A week passes until I leave my room again. Even though they’re a gift from Maven, a reminder of his strange obsession with me, I’m glad for Julian’s books. They’re my only company. A piece of a friend in this place. I keep them close, alongside Gisa’s silk scrap.
Pages pass with the days. I work back through the histories, traveling through words that become less and less believable. Three hundred years of Calore kings, centuries of Silver warlords—this is a world I recognize. But the farther I go, the murkier things become.
Written records of the so-called Reformation Period are scarce, though most scholars agree that the period began sometime around 1500 Old Era (or OE) by the modern Nortan calendar. Most records dating before the Reformation, immediately following, during, or prior to the Calamities that befell the continent, were almost entirely destroyed, were lost, or are impossible to read at present. Those recovered are closely studied and guarded within the Royal Archives in Delphie, as well as similar facilities in neighboring kingdoms. The Calamities themselves have been studied at length, using field investigation paired with pre-Silverian myth to postulate events. At the time of writing, many believe that a combination of ultimate human war, geologic shift, climate change, and other natural catastrophes resulted in the near extinction of the human race.
The earliest discovered, translatable records date from approximately 950 OE, but the exact year cannot be verified. One document, The Trial of Barr Rambler, is an incomplete account of the attempted court trial of an accused thief in reconstructed Delphie. Barr was accused of stealing his neighbor’s wagon. During the course of the trial, Barr reportedly broke his chains of binding “as if made of twigs” and escaped despite a full guard. It is believed to be the first record of a Silver displaying his ability. To this day, House Rhambos claims to trace its strongarm bloodline from him. However, this claim is refuted by another court record, The Trial of Hillman, Tryent, Davids, wherein three men of Delphie were tried for the subsequent murder of Barr Rambler, who was reported to have no children. The three men were acquitted and later praised by the citizens of Delphie for their work in destroying “the Rambler abomination” (Delphie Records and Writings, Vol. 1).
The treatment of Barr Rambler was not an isolated incident. Many early writings and documents detail fear and persecution of a rising population of abilitied humans with silver-colored blood. Most banded together for protection, forming communities outside Red-dominated cities. The Reformation Period ended with the rise of Silver societies, some living in conjunction with Red cities, though most eventually overtook their red-blooded counterparts.
Silvers persecuted by Reds. I want to laugh at the thought. How stupid. How impossible. I’ve lived every day of my life knowing they are gods and we are insects. I cannot even begin to fathom a world where the reverse was true.
These are Julian’s books. He saw enough merit here to study them. Still, I feel too unsettled to continue, and I keep my reading to later years. The New Era, the Calore kings. Names and places I know in a civilization I understand.
One day my delivered clothes are plainer than ever. Comfortable, made for utility rather than style. My first indication of something amiss. I almost look like a Security officer, with stretchy pants, a black jacket sparsely embellished with pinprick whorls of ruby beading, and shockingly sensible boots. Polished but worn leather, no heel, just the right amount of pinch, and enough room for my ankle manacles. The ones at the wrist are hidden as usual, covered by gloves. Fur-lined. For the cold. My heart leaps. I’ve never been so excited about gloves.
“Am I going outside?” I ask Kitten breathlessly, forgetting how good she is at ignoring me. She doesn’t disappoint, staring straight ahead as she leads me from my luxurious cell. Clover is always easier to read. The twitch of her lips and narrowed green eyes are affirmation enough. Not to mention that they, too, are both wearing thick coats as well as gloves, albeit the rubber ones to protect their hands from electricity I no longer possess.
Outside. I haven’t tasted much more than a breeze from an open window since that day on the steps of the palace. I thought Maven was going to take my head off, so obviously my mind was elsewhere. Now I wish I could remember the cold air of November, the sharp wind bringing winter with it. In my haste, I almost outpace the Arvens. They’re quick to yank me in line and make me match their steps. It’s a maddening descent, down stairs and corridors I know by heart.
