Brutality, her mind whispered, and Arlen Thorne’s face flashed behind her eyes, there and then gone. You meant to leave all that behind, remember?
She did remember; that moment in the Red Queen’s tent had put paid to all of Kelsea’s easy ideas about the use of violence. But hatred was stronger than memory, infinitely stronger, and in her hatred Kelsea felt an echo of the woman she had become in those last few weeks in the Keep: the Queen of Spades. Kelsea had meant to lay that woman to rest, but she did not rest easily.
Beyond the corridor, they went up several flights of steps. It was a different route than Kelsea had taken coming into the dungeon, and at the top of the last flight she was disheartened to see a massive iron-barred door, two guards inside and two guards outside.
So much for my ideas of escape, she thought grimly. A man could batter his brains out against those iron bars and get nowhere. She kept her eyes down as the inner guards unlocked the door. The jailor’s hand brushed her bottom, and she jumped. The longing for her sapphires felt like a physical thing, almost a fever.
They emerged into a long, high hallway draped in red silk, the bright sheen of the fabric glowing in the light of many torches. The effect was beautiful, and Kelsea felt, again, the incongruity with the Red Queen, the witch-queen she had heard of throughout her childhood, the woman with no mercy, no heart.
That’s not so, her mind whispered. She does have a heart, and it’s a complicated one. You know that.
Kelsea knew. As the jailor led her up another flight of stairs, she wondered if the Red Queen had finally decided to kill her. Kelsea had spared the Red Queen’s life, but felt sure that this fact would not enter into consideration. The Red Queen would view Kelsea as a pure liability now, for she knew too many things that the woman had tried to bury. She knew the Red Queen’s name.
I need to survive, Kelsea thought, else how will I ever get home? And beneath that, quieter but no less powerful: How will I ever hear the end of the story? The Red Queen wanted something, or she would never have carted Kelsea to this hellhole in the first place, and Kelsea felt her mind girding itself up, putting her bargaining face on. They had bargained once before, she and the Red Queen, and Kelsea had won, but only by luck. She did not underestimate the woman in red.
At the top of the third flight of stairs, the Red Queen’s page waited. She waved the jailor away with a sweep of her hand.
“I will take her from here.”
The jailor frowned, the pout of a child denied a treat. “I should stay with her.”
“You should do as you’re told.”
His eyes burned, and Kelsea, who had briefly considered sticking her tongue out at him, thought better of it. She had no intention of putting up with the worst of the man’s abuses and delusions, but there was also no percentage in antagonizing him further.
Just one moment, she thought, as the jailor—with poor grace—handed over the key to her manacles. One moment with my jewels and I could turn you inside out.
“Come along,” the page told her. She had switched to Tear now, and her Tear was very good. “I have a bath for you, and some clean clothing.”
Kelsea brightened at this prospect, increasing pace behind the woman until she was nearly jogging along. The jailor had at least left her boots to her, the good riding boots she had worn on that long-ago morning. They had stood her in good stead when she fled across the New London Bridge. Would Mace rebuild the bridge? There was very little money in the Treasury, and an enormous building project seemed like an extravagance.
Look at you! her mind jeered. Trying to govern even from here!
Taking a bath in front of the woman was difficult. Kelsea had long ago banished Andalie from her bath chamber, but at least Andalie was sometimes helpful, whereas this woman merely leaned against the wall, watching her without expression.
“What is your rank?” Kelsea finally asked.
“I am Her Majesty’s page.”
So Kelsea had been right. But still, a Tear page! Kelsea herself had no real pages; Andalie covered the job well enough. But the Red Queen had a well-known disdain for all things Tear. This woman must be something special.
“What is your name?”
“Emily.”
“How do you come to be here? Were you in the lottery?”
“Wash your hair, please. We’ll check for nits when you get out.”
Kelsea stared at her for another moment before dunking her head. Her hair, long and straight now, Lily’s hair, was a tangled mess lying halfway down her back. It took a long while to comb out, but to Kelsea’s relief, she had no lice. They gave her a black dress to wear, whether by design or accident Kelsea didn’t know, but she accepted the garment gratefully and found it made of comfortable, undoubtedly expensive wool.