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“How so?” she asks, but the confusion is short-lived. Lavinia turns to the makeup counter and starts organizing the messy surface, lining up the nail polish bottles in a tidy row. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Vinny,” I start, the name forcing her gaze to mine. “This thing we’re doing? It’s dangerous.”

Her gray eyes grow flinty. “You think I don’t know what the Royalty is capable of doing to rebellious girls?” Before I can answer, she spins, jaw set. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then for the record? It wasn’t my idea to put her there. It’s bad enough that Ballsy got caught up in this. The fewer who do, the better.”

Suddenly, I feel guilty, sitting here whining about being a glorified fleshlight while Lavinia spent over two years held captive by Kings. “I want to keep her safe,” I plead.

“Freedom means choice, Ver. The choice to sit down, or the choice to stand up. She’s made hers.” Lavinia raises her chin, and within her eyes, I see the same fight that was there the first day she walked into this gym. It’s what makes Lavinia Lucia a Duchess. “Just like you and I did.”

Looking down, I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’ll try to do better.”

She sighs. “Verity, you’re doing everything you can. I know that. I see it. You know how much you’re worried about her?” Nodding toward the door, Lavinia says, “That’s how worried I've been about you. I didn’t want you in on this. You were my first real friend here, and I–” Her voice cracks, and when I meet her eyes, I see unshed tears. “I know you’re making a sacrifice to be in that Palace. I hate it. I just want it to be worth something real, in the end.”

The end.

What a strange thought.

“That’s why I’m going to take a break from Family dinner for a while,” I decide, squaring my shoulders. If Lavinia can believe in me, then the least I can do is commit to my role. “Just, let the air clear, in case Pace really is suspicious.”

She frowns. “The guys won’t like it. It’s part of the deal we made with Ashby.”

“They won’t,” I say, shrugging, “but I’m going to leave that to their Duchess to smooth over.”

There’s a lot on the line, for all of us. The game of shadow chess that we’re playing is more than just dangerous.

Can there ever really be an end?

26

Wicker

I stare at Father,his words blending into an indecipherable garble of nothingness. We’re alone in his office once again. He called me in here ten minutes ago, interrupting my dinner with my brothers. Chicken and asparagus. I can feel it like a brick in my stomach, threatening to come up.

“I can’t.”

At first, I think these must be Father’s words, so controlled and final, but going from the way he stills, face hardening, they must have been mine. Leaning back in his seat, he asks, “I beg your pardon?”

He looks so aloof.

That’s the thing about Rufus Ashby, he could be plotting to have someone cut into pieces, but he’d still look them in the eye and be really polite about it.

“I can’t go,” I repeat. Where there should be fear, I find nothing but the bone-deep certainty that I will not be attending the event he just ordered me to prepare for. It’s not rebellion. It’s just that no cell in my being will allow me to do it.

So I say the words I should have said the last time I was standing here, being told about the gathering at Mayfield.

He puts down his pen. It’s a dark joke between my brothers and I that the more Father divests himself ofitems, the worse a punishment is going to be. “Very well, I’ll bite.” Lacing his fingers on the desk, he asks, “Why can’t you attend?”

There are a few different reasons I can give him. I have a game tomorrow, which means I won’t even be home until ten, at the very earliest. It’s a scheduling conflict. There’s also the element of a Prince’s reputation that might–might–sway him.

“I don’t want to.” The answer is simple, really. “I’d rather shove a hot poker into my eyeball.”

He grins stiffly. “Are you giving me ideas?”

“Just being honest.” Teeth clenching, I add, “Sir.”

“You understand that I’m not asking.” There’s a very credible threat in his eyes, and I couldn't care less. “You will attend the gathering at Mayfield, tomorrow evening. You will be charming.” He rises from his chair, palms flat on the desk as his eyes pin me. “You will make a dashing, well-dressed escort for Mrs. Moore. You will sit with her.” Harsher–quieter–he hisses, “You will bid for her.”

No, I won’t.