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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tessa

Ishould be in a prison cell.

Honestly, I should probably be hanging from the sector wall with daggers in my eyes, a warning to anyone else who might want to sneak into the palace.

Instead, I’m in a room that’s six times the size of the one where I live. I have a washroom to myself, which I’ve never had in my life, and it’s stocked with stacks of linens and towels, in addition to a dozen jars of soaps and lotions and crushed petals that smell of lavender and roses. There are two faucets branching over the tub, and I’m shocked to discover that one dispenses warm water. In the boarding house, if we want a bath, we boil water in a stockpot, then use the washtub behind the kitchen.

The lighting here is brighter than I’m used to. I know electricity runs in the Royal Sector, but seeing it from the shadows is different from sitting beneath an electric lantern and knowing it will never burn out or need more oil. Six small levers are affixed along the wall beside the bed, and I gingerly test each one, to discover that every lantern is connected to its own switch.

The closet isn’t overly full, though it’s been stocked with linen underthings, soft silken stockings, and half a dozen dresses made from miles of silk, lace, brocade, and satin. Lace-up boots and velvet slippers and shining shoes line the floor in three different sizes. Everything reeks of wealth and extravagance—and, to my surprise, modesty. The sleeves are tasteful and full. No neckline will reveal any more than a hint of cleavage. They’re all beautiful, and the corseted backs will keep them from being shapeless, but after Corrick practically tore my dress off in front of his guard, they’re not at all what I expected. Did Quint select these clothes? What did he say?

The king will never allow you to keep her here as some kind of tortured concubine.

No one will expect it either. Not in these clothes, anyway.

Every time I move, I expect a guard to come barreling into the room and rip my arms off. I locked the door, so I’ll have at least a moment’s warning.

Like that would help me do anything more than panic.

I remove the torn dress and slip into one of the sleeping shifts in the closet, then belt a dressing gown over the top of it all. I lie on the bed and turn all the switches off, then stare at the ceiling, flickering with gold from the firelight.

I’ll never fall asleep here. I wonder if I’ll ever fall asleep again.

I should be thinking of everything I’ve learned about Corrick and this twisted secret that allows him to torture his people in the daylight while saving them at night. I should be thinking of Karri and Mistress Solomon and how they’ll react when I don’t return. I should be thinking of how long I’ll be kept in a room like this, before I’m ultimately tossed in the Hold.

I should be thinking of a way to get out of here.

Instead, my apothecary mind is thinking about King Harristan. I’m thinking about the way he started coughing and couldn’t stop. I’m thinking of the note of fear in Corrick’s voice when he said, “He is not sick.”

My brain was still spinning with panic, but I know what that cough means.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t.

I can’t help myself. They have the best medicine here in the palace. They dose themselves three times a day, Wes used to say—which is probably true, since Wes was Corrick, and he was presumably receiving all of those doses.

Is the elixir beginning to fail? Is the king somehow more susceptible to the fever? Or is someone affecting his dosage of the Moonflower, like some kind of reverse poisoning, where they prevent access to something he needs? I have no way of knowing, and I’m certain no one will feed me the answers. I already slipped into the palace. I don’t need to start inquiring about ways to make the king sick.

My brain won’t stop working, though. My father used to talk about how too much medicine was sometimes worse than not having enough. Could the king be taking too much? They have the best apothecaries and doctors here, though. Surely. His dosage is likely well monitored.

If the medicine is losing its effectiveness . . . ?I don’t want to think about the ramifications of that.

Andif King Harristan dies, that means Corrick becomes king.

I don’t want to think about the ramifications of that either. No matter what he said in his chambers or what he did as Weston Lark, he’s still responsible for a great deal of suffering. Corrick can’t undo that. He’s terrifying enough as King’s Justice. I can already tell that King Harristan has a limit. He didn’t like the way Corrick was planning to . . . abuse me.

I have no idea where Prince Corrick’s limits are.

I doubt I want to find out. I doubt anyone in Kandala wants to find out.

My belly is full, and this room is so quiet and warm, such a contrast to those minutes when I was pinned on the cold floor, Prince Corrick’s fist tight in my hair. I shiver without meaning to.

But then he sat there at the dinner table, when it was just me and him, and for the briefest of moments he was like Wes again, a little funny and a little fierce.

I press a hand to my chest as my eyes well. My heart aches with each beat.

Wes isn’t dead. My brain wants to rejoice.