But there are chandeliers dripping with crystals, artworks framed by sparkling gold, everything clean and shining and soft. Each room we pass is more oddly decorated than the last. One of the rooms stirs with the green glow from emerald glass windows. Another is filled entirely with candles and mirrors, reflecting a sparkling infinity. And there are so many empty rooms, easy spaces just waiting to be filled. Here, space is a luxury instead of a territory to defend.
I track every turn, mapping the palace in my head. I count the time it would take to run to the entrance, and I tally the rooms with windows big enough to fit through. We pass tables holding vases of thorny flowers and bowls of polished river rocks, the occasional bust of a probably dead person. How thoughtful of them to position makeshift weapons so conveniently.
They may have searched me upon entry, but by the time they lead me into a quaint sitting room, my pockets are filled once again. My best take is a kitchen knife from an untended platter of half-eaten food. Granted, it’s difficult to make thefts when my hands are shackled, but I keep my hands moving and clinking so they don’t notice when I snatch something. It doesn’t even occur to them to search me again. Big mistake.
At the end of the quaint room there’s a heavy stone door, which Glenquartz hauls open, and we descend steep stairs into what I quickly realize is the dungeon.
The world gets darker and colder the farther down we go. We pass by some holding cells, which are similar to the waiting room upstairs: large, with cushioned chairs and doors that barely lock. I imagine Royals getting tossed in here for a night when they get too drunk at a party or complain too loudly about taxes.
I move closer to Glenquartz so I’m sure he will hear me when I speak.
“I’m assuming my cell doesn’t have pillows?” I say.
Glenquartz’s shoulders tense, and he doesn’t answer.
I shrug. “I mean, that’s all right. I’d prefer having some, and proper blankets wouldn’t hurt either—but I’m not going to complain when you’re being so hospitable and giving me a place to sleep tonight.”
I see the flicker of an almost-smile on his face.
“Let’s be honest. I’m not upset,” I continue, “but you seem to be neglecting your dungeon. Dust everywhere. And I don’t want to seem too forward, but I am excellent at redecorating drab places. In fact, you scooped me up before I could gather my things. I forgot to douse the stove and close the curtains in my alley.”
The angry cadet at my side—with his round face, dark hair, and delightfully inattentive eyes—keeps a firm grip on my right shoulder. When he pulls me to a stop, I bump into him. I can’t steal anything as ostentatious as his rifle or pistol, but I quickly unsnap the metal ring of keys inside his jacket and twist sharply to the side and drop it in my boot, pretending that I’ve tripped.
It’s over in an instant, and now I have my escape.
Angry Cadet keeps his hold on my shirt as Glenquartz removes my cuffs, but he lets go when Glenquartz prompts me to enter the cell.
I walk through the cell door as if I’m excited to enter my new home. I’m pleased to see Glenquartz use the same key to lock the door that he used to unlock my cuffs.
I give Glenquartz a coy look. “No pillows? Really? Very rude to your future queen.”
Angry Cadet openly scoffs. “As soon as we confirm that your tattoo is a forgery, I’ll escort you myself to the prison gallows, where you can join your little friend from the market.”
Glenquartz is good at keeping a straight face, but I see him wince. “That’s enough, Cadet Dominic. One more outburst and I’ll have you report to General Demure.” He makes a gesture, and the cadet departs—and I note an uncomfortable slant in his shoulder at the mention of the general.
“I’ll be watching over you for the evening,” Glenquartz says, dismissing the remaining cadets. They salute and depart.
I make a show of waiting until they’re gone. I have a key, and I have a knife. All I have to do is get out of here and get to Hat. I size the lieutenant up. He’s obviously formal. Gullible, too—what other people might call “trusting.” He wasn’t the guard who went after Hat. He was the one ordering him to stop.
“Her name is Hat,” I say.
“Who do you mean?” Glenquartz asks, but with a glimmer of recognition.
“The girl your new recruit was going to kill,” I say. “She’s young. Too young for an unordered street execution.”
“How old is she?” Glenquartz asks.
I pause. “Not sure. The Nameless often don’t know. One day I decided I was fourteen, and now, three years later, I’m seventeen. Hat hasn’t decided yet, so she’s twelve? Thirteen, maybe? Still too young to die, don’t you think?”
“Is that why you did it?” He points at the tattoo on my arm below my left shoulder. I take a slow breath. He’s already seen me desperate and angry, snarky and confident. To get his help, I have to show him I’m vulnerable.
“If you’re asking if that’s why I stepped forward and got arrested? Yes. But this tattoo? I didn’t put it there. Can you…?” I trail off and move farther into the cell to remind him that I’m trapped here.
He puts a hand on the bar and offers a consoling smile. “I can’t get you any pillows.”
I shake my head and bite my lip. “Can you make sure she’s alive?” When the words leave my lips, I’m stunned by how terrified I truly am. “Can you go after that cadet from the market, and make sure Hat is safe?”
He seems sympathetic, like maybe he doesn’t want to see Hat hurt any more than I do.
I remember the sensation and flash of memory that burst into my thoughts when I touched the Royal’s hand yesterday. Glenquartz’s fingers are wrapped around one of the bars. I put my hand on his. Suddenly I see a small, young face staring up at me.
She has black, straight hair and a scattering of freckles across her cheeks and forehead. She’s smiling, with rays of sunlight settling on her hair and a gentle breeze stirring the sound of distant music. I reach out to cup her face in my hand, and my skin is dark and warmer, and there’s a red sleeve and white cuff at my wrist.
I let go, and the memory vanishes, and I realize that the red-cuffed arm in the memory was Glenquartz’s.
“You have a daughter?” I say, probing gently.
Glenquartz purses his lips carefully. “Her name is Flannery. She’s with her mother, but they both left me a very long time ago. I miss her terribly.” He stares past me as if toward the curving horizon at the edge of the ocean.
“You understand, then,” I insist gently. “I sensed you’re afraid of forgetting them. Think of what you’d do if Flannery was arrested.”