When I shifted against him, I swear he moaned a little.
I didn’t want him to wake up. I didn’t want him to realize what he was doing, or what was happening between us. I didn’t want him not to want this.
What am I doing? He is the Queen’s Assassin and yoked to a blood vow. He’s sworn never to have a family, never to have children. Just a few days ago I thought he was the most arrogant, irritating boy ever to live.
I must find a place in the Guild, and I cannot allow anything—even him—to distract me. If I am to be a spy and an assassin, I cannot have emotional attachments.
When we woke up, we were huddled on opposite sides of the bed. So far it’s been an uncomfortable morning, and while nothing has been said about last night, it feels as if something has shifted between us. There’s a new shyness, as if we hadn’t just survived a harrowing prison escape together and spent days camping in the woods.
He’s been quiet all day, and when my arm falls on his, he practically flinches. Perhaps last night was just my imagination. Perhaps nothing happened between us, and I am merely delusional.
“What?” he asks, sounding annoyed.
“What?”
“You keep staring at me; do I have dirt on my face?” he asks.
I shake my head. The tailor made him a midnight-blue Montrician-style day suit, more fitted than what I’m used to seeing men wear in Renovia, with leather shoes rather than tall boots. The jacket is long in the back, shorter in the front, and the vest has similar gold-and-silver embroidery to my gown. He’s had a closer shave, so I can see his face even more clearly, that strong jawline and chiseled nose, knife-sharp cheekbones. He’s had a haircut too—thankfully they didn’t take it all off, but they did clean it up so that it falls perfectly around his eyes. Besides the obvious physical changes, he seems different somehow, distant and more detached.
It’s like a handsome stranger is suddenly sharing my space.
I try to keep my attention focused out the carriage window. There’s a clear dividing line where the struggling areas, with their modest dwellings, become stately manor houses. The homes’ iron gates and barred windows make me think of the children at the fountain, giving money that should have been for food toward the vain hope of luck instead.
A tall footman opens the door before we even finish our approach up the steps, then whisks us into a small parlor off the main hall. He offers us large cushioned chairs and then disappears into the house to inform his master that we’ve arrived.
The walls are lined with animal heads—hunting trophies, which represent species from many different lands: boar, bears, foxes, a type of striped horse, and a scimitar-toothed jaguar like the one that almost took my life. A narwhal horn. A giant rare pink sea star, easily three feet wide. Strange fish—antennae-like eyes and rainbow scales—mounted on plaques. Everywhere I look I find more: a small winged rodent posed under a glass dome sits on a shelf; a framed montage of butterflies hangs near the window.
I already don’t like this vizier, this collector of dead things.
The door flies open. A short, bald man strolls in, followed by the footman, who closes the door. The footman remains by the entrance, his arms clasped behind him, awaiting further instruction.
The vizier is draped in furs—so many furs that I become confused trying to count them. At least two of them match the fur of the heads on the wall. In fact, one of them still has a head on it. A mink, I believe. I try not to think about that. Or look at it.
He reaches up to shake Cal’s hand. I notice he wears amber rings on almost every finger. The largest one, on his left thumb, has a petrified wasp suspended in it.
I hate wasps. Once a swarm of them invaded our beehives and wiped out most of the colonies. They are predators masquerading as something they’re not—something friendly.
Cal nods his head and presents himself. “Grand Vizier,” he says. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Lord Holton,” says the vizier, shaking Cal’s hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
He offers his hand out to me—“This must be the lovely Lady Lila!”—and I offer mine in return, but he doesn’t shake it, he pulls me toward him and kisses me on each cheek—with sloppy, wet lips. He smells like mothballs and rose water. I try not to gag. His entire persona is overwhelming. Something about him puts all my senses on alert—and rather than just experiencing the underlying sounds and feelings around me, I get the sensation of something being drawn out of me. As if he’s inspecting me. Sizing me up. When he backs away, I have to force myself not to wipe my face. The last thing I want to do is offend him. But I don’t have to be his friend; I don’t even have to see him again. I just need to stomach him long enough to get access to the king’s courtiers.
“Imagine my surprise. We have so few visitors in Montrice,” he says. “And even fewer who’ve journeyed all the way from Argonia.” His voice is friendly, but I sense the challenge behind it. He wants to know what we’re doing here; if we’re even who we say we are.
“We’re only passing through,” I explain. “On our way to see to our grandfather’s estate in Stavin.”
“Yes. So I’ve heard. An inheritance, is it?” He gestures for us to sit. We take the chairs offered to us previously; he sits on a larger one across from us. He uses a little step to climb onto it. Once settled, he’s sitting higher than we are. He places his hands on the armrests as if trying to look regal. He stretches out his stubby fingers and begins tapping them against the wood. I get the feeling he’s trying to draw attention to his rings.
“Our grandfather’s estate.” I keep my answers short. I don’t want to encourage too much prying, or draw the conversation out any longer than it needs to be.
“Backley Hold,” Cal adds. “Have you heard of it?”
“Hmm . . . yes, yes, of course I have. In fact, I believe I attended a hunting party there in my youth. Lovely place. So sorry to hear about the elder Lord . . .” He waves his hand around in circles, as if he’s trying to conjure up the name.
“Holton,” Cal and I say at the same time.
“Lord Holton, yes. Fine fellow. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen him, so he wouldn’t have remembered me anyway, you know. Tell me, what favor do you require?”
Both of us are taken aback by his sudden bluntness. “Favor?” I say. The footman opens the door. A maid walks in carrying a silver tray. She sets it down on the table next to the vizier, curtsies, and leaves. The footman closes the door and returns to his position.
“Yes, of course. I assume you’re here for that reason. Tea?”
We don’t respond, but he places a porcelain teacup and saucer in front of each of us anyway. Neither of us moves to pick it up. The vizier takes a sip of his, places the cup back on the saucer—it spills a little—then turns his attention back to us. He folds his hands in his lap and waits.