He straightens his collar. “Don’t you want to know what I can offer? I can tell you who to trust.” He sidles closer.
I push him firmly away in disgust. “I’m sure you’d be on that list.”
“Of course not. You know me better than that,” Marcher says, adjusting his sleeves. “Look at me, Coin. Clearly I’ve been here before. I know the ins and outs of this world better than you ever will. When the time comes, you’ll need to know who to trust. I have information on the Assassins’ Festival.”
I cross my arms, refusing to accept anything he says at face value. Anything he has to offer, I don’t want.
He smirks. “So contrary. But I’ve known you your entire life, since the day you were abandoned on the streets. No matter how selfish you think you are, or how fiercely alone…there are always people you care about. Think. I can tell you who to trust. More importantly, I can tell you who not to trust.”
That’s a list I’m more inclined to believe.
“Why?” I demand.
Marcher tries to speak kindly. “Would you believe me if I told you it was because I care about you?” He draws close.
“No.” I hold my ground.
He smirks, easing off. “Too right. It’s because, unlike the other players in this game, I’m not underestimating you. I understand how intoxicating it can be to stand above all the Royals who spend their lives crushing the fingers of the starving Nameless. I see all the moving pieces, Coin, and I see where it’ll fall apart.”
“Anything you want to share out of the kindness of your heart?” I ask.
“That would be playing fair.” The gleam in his eyes tells me that he knows something. “You never want to play fair—not if you want to win. I am not without ambition here. It’s in my best interest if you remain an active participant in this game. Let’s go with a piece of advice, then, shall we? You might want to check on Devil tomorrow. I hear the streets are getting dangerous, and you need to understand what’s been going on since you left.” He strolls to the door. “Have a lovely day, Your Grace.” He bows. Then he’s gone.
“Wait,” I order, following him.
Glenquartz takes his place in the doorway, blocking my path. “Everything all right, Coin?”
Marcher disappears down the corridor. Glenquartz has already seen the frustration etched on my face. I can’t pretend nothing happened.
No, I want to say. Nothing is all right. The man I hate is offering me his help, and I may never see Hat again.
“Absolutely,” I say, smiling. “I met a Royal, and I didn’t catch his name, but he was in a hurry.”
Glenquartz frowns. “I didn’t see his face, sorry.”
Throughout the rest of the day, I’m consumed with what Marcher said. I remind myself: Never say no to a deal until you hear the terms, and never ignore advice—but always be willing to turn down both.
By evening, the events of the day—nearly being poisoned, running into Marcher, not to mention sensing everyone’s auras of stress, fear, indignation, and anger—have made me feel as if I’ve spent hours buried deep underground. The minute I’m in my sleeping quarters for the evening, I close the door, embrace the silence, and take a shower to rinse away the day.
As water pours through my long hair, runs down my body, and collects around my feet, I let it drag away the sweat and the dirt. But it can’t carry everything away.
I thought my biggest worry would be avoiding execution and rescuing Hat from prison. But the auras press all around me, and a single touch can propel me into someone’s darkest thoughts, like Belrosa’s cruel imaginings of Nameless slaughter. The memory of sweet poison still lingers on my tongue. And Marcher is here, walking confidently among the Royals.
A bead of water tracks along my shoulder and down my arm, and I’m struck with a memory: a finger trailing from my shoulder to my wrist, staking a claim to me. Kind and caring, and more terrible because of that.
I slap away the itching bead of water and duck into the warm stream from the showerhead. Immerse myself in it. Drown in it.
I can hardly breathe.
Marcher would put a gentle hand on my shoulder when he asked me to do something dangerous. Steal charts from a ship, or run a one-woman con on a Royal guard while he broke into a shop. Every request coupled with that warm hand on my shoulder, the hand trailing down my arm when I walked away. Saying yes wasn’t a question of force. My answer was always yes.
Worst of all: that same hand on the shoulders of the other kids, the only people I ever considered calling family. All of them. They said yes. Always.
I slam the heel of my hand into the water spout. It wrenches to the side, the mounting bracket snapping, and pain shoots up my arm. Water sprays everywhere, and I quickly turn the valve and let the water ease to a drip. I stand in the inch of draining water, which smells faintly of peppermint, copper, and dirt.
I said no. Finally, I said no. I walked away. Then I think of all the ways and times I should have said no to Marcher, and of the others who didn’t say no, who couldn’t, because they didn’t know how. All the almost-family who said yes and walked off to their deaths.
I still feel the coil of rope itching in my hands, though it was four years ago. I still feel the breakneck race of my heart, the stiffness of my clenched jaw, the cold chill of midnight and fear. Knowing that no one else would have to say yes…as long as I could find the strength to ruin what was left of my good heart. Live the rest of my life with blood on my hands, or live my life watching Marcher exploit others with that same kind touch.
I tried to kill him, and I failed.
I don’t live with my mistakes—I survive them. Barely.
I fumble with the broken bracket, rig it in place with a hand towel. I’m as damaged as the things I break, and there’s nothing that can put me together again.
I turn the water back on, and even though it’s warm, a certain numbness overtakes me, and it sinks into me like fear. Fear that four more years won’t be enough to distance myself from the pain of saying yes.
Fear because I said no and it still hurts.
* * *
When I’m out of the shower, the lantern flame struggles to cast a feeble glow in the sleeping quarters. It sends dim shadows dancing between the beds, but they do little for the shiver that settles on my skin. Marcher suggested I check in with Devil tomorrow, but I see no reason to wait. I’m going tonight. Besides, if anyone has a way in and out of the prison, it’ll be her. Hopefully, I’ll have garnered enough of her goodwill by having food sent to her.
I don’t want to wear Royal clothing if I’m going out into the city. In the wardrobe, I dig out the clothes I wore when I first arrived. The sleeve is still torn off, so I pull on a long tan Lindragore coat over my outfit. In the dark of night, it’ll seem gray.