30
After the crowd cleared, Kestrel told the club owner to find her a private room. Ronan was a member, and could have arranged this himself. Instead, he watched and listened to Kestrel’s instructions with something like amusement, or the air of someone pleasantly surprised by the appearance of an old friend. But his smile was bitter.
He ordered a carafe of cold wine. Once he and Kestrel were alone, he drank half of it down at once.
“A private audience with the future empress,” Ronan said, unwinding bloodied linen strips from his knuckles. “I’m honored.” He settled his long frame in a chair and looked up at her. He had a split lip. His blond hair was loose and sweaty, his finely drawn face purpled with bruises. He ran a finger along the rim of his glass until it hummed.
When Kestrel was little, Jess’s older brother had ignored her. Then one evening, when Kestrel was perhaps fifteen, she and her father had been invited to a society dinner at his house. Over the third course, she asked a senator whether he’d marry all of his mistresses if he could have more than one wife.
Kestrel hadn’t meant to upset the senator. She’d just been curious. She wasn’t aware that his wife, also at the dinner, hadn’t known about the mistresses.
Kestrel was sent from the table to sit alone in Jess’s suite.
Ronan smuggled her dessert. They ate white powdered cakes together, sugar dust all over their faces, and she laughed as Ronan imitated the senator’s reaction, puffing out his cheeks and holding his breath until his face turned red.
After that, Ronan noticed her.
Kestrel missed her friend. She missed him right now as he sat before her, everything about him playful and careless except for his eyes, which cared very much, and were cold.
He drank his cup dry. “What do you want, Kestrel?”
“Did you tell Jess?”
Ronan arched one brow. “Did I tell Jess.” He twirled his glass by its stem. “Let’s see. Did I tell Jess that those rumors were true, that all autumn long you had a lover—”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s right. It began in summer, when you bought him. Did I tell Jess that? Did I tell her that you’d rather buy someone to bring to your bed than love her brother? Maybe we wondered out loud what was so repulsive about marriage to me that you chose a slave instead.
“Maybe I told Jess, ‘I know, I know. You loved her, too. But on Firstwinter night she wasn’t there when you drank the poisoned wine. She wasn’t there when you gagged and choked and I dragged you behind a curtain to hide while slaves stabbed our friends. Kestrel wasn’t there when I held my dying sister. Because Kestrel left the ball with him.’” Ronan set the wineglass down on a table with infinitely delicate precision. “No, I didn’t tell Jess that. One broken heart in the family is enough.”
Kestrel tasted the memory of those sugared cakes. Their lost sweetness made it impossible to speak.
“Troubled, Kestrel?”
Though she knew he didn’t really want to hear her answer, she couldn’t help telling him. “Jess won’t answer my letters. When I pay her a call, servants say she’s out. She’s not. She’s in her rooms, waiting for me to leave. I thought that maybe…”
“I had been telling her some hard truths.” Ronan laced his fingers and then spread them wide, shrugging. “Have you considered that whatever has come between you two is your doing?”
I saw him, Jess had said when Kestrel had slipped into bed beside her the night of her engagement ball. What exactly had Jess seen?
“What’s this?” Ronan quickly leaned forward to tug on a corner of the folded paper peeking out of her skirt pocket. He pulled the recruitment list free.
“Nothing.” She reached for it.
He jerked the page away and unfolded it. “Ohhh. I know what this is. Look, you even got Caris to sign up. Now, where’s a pen?”
“No. Ronan, don’t.”
Holding the list of recruits high above Kestrel’s reach as if they were children, Ronan rummaged one-handed around the room.
“Stop.” Kestrel yanked on his arm. She tried to snake her way into his path. He ducked, and twisted, and laughed. He opened a secretaire and found a jug of wine where papers should be. “Nice, very nice, but not exactly what I was looking for…” He pulled out drawers. He crowed when he found ink and a pen.
Ronan, sent to war. Ronan, bleeding into the dirt.
She was near tears. “Please,” she said, “don’t sign that paper.”
He inked the pen and held the list down on the secretaire with both hands as if it might fly away.
“I beg you,” Kestrel said.
Ronan smiled, and signed.
*
Kestrel’s escort was waiting patiently by the club door. The maid said nothing as they stepped into the carriage and Kestrel gave the order to return to the palace. But the girl watched as Kestrel unwrapped the balled sheet of paper and let it fall to her lap.
With a shuddering jolt, the carriage pulled forward. It trundled up the mountain.
“It’s dirty,” the maid said. She was looking at the list.
It was splotched with ink. Kestrel had knocked the bottle over when she finally snatched the list back from Ronan. The page had rusty smears right by his name; Ronan’s knuckles must have been still bleeding. And although the maid wouldn’t have been able to tell, not after the way the page had been crushed, the paper was a little warped, the way paper gets when exposed to water, or sweat—or tears.
Kestrel gently folded the page. Destroying it would change nothing. It wasn’t the signature that was important, but the act of signing. The recruits would still report to the city barracks. They’d given their word, witnessed by Kestrel. A Valorian honored his word.
“What is that?” said the maid.
“A guest list.” Kestrel imagined a long, empty table set with bare white plates. She had set them.
Suddenly, Kestrel leaned forward and rapped at the glass that separated her from the carriage driver. She had changed her mind, she said.
Kestrel gave the driver a new destination.