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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tessa

Quint must be used to filling uncomfortable silences. I’m holding on to his arm like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, my breathing shallow and rapid, and he’s waxing poetic about the historical relevance of the doorknobs.

“And you’ll see,” he’s saying as we move into the central part of the palace, “the metalworking here turns from brass to gold-plated steel. Much of this area was destroyed in a fire a century ago, but the Steel City sector was just beginning to flourish, so King Rodbert ordered that all—”

“Master Quint.” A guard has appeared in our path. My fingers tighten on Quint’s arm.

Maybe Prince Corrick has changed his mind. Maybe this guard is going to drag me away. Maybe I’m going to be drawn and quartered. They’ll do it in front of the king. Or on that stage where he was going to execute eight people. Or—­

Theguard extends a hand with an unevenly folded slip of paper. “From His Highness, Prince Corrick.”

Quint takes it. “Thank you, Lennard.”

The guard’s eyes don’t shift to me, but he says, “He asked that you give it to Tessa.”

Quint offers the paper to me. I close my fingers around it. I have no idea what it could say.

That’s not true. I can just imagine what it says. Probably a promise to break all my bones if I mess this up. I want to crumple it up without looking.

Quint is walking again, and the guard steps to the side to allow us to pass.

My hand is damp on the note, but I don’t want to unfold it.

“Are you not going to read it?” says Quint.

I make a face. “It probably says something like, ‘Say the wrong thing about me, and I’ll use your limbs as firewood.’ ”

“I rather doubt it. I’m certain he would expect the guard to see it.”

That draws me up short. I’ve never considered worrying about such a thing. My fingertips press into the paper, and I swallow.

Quint drops his voice. “Can you not read?”

I snap my head around. “What?”

“There is no need to be ashamed. I can arrange for tutors discreetly.” His voice is still very low. “A delegate from Trader’s Landing married a woman who had never learned her letters nor her sums, and within weeks—”

“I can read!” For goodness’ sake. I hastily unfold the paper and stare at the words scrawled there. They stop my heart and coax it into beating again.

“Mind your mettle,” I whisper. For a breath of time, I want to press the paper to my chest.

Weston Lark isn’t real.

He’s not.

But if he’s not real, then Prince Corrick sent me the exact words I needed to hear at the exact moment I needed to hear them. Words that could sound like a warning or a threat or nothing of consequence at all.

I take a long, steadying breath. I square my shoulders and fold the paper into a rectangle in my palm.

“Steady on?” says Quint. His eyes are searching my face.

For all his endless prattle, Quint is sharper than he seems. I make a mental note to remember that.

“Steady on,” I say, and to my surprise, I mean it.

“Marvelous! Now, allow me to draw your attention to the wall hangings . . .”