Like Mother, I feel myself pull back as Cal steps forward, closing the distance between himself and my father. It almost looks like a challenge. “Fine,” he grinds out, glaring at the king of the Rift.
Again, they hold each other’s gaze, never blinking, never breaking. I wish I could give both of them a shove. Destroy all this for good.
Anabel intervenes before either side of the scale can tip. She cuts neatly between the kings, putting a hand to Cal’s shoulder. “We’ll pick this up in the morning, when we have clearer heads and a better view of the situation.”
Behind them, Julian rises to his feet. He adjusts his robes. “I agree, Your Majesty.”
Mother sees reason too, and she gestures for Ptolemus to follow. I stand with them, exhausted. Only Father remains sitting. He won’t break first.
Cal is less inclined to play such games. He turns away, dismissing all of us with a disinterested wave of one hand. “Very well, I’ll see you all in the morning.” Then he pauses, looking back. Not at Father. But at me. “Actually, Evangeline, could I have a word?” I blink at him, feeling very sly indeed. The rest of the room could not look more confused. “In private.”
Slowly, I sit back down as the rest go. Even Father, who prowls away with the rest of my family in tow. Only Ptolemus looks back, locking eyes with me for a moment. I wave him off. I’ll be fine; there’s nothing for him to worry about here.
Julian is quick to acquiesce to his nephew’s wishes, but Anabel lingers. “Is this something I can help with?” she asks, glancing between us.
“No, Nanabel,” Cal replies. He walks with her, deftly herding her toward the door. She notes his intention with a sour twist of her lips, but bows her head. He is her king, and she is bound to obey.
When the door shuts behind her, I relax a little, my posture drooping. Cal hesitates, his back to me, and I hear him take a shuddering breath.
“Crowns are heavy, aren’t they?” I say to him.
“Indeed.” Reluctant, he turns around. Without the pressure to perform for the council and his family, Cal slumps as I do. Exhausted by the days, ready to drop.
I raise an eyebrow. “Worth the price?”
Cal doesn’t respond, walking silently to the chair across from mine. He leans backward, one leg bent, the other stretched. As he moves, I think I hear a click in his knee. “Is yours?” he finally says, gesturing to my empty brow. There isn’t any animosity to his words, not like I expect. He’s too tired to fight me.
And I see no use now in fighting him.
“No, I don’t think so,” I mumble back.
The admission surprises him. “Are you planning to do anything about it?” he says, voice colored by what could be hope.
My plan is to do nothing, I think to myself.
“There isn’t much I can do,” I say aloud. “Not with him holding my leash.” He knows who I mean.
“Evangeline Samos on a leash,” Cal replies, forcing a false smirk. “Seems impossible.”
I don’t have the energy to correct him properly. “I wish that were so” is all I can manage.
He runs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “Me too.”
I have to scoff. The whining of men never ceases to amaze. “What leash could there be on the king of Norta?” I sneer at him.
“More than a few.”
“You backed yourself into this corner.” I shrug, unable to summon any real sympathy for the young man before me. “They gave you a choice, one last chance to change things before they left.”
He bristles, leaning forward on his elbows. “And what would have happened if I’d done what they wanted? Thrown this infernal thing away?” To illustrate his point, he reaches up and grabs his own crown. He discards it with a thunk. How dramatic. “Chaos. Riots. Maybe another civil war. And certainly war with your father. Maybe my own grandmother too.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, don’t preach to me, Evangeline,” he snaps, really starting to lose his temper. “You can sit here and blame me for all your problems if you want, but don’t act like you don’t have a hand in them.”
I feel warmth rise in my cheeks as I flush. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got a choice too, and you keep choosing to stay right here.”
“Because I’m afraid, Cal,” I try to snarl, but it comes out like a whisper.
That stills him, just a little. A cool compress over a fresh burn. “So am I,” he says, his voice echoing the pain in mine.
Without thinking, I say what I really mean. “I miss her.”
He responds in kind. “So do I.”
We’re talking about two different people, but the sentiment is the same. He looks down at his hands, as if ashamed of the love he feels for someone he cannot have. I know what that agony is like. What an anchor it is. How it will eventually drown us both.
“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret?” I murmur. Like him, I lean forward, until I could take his hands if I wanted. “Even from Julian and Anabel. Especially from them.”
Cal glances up again. He searches my eyes, looking for the trick in me. Waiting for whatever Samos trap he thinks I’m about to spring. “Yes.”
I lick my lips and speak before my brain can tell me to stop. “I think they’re going to kill my father.”
He blinks, confused. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, they won’t do it, but . . .” For the first time in my life, I take Tiberias Calore’s hand and do not hate the sensation. I grip his fingers tightly, trying to make him understand. “Do you really think Cenra and Iris would trade Maven for someone like Salin Iral?”
“No, I don’t,” Cal breathes. He squeezes my hand, his grasp stronger than mine. “And with your father dead . . .”
I nod as he follows my train of thought. “The Rift dies with him. Returns to Norta,” I say. “Ptolemus won’t have the spine to fight a war with Father dead. No matter how good he is at fighting, he isn’t meant for it.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Cal scoffs, his tone changing. Then his eyes shift, brows knitting together, before releasing like a weight cut loose. Realization washes over him. “You haven’t told your parents this, have you?”
I shake my head.
His mouth hangs open. “Evangeline, if you’re right—”
“I’m going to let him die. I know,” I hiss to myself, at myself. I snatch my hand away, unable to touch or look at him. Fuming, I stare at the carpeted floor, tracing the fine patterns of Red-made artistry. “You’ve always thought me terrible. Is it nice to know you’re right?”
His fingers are hot beneath my chin, tipping my face up to look him. “Evangeline,” he murmurs, but I don’t want his pity. I push him away.
“I hope the gods of Iris Cygnet aren’t real. I can’t imagine what punishments they have in store for me.”
Cal rests his mouth against his knuckles, idly running his hand back and forth over his lips. Eyes far away, he nods in agreement.
“For all of us.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Iris