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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tessa

Idon’t know where to take him, but I couldn’t keep standing in that tiny room. The scent of blood and death was thick in the air. I wish we could walk straight out of the sector and get lost in the Wilds, but I already know he won’t leave his brother.

Instead, I lead him toward the palace. The lights out front are bright, the cobblestones glistening. Horses and carriages still clatter over the cobblestones despite the late hour, as messages about the explosions are sent and elites come and go. When Harristan’s guard led me out of the palace, the halls were busy with activity, and I doubt that’s changed much.

I don’t want to think about what Corrick has done. There’s blood all over him, so I know it was violent. His blue eyes are hollow and haunted, so I know it was terrible. When we found him in the shadowed chamber of the Hold, a part of me wanted to run screaming—until I saw the anguish in his expression.

“Rocco,” I say quietly. “We can’t go through the main doors. He can’t go through the palace like this.”

“They know what I am,” says Corrick. He still looks flighty, his eyes a bit wild, but there’s an element of challenge to his voice. I wonder if this is how he convinces himself to do the things he does.

I ignore him. “Maybe a back entrance?” I say to the guard.

“No,” says Corrick.

“We could enter through the servants’ entrance,” says Rocco. “The day staff is gone. There are washrooms and fresh linens.”

“No.” Corrick seems to draw himself up, but he’s glaring at Rocco, not at me. “I will not sneak into the palace.”

I can’t tell how much of this is defiance and how much is some form of self-preservation. Either way, I should let him do whatever he wants. He’s the prince, and I’m . . . ?no one. But I’ve only been here a day and I know how much rumor and appearances matter, and I know that right now, he can’t afford to appear weak. Walking through the palace covered in blood certainly doesn’t seem like a vision of strength. I consider the note in his voice when he realized I was with Rocco and not his brother.

“Would the king want you to be seen this way?” I say.

“Do I look so terrible, Tessa?” he says.

Yes. But not in the way he means. “You look . . . ?desperate.”

That seems to hit him like a dart. The fight drains from his eyes. “Fine.”

The servants’ entrance is the same locked passageway I used when I first came to the palace, and it’s just as deserted as it was when I snuck into the back stairwell. The washroom is massive, with electric lights and running water, and several large tubs. I see stacks and stacks of folded linens and a massive hearth and realize this is a room for laundry.

Well, of course. I wouldn’t expect anyone in the palace to be scrubbing fabrics in the stream or hanging tunics in the sunlight. In the corner is a dress form with a maid’s frock pinned to it, with a few sewing tables and yards of fabric strewn about. A long mirror is bolted to the wall, and Corrick walks past it on his way to one of the wash basins. I watch as his step falters and his eyes shy away, but he doesn’t stop moving.

“Your Highness,” says Rocco. “Shall I call for a steward?”

“No. Guard the door.” He tugs at the buttons of his jacket just as fiercely.

I hover between the doorway and the basin. I don’t know if he wants me to wait in the hall with the guard or if I should go back to my room—or if I should stay right here.

I don’t know what I want to do.

“Why did you come looking for me?” he asks. His voice is a bit husky but a bit angry, too. “Did you think you could stop me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t stop yourself.”

His hands freeze on the buttons, and it’s only then that I realize he’s trembling.

I step over to him and place my fingers over his, tugging a button free.

“Stop,” he says. “I can unbutton my coat.”

I smack his fingers hard, like he’s a child who’s been told not to touch the hot stove but does it anyway. I think I shock him, because he jerks them away.

Isigh and pull the next button free. The fabric is tacky, and I try to ignore why, keeping my eyes on what I’m doing.

“If you know I can see through all your illusions,” I say softly, “you might as well stop trying to throw them in my path. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.” I glance up, and I can’t decide if I hate him or if I pity him—or something else altogether. “I see you. I see what this is doing to you. Has done to you.”