Familiar pressure ripples against me, and I glance over my shoulder. Egg and Trio join our ranks, bringing up the rear of my Arven guard. They move in unison with Kitten and Clover, steps matching, as we make our way to the entrance hall and Caesar’s Square.
Quick as my excitement came, it bleeds away.
Fear gnaws at my insides. I tried to manipulate Maven into making costly mistakes, to make him doubt, to burn the last bridges he has left. But maybe I failed. Maybe he’s going to burn me instead.
I focus on the click of my boots on marble. Something solid to anchor my fear. My fists curl in my gloves, begging for a spark to tide me over. It never comes.
The palace seems strangely empty, even more so than usual. Doors are shut fast, while servants flutter through the rooms that aren’t closed yet, quick and quiet as mice. They flutter white sheets over furniture and artwork, covering them up in strange shrouds. Few guards, fewer nobles. The ones I pass are young and wide-eyed. I know their houses, their colors, and I can see naked fear on their faces. All are dressed like me, for the cold, for function. For movement.
“Where is everyone going?” I ask no one, because no one is going to answer.
Clover harshly yanks on my ponytail, forcing me to look straight ahead. It doesn’t hurt, but the action is jarring. She never handles me this way, not unless I give her a good reason.
I spin through the possibilities. Is this an evacuation? Has the Scarlet Guard attempted another assault on Archeon? Or have the rebelling houses returned to finish what they started? No, it can’t be either. This is too calm. We’re not running from anything.
As we cross the hall, I take a deep breath, looking around. Marble beneath me, chandeliers above me, tall glimmering mirrors and gilded paintings of Calore ancestors marching up the walls on either side. Red and black banners, silver and gold and crystal. I feel like it’s all going to crash down and crush me. Fear creeps down my spine when the doors ahead swing open, metal and glass easing on giant hinges. The first breath of cold wind hits me head-on, making my eyes water.
The winter sun shines bright on the gleaming square, blinding me for a second. I blink rapidly, trying to make my eyes adjust. I can’t afford to miss a second of this. The outside world comes into focus steadily. Snow lies deep on the rooftops of the palace and the surrounding structures of Caesar’s Square.
Soldiers line either side of the steps leading down from the palace, immaculate in their neat rows. The Arvens lead me through the double row of soldiers, past their guns and uniforms and unblinking eyes. I turn to look over my shoulder as I walk, stealing a glance at the opulent pale hulk of Whitefire Palace. Silhouettes prowl the roof. Officers in black uniforms, soldiers in clouded gray. Even from here, their rifles are clearly visible, silhouetted against a cold blue sky. And those are just the guards I can see. There must be more patrolling the walls, manning the gates, concealed and ready to defend this wretched place. Hundreds, probably, kept for their loyalty and lethal ability. We cross the square alone, for no one, for nothing. What is this?
I note the buildings we pass. The Royal Court, a circular building with smooth marble walls, spiraled columns, and a crystal dome, has gone unused since Maven’s coronation. It is a symbol of power, a massive hall large enough to seat the assembled High Houses and their retainers, as well as important members of the Silver citizenry. I’ve never been inside. I hope I never am. The judiciary courts, where Silver law is made and enacted with brutal efficiency, branch out from the domed structure. Next to their arches and crystal trappings, the Treasury Hall looks dull. Slab walls—more marble, and I have to wonder how many quarries this place sucked dry—no windows, sitting like a block of stone among sculptures. The wealth of Norta is somewhere in there, more defended than the king, locked in vaults drilled deep into the bedrock below us.
“This way,” Clover growls, pulling me toward the Treasury.
“Why?” I ask. Again, no one answers.
My heartbeat quickens, hammering against my rib cage, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. Each cold gasp feels like the tick of a clock, steadily counting down the moments before I’m swallowed up.
