She stood and walked to the door. “It means fine.” She pulled the door open.
She absolutely had to warn Cas.
Cas rounded the corner, smiling at a staff member scurrying past. He’d felt light all day since waking with Mary by his side. He’d been thinking of nothing else but the expression on her face when she agreed to come back to his room tonight. And hopefully all the nights after that.
He turned into the open door of his mother’s study to find both his parents waiting. His mother stood by her desk, tapping her fingers against it with such vigor she was in danger of denting it. His father was pacing the room.
A large portrait sat in the corner. It was of a man, woman, and young lady. Cas didn’t recognize any of them.
“Shut the door,” his mother said.
He pushed it shut, the sound echoing through the room. “Is everything all right?”
“The painting arrived.” His mother’s mouth was set in a hard line, and she had an expression on her face that he’d never seen before. If she’d had a sword, he might have taken a step back.
“The one of Mary and her parents?” He squinted at the painting. He’d never met the king and queen of Vallos, but he didn’t think the dark-haired girl was Mary. Her skin was paler, her eyes lighter, and she had small, graceful features, like she might break if shoved too hard. The man and woman stood just behind her, a hand on each of her shoulders. The man had impressively bushy eyebrows, his light-brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. The woman was pale and thin like her daughter.
“I think you were lied to,” he said. “But it was a nice thought.”
His mother’s chest started heaving, like she’d just been running. “They did not send the wrong painting. That is the king and queen of Vallos.”
“Then who is that?” he asked, pointing to the girl in the painting.
“Oh, wake up, Casimir,” his father snapped.
“That’s Mary,” his mother said, her voice shaking. She clenched her fingers into fists at her side. “The question is, who is the woman you married?”
The world tilted, and he grasped the edge of the chair as he lowered himself into it. That was preposterous. Who would take her place? Why? Where was the real Mary?
More importantly, who had slept in his bed last night?
“Why?” he managed to gasp out, because his mouth wouldn’t form any other word.
His father started pacing at a speed that made Cas dizzy. “You need to stay calm.”
“I’m calm.” He was too dazed to be anything but.
“No, we have an idea of who she is, and we need you to remain calm when we tell you,” his mother said.
“She was upset about that Ruined prisoner,” his father said, pacing even faster. “It made no sense for her to be that upset about him dying.”
“She thought the punishment was—”
“Quiet,” his mother snapped.
“She handles a sword better than almost anyone.” His father let out a hollow laugh. “And we all know Vallos soldiers aren’t well trained. Even a royal isn’t that good.”
Cas looked blankly at his father. Whatever the king was getting at, Cas hadn’t picked it up yet.
“And then she asked you where Olivia was. Didn’t she?”
“Yes.” Cas’s stomach turned over. “She asked again the other day.”
“What did you tell her?” A piece of hair had escaped from his mother’s bun, like even her hair couldn’t handle this situation.
“I—I told her the truth.”
His parents gasped in unison.
The fog in Cas’s brain suddenly cleared. “You think she’s one of the Ruined.”
His father ran a hand over his beard. “Not just any Ruined, because she doesn’t have any marks. She’s the right age, and the hair . . . the eyes . . .”
“What?” Cas was drowning suddenly, unable to breathe or think or move.
“I think that girl is Emelina Flores.”
TWENTY-ONE
EM RAISED HER hand to knock on Cas’s door. She could do this. Maybe. Probably.
She lowered her shaking fist, taking in a deep breath. She had to warn him, even if it meant angering the warriors. She wouldn’t let him die.
“He’s not there, Your Highness.”
Em turned to see Davina standing a few paces away, a half-eaten breakfast tray in her hands.
“He went to see your painting,” Davina said.
“My painting?”
“I—I thought you knew.” The color drained from the maid’s face. “It’s a painting of you and your parents, after all. I just assumed . . .”
Em’s throat tightened. A painting of Mary and her parents. They knew.
She scanned the area for weapons. Nothing.
“Please don’t tell the queen I told you,” Davina begged. “Maybe it was supposed to be a surprise, and if she knew I—”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” Em turned on her heel, resisting the urge to break into a run. She didn’t want to alarm the maid.
She turned a corner and almost ran smack into Iria. Panic was etched across the warrior’s face. “The queen has—”
“A painting of Mary, I know,” Em interrupted.
“We’re leaving. Now.”