chewing slowly as I run through what I know. A royal wedding will be organized chaos. Extra security, more guards than I can count, but still a good enough chance. Servants everywhere, drunk nobles, a foreign princess to distract the people usually focused on me. I’d be stupid not to try something. Cal would be stupid not to try something.
I glare at the pages in hand, at white paper and black ink. Nanny tried to save me and Nanny ended up dead. A waste of life. And I selfishly want them to try again. Because if I stay here much longer, if I have to live the rest of my life a few steps behind Maven, with his haunting eyes and his missing pieces and his hatred for everyone in this world—
Hatred for everyone but—
“Stop,” I hiss to myself, fighting the urge to let in the silk monster knocking at the walls of my mind. “Stop it.”