The doors are thick, thicker than the ones I remember from Corros Prison. They open wide as a yawning mouth, flanked by guards in liveried purple. The Treasury has no grand entrance hall, in sharp contrast to every other Silver structure I’ve ever seen. It’s just a long white corridor, curving and sloping downward in a steady spiral. Guards stand at attention every ten yards or so, flush against pure white stone. Where the vaults might be, or where I’m going, I can’t say.
After exactly six hundred steps, we stop in front of a guard.
Without a word he steps forward and to the side, putting his fingers to the wall behind him. He pushes and the marble glides backward a foot, revealing the silhouette of a door. It slides easily at his touch, widening to create a three-foot gap in the stone. The soldier doesn’t strain at all. Strongarm, I note.
The stone is thick and heavy. My fear triples, and I swallow hard, feeling my hands start to sweat in my gloves. Maven is finally putting me in a real cell.
Kitten and Clover shove me, trying to take me off guard, but I plant my feet, locking every joint against them. “No!” I shout, driving a shoulder back into one of them. Kitten grunts but doesn’t stop, continuing to push while Clover takes me around the middle, lifting me clean off the floor.
“You can’t put me down here!” I don’t know what card to play, what mask to put on. Do I cry? Do I beg? Do I act like the rebel queen they think I am? Which one will save me? Fear overrules my senses. I gasp like a girl drowning. “Please, I can’t—I can’t—”
I kick at open air, trying to topple Clover, but she’s stronger than I expect. Egg takes my legs, cleanly ignoring my heel as it cracks into his jaw. They carry me like a piece of furniture, without thought or attention.
Twisting, I manage to catch sight of the Treasury guard as the door slides back into place. He hums to himself, nonchalant. Another day on the job for him. I force myself to look forward, at whatever fate awaits me in these white depths.
This vault is empty; its walkway corkscrews like the corridor, albeit in tighter circles. Nothing marks the walls. No distinguishing features, no seams, not even guards. Just lights overhead and stone all around.
“Please.” My voice echoes in the silence, alone with the sound of my racing heartbeat.
I stare up at the ceiling, willing this all to be a dream.
When they drop me, I gasp, the wind knocked from my lungs. Still, I roll to my feet as quickly as I can. As I stand, fists clenched, teeth bared, I’m ready to fight and willing to lose. I won’t be abandoned here without taking someone’s teeth.
The Arvens stand back, side by side, unamused. Uninterested. Their focus is beyond me, behind me.
I whirl to find myself staring, not at another blank wall, but at a winding platform. Newly built, joining with other corridors or vaults or secret passages. It overlooks tracks.
Before my brain can attempt to connect the dots, before even the briefest whisper of excitement can ripple in my mind, Maven speaks, and smashes my hope to pieces.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” His voice echoes from my left, farther down the platform. He stands there, waiting, a guard of Sentinels around him, along with Evangeline and Ptolemus. All of them wear coats like mine, with ample fur to keep them warm. Both Samos children are resplendent in black sable.
Maven steps toward me, grinning with the confidence of a wolf. “The Scarlet Guard aren’t the only ones capable of building trains.”
The Undertrain rattled and sparked and rusted all over, a tin heap threatening to split apart at its welds. Still, I prefer it to this glamorous slug.
“Your friends gave me the idea, of course,” Maven says from his plush seat across from me. He lazes, proud of himself. I see none of his psychic wounds today. They’re carefully hidden, either pushed aside or forgotten for the moment.
I fight the urge to curl up in my own seat, and I keep both feet firmly planted on the floor. If something goes wrong, I have to be ready to run. As in the palace, I note every inch of Maven’s train, looking for any kind of advantage. I find none. No windows, and Sentinels and Arven guards are planted at either end of the long compartment. It’s furnished like a salon, with paintings, upholstered chairs and couches, even crystal lights tinkling with the motion of the train. But as with everything Silver, I see the cracks. The paint has barely dried. I can smell it. The train is brand-new, untested. At the other end of the compartment, Evangeline’s eyes dart back and forth, betraying her attempt to seem calm. The train rattles her. I bet she can feel every piece of it moving at high speed. It’s a hard sensation to get used to. I never could, always sensing the pulse of machines like the Undertrain or the Blackrun jet. I used to feel the electric blood—I guess she can feel the metal veins.
