The pain of another person lost flares in my chest. My eyes dart to the desk drawer again. Mare follows my line of sight, even though she doesn’t know what we’re talking about.
I’ll tell her later. At a better time.
“Some,” I manage to say.
Julian looks almost disappointed. “It isn’t easy.”
“No, it isn’t, Julian.” I’m done talking about this. “And if you could . . . ,” I mumble, gesturing feebly between myself and Mare to change the subject. “You know.”
Mare snickers slightly, but Julian is happy to comply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with an easy grin.
As he goes, stepping back out into the salon, I follow his retreating figure. When he passes the painting, propped up against a chair for now, he slows. But he doesn’t stop. He only trails a hand along the frame, unable to spare a glance for his sister.
They have a similar look, based on the portrait. The thin chestnut hair and inquisitive eyes. She was simple, an easy beauty. The kind most overlook. I don’t have much of her in me, if anything at all.
I wish I did.
The door swings shut, removing her and my uncle from sight.
Slowly, smooth fingers weave into mine, taking my hand.
“He can’t be fixed,” Mare breathes, resting her chin against my shoulder. Not quite on top of it—she can’t reach—but now isn’t the time to tease her. Instead I lean down into her grasp, making it easier on us both.
“I need to see for myself. If I’m going to give up on him—”
Her grip tightens sharply. “There’s no giving up against the impossible.”
The impossible. Part of me still refuses to believe that. My brother is not a lost cause. He can’t be. I won’t allow it. “Davidson tried,” I whisper. Reluctant to say the words out loud. But I have to. I have to make them real. “He searched. There are no newblood whispers.”
She takes a long, trailing breath. “And that’s probably for the best,” she says after a moment. “In the grand scheme of the world.”
It stings to know she’s right.
Methodic, she puts her hands on my shoulders, steering me away from the desk. Away from the memory sitting in a drawer. “You should sleep,” she says firmly, pushing at the bed. “Maven wears exhaustion better than you do.”
I stifle a yawn, eager to follow her commands. With a sigh, I slip between the blankets. When my head hits the pillow, I almost drop asleep instantly. “Will you stay?” I mumble, watching her through slitted eyes.
She crawls over to me in reply, kicking off her boots as she goes. She worms her way under the silk. I watch her, smirking, and she shrugs. “Everyone will know anyway.”
Without thought, I take her hand, knitting our fingers at the hem of the blanket. “Julian can keep a secret.”
Mare barks out a laugh. “Evangeline can’t, not with her agenda.”
I have to chuckle too, halfhearted in my exhaustion. “Whoever thought she’d be the one pushing us at each other?”
Next to me, she shifts, trying to get comfortable. Eventually she settles on curling up at my side, one leg kicked free. “Even though Maven can’t change, other people can,” she mumbles against my chest. The vibrations of her voice make me shiver.
It takes little concentration to douse the candles burning all over the room, plunging us both into a gentle blue darkness.
“I don’t want to marry her.”
“That’s never been my issue.”
“I know that,” I whisper.
It isn’t in me to give her what she wants. Not when it means betraying my father, my birthright, and any chance I may have at making some kind of difference. She might not agree, but I can do more on a throne, with a crown, than I can without them.
“After the parlay,” I breathe, hesitant, “once Harbor Bay is secure, I think we hit Gray Town next. Full strength. We won’t catch another tech slum off guard, not after New Town.”
In the darkness, the brush of her lips on mine takes me off guard. I jump at the sensation. I feel her smile against my skin.
“Thank you,” she whispers, shifting back into place.
“It’s the right thing to do.”
But am I doing it for the wrong reason? For her?
Does that even matter?
“What did Julian give you?” she mumbles, half asleep. Mare is just as tired as I am, if not more. The day has been too long and too bloody.
I blink in the darkness, staring at nothing. Her breathing slows and evens as she drifts away.
She is asleep when I finally answer.
“A copy of my mother’s diary.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Mare
It’s still dark outside when I wake, roused by shuffling across the room. I tense on instinct, ready to fight. For a second, I’m puzzled by the sight of Cal in the same chamber as me. Then I remember the events of yesterday. His near death, and the way it broke us both, shattering whatever resolve we’d had before.
He’s already dressed, looking regal in the soft light of a few candles. I watch for a second, seeing him without any kind of mask or shield. Despite his broad, tall form, he looks younger in his fine clothing. His jacket is a deep bloodred, trimmed in black, with silver buttons at the cuffs. The pants match, tucked into oiled leather boots. He hasn’t donned a cape or a crown yet, leaving both discarded on his desk. He moves slowly, fastening the buttons up his throat. Shadows ring his eyes. He looks more exhausted than he did last night, if that’s possible. I wonder if he slept at all, or if he spent the night tortured by the prospect of seeing Maven again.
When he realizes I’m awake, he straightens, shoulders squaring toward me. He fills the kingly mold quickly. The transformation is small but unmistakable. He puts up his guard, puts on a mask, even with me. I wish he wouldn’t, but I understand why. I do it too.
“We leave in an hour,” he says, finishing with his buttons. “I’ve had some clothes brought into the salon for you. Choose whatever you like. Or . . .” He stumbles, as if he’s said something wrong. “Whatever you want from your own wardrobe.”
“I didn’t exactly bring my wardrobe to a battle, and I don’t think I can fit into one of your uniforms,” I reply, chuckling a little. With a reluctant groan, I stretch out of the blankets and shudder at the touch of cold air. I sit up, intensely aware of the tangled braid over my shoulder. “I’ll find something. Should I look a certain way?”
A muscle feathers in his cheek. “However you wish,” he says, his voice oddly strained.
“Should I be distracting?” I ask, gingerly trying to work the knots out of my hair. He looks at my fingers, not at me.
“I think you’ll be distracting no matter what you wear.”
My chest tightens with warmth. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Cal.”
But he isn’t wrong. It’s been months since I last saw Maven in the flesh, his form retreating through the surge of a panicked crowd. Iris ran with him, defending her new husband from the attack on their wedding in the capital. It was a rescue mission, not just for me, but for dozens of newbloods manipulated into his service.
I could wear a potato sack and Maven would still devour me with his eyes.