Kosika lurched back, felt herself stumble and fall, and—
She landed with a splash in the tub.
Chest heaving, water spilling over the sides of the stone bath with the force of her waking. The water was tepid, not yet cold, but she shivered as she climbed out, and fetched her robe, each step like an eerie echo of the ones she’d already made, so that by the time she dressed and climbed the stairs to Holland’s tower, by the time she ducked past the altar and into the chamber beyond, she was sure he would be there, waiting at the desk.
But the room was empty, the candles unlit.
The wooden box sat open on the table, just as she’d left it.
Kosika hurried forward, and dumped the broken shards of the third token back inside before closing the lid. But she didn’t seal it. She told herself it was because the wounds on her hand had finally stopped weeping. She told herself she simply didn’t want to bleed again. She told herself there was no point, when she was the only one who could use the tokens. Whether the things she told herself were true, she left the box unlocked and fled, past the altar and down the stairs and up to the safety of her room.
Nasi had returned, and was laying out the pieces on the kol-kot board, dinner steaming on a nearby tray. If she noticed that the shards were gone, or that Kosika’s hair was still wet, she said nothing, only asked if she wanted to play. Kosika tried, but her heart and mind kept skittering away, until she flung her pieces down in a fit of pique, and went to bed.
As she lay there, in the dark, she waited, sure that Holland was waiting for her, just beyond the door of sleep. All night, she tossed and turned, trapped in her tangled sheets, until Nasi abandoned her bed, muttering about the need for peace. Sometime before dawn, sleep finally came for Kosika, but it was shallow and empty, shadows that refused to coalesce into shapes, and she was about to give up and fling herself out of bed, irritable and achy, when she turned over one last time, and sank through the sheets, and dreamed.
This time, the alcove was dark, the altar candles all snuffed out.
Behind the statue, the door stood open, and Kosika’s bare feet carried her silently across the stones, and into the room beyond, no longer pitch black, but bathed in morning light. She knew he would be there, but something inside her still lurched at the sight of the Someday King, the Summer Saint, standing by the desk, one hand resting thoughtfully on the now-closed box.
This time, as Holland’s gaze flicked toward her, Kosika dropped into a bow, one knee touching the cold stone and her eyes on the floor.
“My king.”
At first, nothing. Then, the slow tread of boots crossing the floor, a shadow falling over her. She did not look up, but she could see the toe of his boot, the edge of his half-cloak skimming the stones as he knelt before her. She felt the weight of his hand as it came to rest beneath her chin, and guided her face up to meet his.
Kosika caught her breath.
She had dreamt of Holland Vosijk before, of course, but in those dreams, he was either the body in the woods, or the altar come to life, a shape more than a man.
This Holland was different. This Holland had a flush of color in his cheeks, blood running beneath his skin, a chest that rose and fell with his breath. Up close, his white hair—for years she thought it had always been white, until Serak showed her a portrait, and she learned it had in fact been black until the day he died—rose off his cheeks, as if caught in a breeze.
This Holland’s eyes were not made of gemstones or glass. Up close, the green one was not solid emerald but paler green, shot through with filaments of silver. The black was as smooth and dark and lightless as her own.
As she studied her king, he studied her, his brow furrowed, but his expression drained of the rage she had imagined, something cautious in its stead.
“Interesting,” he said, his voice smooth and low.
His fingers dropped from her chin, and he rose again to his full height. She didn’t, not until he held out his hand, and beckoned her to her feet.
“Who are you?” he asked, the words curling around her.
“Kosika,” she said.
Holland inclined his head. “Kosika,” he echoed. The name had been nothing in her mouth, sounds she’d made a thousand times, but the way he said it, as if it were a spell, made her feel dizzy. She stole another glance at his face, and saw something soften, the line between his brow smooth and the corner of his mouth tense, ever so slightly, as if he were about to smile.
“I have been waiting for you.”
He turned, expecting her to follow, but as she took the first step, the room began to thin around them. The edges faded. Her vision narrowed. The last thing she saw was the king glancing back over his shoulder before the dream crumbled.
She was back in her bed, sunlight spilling in through the open windows, and Nasi bouncing on the edge of the cushions.
“I let you sleep as long as I could.”
Kosika closed her eyes again, trying to hold on to the dregs of her dream, to find her way back, but it was gone, and so was Holland.
“What a monster you were last night,” Nasi was saying. “I think it’s time you slept alone.”
She said it gently, clearly expecting some resistance, but Kosika instantly agreed.
II
RED LONDON
NOW
The first thing Lila noticed was that the world wasn’t moving.
She’d learned to distrust the absence of motion, the lack of bob and sway that accompanied life aboard a ship. Stillness was not only strange, but dire. It meant something had gone wrong. Before she could even place the wrongness, she was reaching beneath her pillow for the knife she kept there. But the space was empty, and the pillow was silk, and the bed beneath her was too soft, and as her mind finally caught up, it supplied a single word: palace.
Lila groaned, and rolled over.
Pale morning light spilled across the bed, and the place where Kell had been lying, dead to the world, the night before. Only now, there was nothing but a tangle of rumpled sheets. Bad enough she’d followed him into the palace. Worse, that he had left her here.
Lila threw off the covers and got up, wishing she’d barred the door the night before.
Her jacket lay cast onto a chair, along with her boots, and the handful of blades she’d bothered to shed before collapsing into bed. But the boots had been cleaned, and someone had arranged the knives left to right in descending order of size. She unsheathed one, and checked its edge. Of course. It had been sharpened. And even though no one would be foolish enough, she still found herself touching the knives she kept on even while sleeping—the ones strapped to her thigh, her hip, the small of her back—just to be sure they were still there.
Lila sighed, and crossed the massive chamber.
A marble basin sat on a shelf on the far wall, a pitcher beside and a mirror mounted overhead. She poured the water into the bowl, and even though the pitcher had likely been sitting for hours, waiting to be used, the water came out hot. Lila stared at the steam rising from the basin.
Seven years, and the casual magic of this world still took her by surprise.
Despite everything, she’d forget, and then she’d see a lantern light itself, a man breathe wind into sails, hot water spill out from a cold pitcher, and her mind would lurch, like a boot catching a crooked cobblestone. Hell, sometimes when she called on her own magic, she was still shocked that it answered.
She leaned forward, crinkled her nose as the scent of blossoms rose from the basin. Fucking royals, she thought, as she splashed the scented water onto her face, the back of her neck, ran a damp hand through her blunt-edge hair.