Her brother sits beside her, glowering at me. He shifts once or twice, nudging her shoulder. Her pained expression relents every time, calmed by his presence. I guess if the new train explodes, they’re strong enough to survive the shrapnel.
“They managed to escape so quickly from the Bowl of Bones, riding the ancient rails all the way to Naercey before even I could get there. I figured it wouldn’t be so bad to have a little escape route of my own,” Maven continues, drumming his fingers on his knee. “You never know what new concoction my brother may dream up in his attempt to overthrow me. Best to be prepared.”
“And what are you escaping from right now?” I mumble, trying to keep my voice low.
He only shrugs and laughs. “Don’t act so glum, Mare. I’m doing us both a favor.” Grinning, he sinks back in his seat. He kicks his feet up, putting them onto the seat beside me. I wrinkle my nose at the action, angling away. “One can only tolerate the prison of Whitefire Palace for so long.”
Prison. I bite back a retort, forcing myself to humor him. You have no idea what a prison is, Maven.
Without windows or any kind of bearing, I have no way to know where we may be headed or how far this infernal machine can travel. It certainly feels as fast as the Undertrain, if not faster. I doubt we’re heading south, to Naercey, a ruined city now abandoned even by the Scarlet Guard. Maven made such a show of destroying the tunnels after the infiltration of Archeon.
He lets me think, watching as I puzzle out the picture around us. He knows I don’t have enough pieces to make it whole. Still, he lets me try, and doesn’t offer any more explanation.
The minutes tick by, and I turn my focus to Ptolemus. My hate for him has only grown over the last few months. He killed my brother. He took Shade from this world. He would do the same to everyone I love if given the chance. For once, he’s without his scaled armor. It makes him seem smaller, weaker, more vulnerable. I fantasize about cutting his throat and staining Maven’s freshly painted walls with Silver blood.
“Something interest you?” Ptolemus snarls, meeting my gaze.
“Let her stare,” Evangeline says. She leans back in her seat and tips her head, never breaking eye contact. “She can’t do much more than that.”
“We’ll see,” I growl back. In my lap, my fingers twitch.
Maven clucks his tongue, chiding. “Ladies.”
Before Evangeline can retort, her focus shifts and she looks away, at the walls, at the floor, at the ceiling. Ptolemus matches her action. They sense something I can’t. And then the train around us starts to slow, its gears and mechanisms screeching against iron tracks.
“Nearly there, then,” Maven says, easing to his feet. He offers me a hand.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of biting his fingers off. Instead, I put my hand in his, ignoring the crawling sensation under my skin. When I stand, his thumb grazes the raised edge of my manacle beneath my glove. A firm reminder of his hold over me. I can’t stand it and pull away, folding my arms over my chest to create a barrier between us. Something darkens in his bright eyes, and he puts up a shield of his own.
Maven’s train stops so smoothly I barely feel it. The Arvens do, though, and snap to my side, surrounding me with exhausting familiarity. At least I’m not chained up or leashed.
Sentinels flank Maven as the Arvens flank me, their flaming robes and black masks foreboding as always. They let Maven set the pace, and he crosses the length of the compartment. Evangeline and Ptolemus follow, forcing me and my guards to take up the back of the strange procession. We follow them through the door, into a vestibule connecting one compartment to the next. Another door, another long stretch of opulent furnishings, this time in a dining room. Still no windows. Still no hint as to where we might be.
At the next vestibule, a door opens, not ahead, but to the right. The Sentinels duck through first, disappearing, then Maven goes, then the rest. We exit onto another platform, illuminated by harsh lights overhead. It’s shockingly clean—another new construction, no doubt—but the air feels damp. Despite the meticulous order of the empty platform, something drips somewhere, echoing around us. I look left and right along the tracks. They fade into blackness on either side. This isn’t the end of the line. I shudder to think how much progress Maven has made in only a few months’ time.
