Kelsea paused. The air around her had grown taut, almost electric, her skin tightening uncomfortably. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Her throat had closed.
“Put me down, Glynn.” The Red Queen patted Kelsea’s cheek, as one would do with a child. “Put me down, or I will choke you to death.”
After another moment, Kelsea relaxed her hold on the red velvet and lowered the woman to the ground. Her throat remained closed for perhaps ten more seconds—the slight, victorious twist of the Red Queen’s mouth told her that this was deliberate—and then loosened. Kelsea gasped, whooping as her lungs took in a great breath of air.
“You have balls, I give you that.” The Red Queen looked down at her dress, which now sported ripped seams beneath both arms. “I once whipped a page for ruining a dress of mine.”
“I’m not one of your servants.” Kelsea leaned on the parapet, gasping. The pillar of smoke that bloomed from the burning armory was blurry now; her vision had doubled. She felt the start of a headache at her temples.
“You tipped your hand far too easily,” the Red Queen remarked, joining her at the edge. “I can hardly send soldiers to the Tearling now, to the pope or otherwise. I merely wanted to know whether the information was correct. Your dame of chamber and her youngest daughter! I’ve always thought the sight was hereditary, but I’ve had no chance to study it before.”
“Good luck with that. This particular seer would kill her child before seeing her in your hands.”
“You have bigger problems, Glynn. Benin tells me that the Holy Father has been double-dealing. He’s also made direct overtures to my army, behind my back.”
“Your soldiers want a seer?”
“No, my soldiers want their plunder. But a seer, a proven seer, would fetch a high price on the open market, high enough to compensate an entire legion. I no longer—” The Red Queen broke off, and Kelsea sensed that her words were costing her. “I no longer control my army, not completely.”
“How terrible for you.”
“Laugh if you like, Glynn, but this problem belongs to you as well, if my soldiers go rogue.”
Kelsea winced, thinking of the Keep, unguarded now, most of her army dead in the Almont. General Hall couldn’t have more than a hundred men at his disposal, no match for a legion of Mort. She thought she had bargained for three years of safety for her kingdom, but had she really accomplished anything at all? If only she could contact them! Something seemed to glimmer in the back of her memory, but then it was gone.
“You have nothing useful to give me on this thing, the Orphan?”
Kelsea shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Emily!” the Red Queen called, and the page appeared from the staircase in the center of the balcony. Her eyes darted briefly to Kelsea, then away, and Kelsea did not acknowledge her either. Ever since they had cleaned up the jailor, Emily had refused to answer any more questions.
“I’m done with her for now. Take her back downstairs.”
The words were said offhandedly, but the tone was wrong. Looking back at the Red Queen as she descended the stairs, Kelsea again received an impression of deep unhappiness, of a woman on the edge of something. She had heard that tone often enough in her own voice during those last few doomed weeks in the Keep.
She didn’t try to talk to Emily during the journey downstairs. There were too many people in the hallways, too much chance of being overheard. So close to the date, Emily had said, and only now did Kelsea allow herself to consider that there might be a prison break under way. She hoped for it, and hoped against it; if the Holy Father was preparing to move against the Keep, Mace had bigger problems. Kelsea longed to give Emily a message, to warn Mace, to warn Andalie, who needed to know that she and Glee were no longer safe. And how had the Holy Father found out about Andalie, anyway? Was there another traitor in the Queen’s Wing?
I must get out of here, Kelsea thought. No matter what it costs. My kingdom is wide open.
When they passed her neighbor’s cell, Kelsea snuck a glance inside and found him at his desk, hard at work by candlelight, his face less than an inch from the canvas. She could see only a fraction of his profile, but enough to tell her that he was much younger than she had taken him for. Bald, yes, but a closer look at his head suggested that his hair had been shaved. Kelsea longed for a decent look at him, but the man did not acknowledge either her or Emily as they went past.
As Emily shut the door of her cell, Kelsea grasped her arm and gestured her closer, meaning to tell her about Andalie, ask her to get a message to Mace. But Emily drew back, placing a finger to her lips, and departed. Kelsea wanted to scream in frustration. As the light from Emily’s torch disappeared, Kelsea lit one of her own candles, placing it carefully on the floor beside the bars. It was a waste of wax, but the thought of Mace, Pen, Andalie, all of them, going blithely about life in the Keep while a deathweight hung over their heads . . . these visions had undone her, and she could not bear to sit in the dark.