Hat gives me a puzzled look. “It’s not selfish to help other people. You did something that no other sovereign has ever done in Seriden’s history. You cared about the Nameless, about us. You’re allowed to care about yourself, too.”
When she says this, my heart almost breaks. “Isn’t that what I’ve always done? Cared about myself? Survived? No matter the cost. I’ve always cared about you, Hat, but I’ve never cared for you. All I’ve been doing is letting you down, over and over again. Isn’t it foolish to think I’m doing this for anyone else? The only reason I’m here at all is because you were in prison. I never cared about Seriden, about its Legals and Royals—or even its Nameless.”
“So why are you still here now?” she asks. “If you really only cared about yourself or about me, why aren’t we on that ship? You’re acting like it’s selfish to survive, but it’s not. And now you’re fighting for the Nameless and you’re fighting for the city. That doesn’t sound selfish at all.”
I consider her words for a long time, wondering when it was that she grew up, and when it was that she became—of all the things she could have become—kind and wise.
“I’ll be delivering a speech out in the city tomorrow night to quell the chaotic masses,” I say, “and I’m hoping you can lie low until then. Apparently, interrupting an execution doesn’t go unnoticed.”
“Makes sense,” Hat says. “I think I’ll be good for another day or so. They think my name is Shirley, and that I’m a Legal girl who sneaked out of her house in her sister’s dress to go to a play, but then I got sick.”
“Nicely grifted,” I say, patting her shoulder. “You did great. Did you give them a—”
“Last name? Nope,” she says. “But if they get suspicious, where should I go?”
I don’t want to send her to the city alone or, worse, to Marcher. Instead I tell her about a walk-in closet six doors down the corridor with ample hiding places.
“I’ll be back as soon as the speeches are over, tomorrow evening, okay?”
Hat pats my shoulder this time. “Don’t get shot. I’ll be okay.”
“I should hope so,” I say as I rise to my feet. “I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to keep you alive. Do your best to stay that way, yeah?”
She looks worried for me, maybe even scared. I wonder how much of her vulnerability is a con and how much of it is because of what she went through in prison.
“Stay here, and be ready,” I add. “And be safe. Promise me you’ll be safe.”
Hat lifts an eyebrow. We don’t make promises like that. Ever. It’s cruel to promise impossible things. We only ever promise to do our best and try to survive. She taps her fist gently against her heart—a signal we’ve used in countless cons to tell each other that we’re strong and we’re ready.
“I promise.”
CHAPTER 13
I join Esther at the palace library, which is much smaller than the public library out in the city. Of course, beyond the leather bindings, metal hinges, and illuminated drawings, books don’t mean much to me. They’re good for propping doors and throwing at people, and paper’s a great insulator. Last winter, I spent many of my nights in Seriden’s library. I would lock myself in a small room and stack books in front of the windows to keep the cold out. Here, the books are more like ornaments, delicately arranged. A small man with gray hair slowly makes his way up and down the aisles. He has a soft white cloth in his gloved hands, and he’s wiping dust from the tops of the books.
“Is there a reason we’re meeting here?” I ask. “As opposed to a place with more paper and fewer books?” I scrutinize the bookshelves suspiciously.
“Books are made of paper,” Esther corrects. “It’s a library. Where else are we going to write a speech? Besides, there are a few books here of speeches from old queens and kings of Seriden. They’ll make good study material. Then we can get to writing yours in a couple of hours.”
I purse my lips.
Esther crosses her arms impatiently. “What’s wrong? Can’t muster enough focus for a couple of hours?”
“Can’t you just tell me about the speeches?” I ask.
“Of course not,” she says. “I can’t simply summarize old speeches for you. That defeats the purpose. The spirit of a speech isn’t in what is said, but how it’s said. With the right words and the right passion, you can move a city to peace or war.”
I shift my weight from one foot to another as if trying to convince my legs not to run.
“What’s the matter with you?” Esther asks. “You’re acting stranger than usual.”
“Remember, I can’t read,” I say. “How am I supposed to study old speeches?”
A sad smile threatens to overtake Esther’s lips, and I hold up a cautionary hand. “I want your advice, not your pity. Neither of us gets to control what we bring to this table. You bring refinement and leadership skills and entitlement. I bring impatience and illiteracy and cleverness. Maybe you don’t want the things I bring, but you have me either way.”
Her sad smile turns kind. “I was planning to read the speeches aloud to you.”
My cheeks flare with heat, and I sit at the table. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
We spend the rest of the day, all night, and the following day in the library, breaking only for a few hours to sleep. On the first day, Esther reads speeches aloud to me, and I talk through my main speaking points. Esther helps me refine it, and she writes it all down. On the second day, she helps me memorize it.
“How do you think it will go?” I ask after I’ve managed to recite the speech a couple of times without any mistakes.
“We are making some bold statements,” Esther says. “But we will not apologize for being bold.”
“Do you think the council will approve it, though?”
“They already have. I delivered it to them this morning,” Esther says. “But don’t worry. I didn’t give them this speech.”
I grin and tease her. “Have you done something dishonest?”
Her hands flutter in her lap. “My father always told me that honesty is a privilege. In every moment we can, we must seek it out. But there are moments that require dishonesty to spare a life or spare pain. I think this falls into both of those categories, don’t you?”
“Your father sounds like a nice guy,” I say. “Except for giving me a death-sentence tattoo.”