Up we go, ascending a set of stairs. I resign myself to a long climb, remembering how deep the vault entrance was. So I’m surprised when the stairs level off quickly at another door. This one is reinforced steel, a foreboding omen of what might be beyond. A Sentinel grasps the bar lock and turns it with a grunt. The groan of a massive mechanism answers. Evangeline and Ptolemus don’t lift a finger to help. Like me, they watch with thinly veiled fascination. I don’t think they know much more than I do. Strange, for a house so closely tied to the king.
Daylight streams through as the steel swings back, revealing gray and blue beyond. Dead trees, their branches splayed like veins, reach into a clear winter sky. As we step out from the train bunker, I take a deep breath. Pine, the sharp cleanness of cold air. We’re standing in a clearing surrounded by evergreens and naked oaks. The earth beneath me is frozen, hard-packed dirt beneath a few inches of snow. It chills my toes already.
I dig in my heels, earning one more second of open forest. The Arvens push me along, making me skid. I don’t fight so much as methodically slow them down, all the while whipping my head back and forth. I try to get my bearings. Judging by the sun, now beginning its western descent, north is directly ahead of me.
Four military transports, polished to unnatural shine, idle in the path before us. Their engines hum, waiting, the heat of them sending plumes of steam into the air. It’s easy to figure which belongs to Maven. The Burning Crown, red, black, and royal silver, is stamped on the sides of the grandest one. It stands almost two feet off the ground, with massive wheels and what must be a reinforced body. Bulletproof, fireproof, deathproof. Everything to protect the boy king.
He climbs inside without hesitation, his cape trailing behind. To my relief, the Arvens don’t make me follow, and I’m bodily shoved into another transport. Mine is unmarked. As I duck in, straining for one last glimpse of the open sky, I notice Evangeline and Ptolemus approach their own transport. Black and silver, its metal body covered in spikes. Evangeline probably decorated it herself.
We lurch forward as Egg shuts the door behind him, locking me into the transport with four Arven guards. There is a soldier behind the wheel and a Sentinel in the seat next to him. I resign myself to another journey, crammed in with the Arvens.
At least the transport has windows. I watch, not wanting to blink, as we speed through an achingly familiar forest. When we reach the river, and the widely paved road running next to it, a longing burns through my chest.
That is the Capital River. My river. We’re driving north, on the Royal Road. They could throw me from the transport right now, leave me in the dust with nothing, and I could find my way home. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought. What I would do, to myself or anyone else, for the chance to go back home?
But no one is there. No one I care about. They’re gone, protected, far away. Home is no longer the place we’re from. Home is safe with them. I hope.
I jump as other transports join our convoy. Military-grade, their bodies marked by the black sword of the army. I count almost a dozen in sight, and more stretching into the distance behind us. Many have Silver soldiers visible, either leaning off the side or perched on top in special seats and harnesses. All of them are on alert, ready to act. The Arvens don’t look surprised by the new additions. They knew they were coming.
The Royal Road winds through towns on the riverbank. Red towns. We’re too far south for us to pass through the Stilts yet, but that doesn’t dampen my excitement. Brick mills come into view first, jutting out into the shallows of the river. We speed right for them, entering the outskirts of a thriving mill town. As much as I want to see more, I hope we don’t stop. I hope Maven passes right through this place without disruption.
I mostly get my wish. The convoy slows but never stops, rolling through the heart of the town in all its glittering menace. Crowds line the street, waving us on. They cheer for the king, shouting his name, straining to see and be seen. Red merchants to millworkers, the old and young, hundreds of them pressing forward to get a better look. I expect to see Security officers pushing them on, forcing such a raucous welcome. I lean back against my seat, willing myself not to be seen. They’re already forced to watch me sit by Maven’s side. I don’t want to add more fuel to that manipulative fire. To my relief, no one puts me on display. I merely sit and stare at my hands in my lap, hoping for the town to pass by as quickly as possible. In the palace, seeing what I see of Maven, knowing what I do about him, it’s easy to forget he has most of the country in his pocket. His grand efforts to turn the tide of opinion against the Scarlet Guard and his enemies seem to be working. These people believe what he says, or perhaps have no opportunity to fight. I don’t know which one is worse.
