The king falters. It’s like he’s going to cry—and maybe he is. At least that’s what I feel like doing.
“But I come to you tonight and admit …” Again the king stumbles. Sweat covers his brow. And that bubble inside of me …
It bursts.
At the top of the stairs, the king of Adria reaches for the microphone stand, but he can’t seem to grasp it. It tips and falls, crashing down the stairs. On the dance floor, the king’s subjects are quiet. A stunned disbelief fills the crowd as the man takes a hesitant step, but it’s like his legs can’t hold him—like he is an hourglass and a crack has appeared, sand rushing out, as the king stumbles.
He sways, then pitches awkwardly forward and crashes down the massive staircase.
It is a long, long way to fall.
Gasps and cries fill the ballroom, but the people of Adria are stunned. Frozen. I can see Thomas pushing through the people who stand like statues, trying to get closer to his grandfather, who has landed, limp and broken, on the polished parquet floor.
I’m not surprised when Dominic is the first to reach him. It seems like all of Adria is holding their breath as he reaches for the king, presses a hand gently against his neck even as he yells in Adrian for someone to bring a stretcher, for the crowd to make some room.
But then he goes silent. He hangs his head for a moment and pulls his hand away.
It seems to take forever for the Scarred Man to find the words.
“The king is dead.”
Then he looks to the top of the stairs, where Thomas’s father stands, Princess Ann beside him.
The king’s eldest son—his heir—is deathly pale as Dominic finishes. “Long live the king.”
“Long live the king,” a shocked crowd echoes, their gazes shifting. But I don’t speak. I just stare at the woman who has hunted me and my brother for months, who wanted my mother dead.
Ann is the only person in the ballroom who doesn’t seem the least surprised.
I don’t know how she’s done it, but I know what a killer looks like. I’ve been seeing one in the mirror for years, after all, and a part of me wants to rise up and point at the new king’s wife, shout murderer for all to hear.
But the truth is the king was well—the king was safe—until I told him.
I knew the rules. I broke the rules. And the king paid with his life.
The king is dead, I think. And it is all my fault.
People don’t run, don’t scream. It’s more like two hundred and fifty formally clad strangers are struck silent at the same time, and yet beneath it all there is an undercurrent of panic. Of disbelief.
This isn’t happening, the good people of Adria are thinking. Things like this don’t just happen—not in public, not out of the blue. But it’s not a dream. The guards who are coming in and urging the crowd toward the doors prove that. It’s as real as the paramedics who rush inside with their gurney and their bags, everyone knowing they’re too late.
Thomas’s cries echo through the ballroom—too loud and too familiar. That’s what shocked disbelief sounds like.
Shocked disbelief and fear. And rage. And guilt.
It’s a sound I know better than anyone.
I’m starting to pull away—to go to him—when something passes across my field of vision, and for some reason I turn and watch as the prime minister rushes away, her movements calm, her mood cool. And I realize that it wasn’t just Ann’s deal that I broke when I told the king my story.
Alexei’s hand is on my arm. He’s trying to drag me away, into the flow of the crowd. But when have I ever gone with the flow?
So I break free, pushing against the grain, away from the chaos, following the woman in white, who is going down a smaller, more inconspicuous hallway. I know it leads to a private entrance and exit. It’s the one the royal family uses. I guess the prime minister, too.
“Did you do this?” My voice echoes in the long, narrow space, and the PM stops.
We’re alone, I realize. I guess her guards are getting the cars, blocking the corridor. I don’t know. Don’t care. I’m too busy studying the woman who stands before me, slowly turning.
“Do what?” the PM says.
“Don’t lie to me. Stop treating me like I’m an idiot—like I’m a child.”
“You are a child!” The PM is practically yelling. It’s as if this is the point that’s been haunting her—taunting her—for ages. I should have been squashed months ago. That I’m still here, a thorn in her side, makes her want to rage.
And in that moment, her walls go down. I can see right through her.
“He told you tonight, didn’t he?”
“What?” she snaps and draws back.
“He told you he was going to help me, didn’t he? Of course he did. You’re the prime minister. He’d have to let you know he was going to do something. But what is it you and your council like to say? ‘Adria is a pivotal cog in the wheel of the world, and we cannot have it destabilized’? You knew. And you had to stop him.”
I don’t like what I can’t help thinking.
“Did you kill him?”