I try to think only of Atratys as I reach Siegfried’s apartment and my anxiety builds. No guards, at least. I’m a little surprised, but I lift my hand and knock.
A servant opens the door; he bows, granting me admittance, and I force myself to cross the threshold. When the door shuts behind me, fear twists my guts. Siegfried is standing near the windows on the far side of the room. He dismisses the servant and turns to me. ‘Aderyn.’ His smile is the same dazzling smile I remember from the first day we met. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I’ve come to talk to you about Lucien. About the trial.’
He nods. ‘Very good. I’m so glad you didn’t try to insult my intelligence – or your own – by pretending ignorance. Or innocence. You wish to negotiate with me?’
‘Yes. Lucien is innocent. We both know that. And I have … certain evidence, that will implicate you. If I make it public.’
A muscle twitches briefly in the side of Siegfried’s face, but his smile doesn’t disappear. ‘Fairly weak evidence, I imagine. Given that you haven’t yet shown it to Convocation. So the question is –’ he tilts his head, walking towards me – ‘what are you offering me, in return for Rookwood’s life?’
‘I’m offering my silence, and my cooperation. I’ll say nothing about you and your half-sister. I’ll become your mistress and, in time, your wife. Olorys will control the Crown Estates and Atratys and eventually the whole of Solanum. That’s everything you wanted, isn’t it?’
Siegfried is right in front of me now, too close for me not to see the greed and desire in his eyes. ‘Rookwood means that much to you? You’ll ignore my plans for Odette, and give yourself to me, to save him?’
I stare up into his face. ‘Yes.’ I barely breathe the word, but he hears me.
‘Prove it.’
I close up the space between us, go up on tiptoes and put one arm around his neck, pulling him towards me. His head dips and our lips meet and I kiss him hard, flicking my tongue into his mouth, forcing him to respond, to kiss me back. His arms fold around me. And slowly, carefully, I edge my other hand down from his waist and into my pocket. My knife is there, solid and real – more real than what I’m doing, or where I am; I grip it, slide it out, tighten my hold on his neck and thrust the blade upward –
My dagger slips and twists aside and I drop it as Siegfried shoves me backwards onto the floor.
He starts laughing. And at first I think it’s shock, that I’ve managed to hurt him; there’s a tear in his tunic. But then he gets hold of the fabric and rips it and underneath –
He’s wearing chainmail. ‘Did you honestly think I would trust you, Aderyn?’ The laughter fades, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Did you honestly think I would still want you, you Atratyan whore?’ His handsome features are twisted with contempt. He picks up my knife. ‘Get up.’
I struggle to my feet. He grabs my arm and jerks me forward, holding the blade beneath my chin, forcing my head up. ‘Turik told me. He’s been in my pay for weeks now; it wasn’t particularly hard to persuade him to betray his master, especially once I told him I had his sister in my custody.’ Siegfried shakes his head. ‘The loyalty of the flightless so very rarely endures any real test. I know, therefore, that you’ve been in Rookwood’s bed. That you gave him what you refused me. That your virtue is nothing more than a sham.’ He spits in my face. ‘And yet,’ he lowers the knife a little, ‘I still have a use for you.’
I struggle uselessly against his grasp. ‘If you think I’m going to help you, you bastard, you’re even more insane than I realised. I’d rather die.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll change your mind. Unlike Patrus – who really is incredibly dim-witted – I have taken the trouble to acquire some additional leverage.’ Still gripping my arm, and with my mother’s dagger pointed at my back, he marches me towards the bedroom. ‘Open the door.’
‘No.’
‘Open it.’ He presses the point of the knife against the soft flesh beneath my shoulder blade.
I turn the handle and push the door open.
Sitting on the bed, her hands tied behind her and a gag in her mouth, is Letya.
Seventeen
My courage withers. Why is she still here? Why did she not leave earlier?
‘How?’
‘One of my servants caught her as she was trying to escape the castle. You were sensible, sending her away. Unfortunate that your timing was poor.’
My mother’s dagger is digging into my back. There is no way out, for me or for Letya, unless I can transform. I screw my eyes shut, hoping that somehow my desperation will be stronger than the fear and the pain; that maybe, finally, my body will obey me –
Nothing. Apart from Siegfried’s mocking laughter. My shoulders sag. ‘What do you want?’
‘We can discuss that on the way. Turik.’
Lucien’s attendant steps out of the shadows. I hardly recognise him: his eyes are glassy and there are bloody lacerations across one side of his face. When he sees me he jerks forward. ‘Your Grace –’
‘Enough of that, fool,’ Siegfried snarls. ‘Remember your place, and what you risk. Bring her.’ He nods his head towards Letya.
Turik is carrying a sword. He drags Letya to her feet; her hands are tied with a long length of rope, like a halter. Turik holds the end of the rope and positions the tip of his blade against her back.
‘Very good. Now, while we are making our way downstairs, you need to be silent, Aderyn. The slightest sound, and Letya will suffer. Do you understand?’
I nod.
Outside Siegfried’s room we turn not towards the main staircase, as I had expected, but in the other direction. Ahead of us is the door to the menial stairs, the ones Letya and I took disguised as housemaids, and for a moment I think that we are going to go through it, that Siegfried is going to force us down to the dungeons. But we walk past that staircase too and come to a dead end.
Siegfried stops in front of a large but unremarkable painting, leans forward and slips his fingers behind the frame. He seems to be feeling around for something. Then, at a jerk of his hand, the entire frame swings outward.
Behind the painting is a dark, cramped opening. Siegfried steps through, and a few moments later reappears with a burning torch.
‘Now,’ he murmurs, ‘you are going to carry this. Letya will walk directly behind you. If you want her to live, don’t try to escape.’
He holds out the torch, and I take it and step into the darkness.
I find myself at the top of a staircase. There’s a rope running along the wall at waist height; a necessity, since the steps are narrow, uneven and slimy. The air smells damp and dusty and it catches, bitter, at the back of my throat. When the painting is pulled to, sealing us inside, the flame of the torch burns with a blue edge.
‘Get moving.’
We descend. The torch illuminates only a couple of steps in front of me. Since each stair looks almost identical, and there is no other variation in my surroundings, I soon lose all sense of time and place. I seem to be walking the same steps over and over again, a slow, never-ending plunge to who knows where. My leg muscles start to ache. Letya is crying.