When the town recedes behind us, the cheers still echo in my head. All this for Maven, for the next step in whatever plan he has put in motion.
We must be beyond New Town; that much is clear. There’s no pollution in sight. There aren’t any estates either. I remember passing River Row on my first journey south, back when I was pretending to be Mareena. We sailed downriver from the Hall of the Sun all the way to Archeon, passing villages, towns, and the luxurious stretch of bank where many High Houses kept their family mansions. I try to remember the maps Julian used to show me. Instead, I only give myself a headache.
The sun dips lower as the convoy turns off after the third cheering town, moving in practiced formation onto a connecting roadway. Heading west. I try to swallow the dip of sadness rising inside. North pulls at me, beckoning even though I cannot follow. The places I know stretch farther and farther away.
I try to keep the compass in my head. West is the Iron Road. The way to the Westlakes, the Lakelands, the Choke. West is war and ruin.
Egg and Trio don’t let me move much, so I have to crane my neck to see. I bite my lip as we pass through a set of gates, trying to spot a sign or a symbol. There isn’t anything, just bars of wrought iron beneath shockingly green vines of flowering ivy. Well out of season.
The estate is palatial, at the far end of a road lined by immaculate hedges. We spit out into a wide square of stone, with the estate house occupying one side. Our convoy circles in front of it, stopping with the transports splayed out in an arced row. No crowds here, but guards are already waiting outside. The Arvens move quickly and I’m ushered from the transport.
I glare up at charming red brick and white trim, rows of polished windows hung with blooming flower boxes, fluted columns, florid balconies, and the largest tree I’ve ever seen bursting from the middle of the mansion. Its branches arc over the pointed roof, growing in conjunction with the structure. Not a twig or leaf out place, perfectly sculpted like a piece of living art. Magnolia, I think, judging by the white flowers and the perfumed smell. For a moment, I forget it’s winter.
“Welcome, Your Majesty.”
The voice isn’t one I recognize.
Another girl, my age but tall, lean, pale as the snow that should be here, steps down from one of the many transports that joined ours. Her attention is on Maven, now clambering out of his own transport, and she glides by me to curtsy in front of him. I know her at a glance.
Heron Welle. She competed in Queenstrial long ago, drawing mighty trees out of earth while her house cheered her on. Like so many, she hoped to become a royal bride, chosen to marry Cal. Now she stands at Maven’s command, eyes downcast, waiting for his order. She pulls her green-and-gold coat tighter around herself, a defense against the cold and Maven’s stare.
Hers is one of the few houses I knew before I was forced into the Silver world. Her father governs the region I was born in. I used to watch his ship pass by on the river, and wave at its green flags with other stupid children.
Maven takes his time, needlessly donning his gloves for the short walk between his transport and the mansion. As he moves, the simple crown nestled in his black curls captures the waning sunlight, winking red and gold.
“Charming place, Heron,” he says, making idle small talk. It sounds sinister coming from him. A threat.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. All is well in order for your arrival.”
As I’m maneuvered closer, Heron spares a single glance for me. Her only acknowledgment of my existence. She has birdlike features, but on her angular figure they look elegant, refined, and sharply beautiful. I expect her eyes to be green, like everything else about her family and ability. Instead, they are a vibrant deep blue, set off by porcelain skin and auburn hair.
The rest of the transports empty their passengers. More colors, more houses, more guards and soldiers. I spot Samson among them, looking foolish in leather and fur dyed blue. The color and the cold make him paler than ever, a blond icicle of bloodlust. The others give him a wide berth as he prowls to Maven’s side. I count a few dozen courtiers at a glance. Enough to make me wonder if even Governor Welle’s mansion can hold us all.
Maven acknowledges Samson with a nod of his head before he sets off at a brisk pace, trotting toward the ornate stairs leading up from the square. Heron follows at his heels, as do the Sentinels in their usual flock. Everyone else follows, pulled along by an invisible tether.
A man who can only be the governor rushes from oak-and-gold doors, bowing as he walks. He seems bland in comparison to his home, unremarkable with his weak chin, dirty-blond hair, and a body neither fat nor thin. His clothes make up for it, and then some. He wears boots, butter-soft leather pants, and a jacket worked in ornate brocade, set with flashing emeralds at the collar and hems. They are nothing compared to the ancient medallion around his neck. It bounces against his chest as he walks, a jeweled emblem of the tree guarding his home.
“Your Majesty, I can’t tell you how pleased we are to host you,” he blusters, bowing one last time. Maven purses his lips into a thin smile, amused by the display. “It’s such an honor to be the first destination on your coronation tour.”
Disgust curls in my stomach. I’m seized by the image of me parading through the country, a few steps behind Maven, always at his beck and call. On-screen, in front of cameras, it feels degrading, but in person? Before crowds of people like the ones in the town? I may not survive it. Somehow I think I would prefer the prison of Whitefire.
Maven clasps hands with the governor, his smile spreading into something that could pass for genuine. He’s good at the act, I’ll give him that. “Of course, Cyrus, I could think of no better place to start. Heron speaks so highly of you,” he adds, waving her to his side.
She steps quickly, eyes flashing to her father. A look of relief passes between them. Like everything Maven does, her presence is a careful manipulation and a message.
“Shall we?” Maven gestures to the mansion. He sets off, making the rest of us keep up. The governor hurries to flank Maven, still trying to at least look like he has some manner of control here.
Inside, droves of Red servants line the walls in their best uniforms, their shoes polished and eyes on the floor. None look at me, and I keep to myself, musing instead on the governor’s mansion. I expected greenwarden artistry and I am not disappointed. Flowers of every kind dominate the foyer, blooming from crystal vases, painted on the walls, molded on the ceiling, worked in glass in the chandeliers or in stone mosaic on the floor. The smell should be overwhelming. Instead, it’s intoxicating, calming with every breath. I inhale deeply, allowing myself this one small pleasure.
More of House Welle wait to greet the king, falling over themselves to bow or curtsy or compliment Maven on everything from his laws to his shoes. As he suffers them all, Evangeline joins us, having already discarded her furs with some poor servant.
I tense as she pauses next to me. All the greenery reflects in her clothing, giving her a sickly hue. With a jolt, I realize her father isn’t here. He usually hovers between her and Maven at events like this, quick to step in when her temper threatens to boil over. But he isn’t here now.
Evangeline says nothing, content to stare at Maven’s back. I watch her watch him. Her fist clenches when the governor leans to whisper in Maven’s ear. Then he beckons to one of the Silvers waiting, a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair, swooping cheekbones, and cool, ocher skin. If she’s part of House Welle, she doesn’t look it. Not a scrap of green on her. Instead, her clothes are gray-blue. The woman bows her head stiffly, careful to keep her eyes on Maven’s face. His demeanor changes, his smile widening for an instant. He mutters something back, his head bobbing in excitement. I catch a single word.
“Now,” he says. The governor and the woman oblige.
They walk away together, Sentinels in tow. I glance at the Arvens, wondering if we’re meant to go too, but they don’t move.
Evangeline doesn’t either. And for whatever reason, her shoulders droop and her body relaxes. Some weight has fallen away.
“Stop staring at me,” she snaps, knocking me from my observations.
I drop my head, letting her win this small, insignificant exchange. And I continue to wonder. What does she know? What does she see that I don’t?
As the Arvens lead me away to whatever my cell for the evening may be, my heart sinks in my chest. I left Julian’s books in Whitefire. Nothing will comfort me tonight.
