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Chapter Fifteen

T he next day, I find Laurent in the dining hall swarmed by stewards, cooks, sacristans, heralds, even performers—poets, bards, and dancers alike. Distress strains his features as he attempts to dole out orders, barely audible above the crowd.

It’s just as Illian said.

After settling an argument between two cooks and firing directions to another group, Laurent is approached by the seamster on staff.

He reviews a pattern for three dresses, one for each of the triplets I’d seen during the auditions.

He marks it up, scratches out accessories they don’t need—the train, the gems. “We don’t have time,” Laurent tells him.

I sit on a bench, an apple in hand. I work my way slowly through it amid the commotion. Convincing him might be easier than I’d anticipated.

It takes an hour for everyone to clear, each set in their tasks for the day, and finally, Laurent is alone. He turns to me, exasperated.

I force a chuckle. “What was all that?”

He sinks to the bench next to me. “A certain royally spoiled king has requested a themed performance to showcase all of our ‘rich’ Miridranian history, presented in musical form, to Brisendale during a private banquet that takes place across not one, not two, but four nights. That means new backdrops, meals, costumes, everything. We have three seamsters, and I’m one of them.

I won’t have time to eat, let alone sleep, and even that won’t be enough.

” He swipes a hand over his forehead. “We require several days’ notice for something of this caliber for this very reason, but I’ve been told that I either accommodate them or lose my position.

I’ll never be invited back.” A laugh. “I should retire this instant out of spite.”

“What would you do,” I ask, “if you retired?”

As soon as the question leaves my lips, I regret it.

I shouldn’t want to know. I can’t get even more attached.

But he told me once he was offered the position by Anton himself after years of overseeing a theater in Ansa, East Miridran’s capital city, so there’s a part of me that’s curious if he’d want to go back.

He sighs. “I couldn’t. The salary I make here sustains my family for the next few years.

My sister is still an apprentice, and my nephews and niece rely on me.

And if I lose the position, I would be the talk of the north.

No one would hire me.” He buries his face in his palms, letting out a groan.

“Fates have mercy. I’m going to end up a seamster to some old courtier who wants big, feathered hats and fancy britches.

My nephews will call me Uncle Underthings. ”

“Laurent,” I say, glancing about to ensure we’re alone. “What if I could get you help?”

“Can you sprout extra arms?”

“You know I’ll help, though I’m quite slow. The thing is . . .” I brush an errant hair off my forehead. “I know someone. A tailor. A good one, and perhaps—”

“Impossible.” He shakes his head. “You know the rules.”

“I know, I know. But . . . she’s a friend.

She’s sewn hundreds of costumes before. And she’s fast. We would keep her quiet.

I’ll even pay her from my own wages. I don’t have family; I don’t need the money, and she doesn’t charge much.

” The lie is acid in my throat, but I ignore the burn. I can’t let my guilt win out.

He clasps his hands together for a long minute, staring at them. I put a hand on his shoulder. “I just want to help,” I tell him again. “I know; I understand it’s a risk.”

“This woman,” he says. “How long have you known her?”

“A long time. And”—I pause, swallowing—”she needs the money, and a place to escape. She’s in a bad situation. Her husband, he . . .” I trail off, letting the insinuation play out, carving my nails into my palms as the seconds tick by, each one an accusation. Liar, liar, liar.

“Vasalie, no one comes here without a full registration. If she’s caught, you and I would lose our positions, maybe more . . .”

“I know. But I . . . I trust her with my life.” I squeeze his arm. “She needs this as much as we do.”

I’m filth. Lower than filth.

But I have to do this to survive. I have to. I force the reasoning down my throat, but it keeps inching back up.

“And she’s where?” he asks.

Dear heart, I beg. Please grow cold.

“Philam.” It’s the town closest to Anell, merely a boat ride away. Laurent runs a hand over his face. “I suppose if she stays in your room . . .”

“We could keep her out of sight,” I say. “And we will be careful. The only issue is . . . well, Copelan. Since he’s keeping an eye on me and all.”

“Copelan’s as busy as I am at the moment, and he can’t very well enter your room. And I . . .” He clenches his fist.

Then, like a man resigned, he relaxes it.

“I suppose I could make it appear as if she’s been here the whole time.

I’ve done it once before for a friend in a .

. . unique situation. I would have to forge paperwork, but with the palace as large and crowded as it is, I doubt anyone will notice a new face. ”

“And I can tell her what to say if questioned.”

He scratches behind his ear. “There’s a ferry that travels to and from Philam for supplies. Or you could take a rowboat after dark, so long as you skirt the isle on the west side.”

“I can get her.” I swallow down the urge to vomit. “But I would need a way to sneak her inside.”

He bites his lip, a moment passing before he says, “There is a way.” When I eye him, he scoots closer to me and lowers his voice. “Vasalie, what I’m about to tell you, you mustn’t reveal to another soul.”

Laurent, you trust too easily. “Of course.”

He hesitates, and I offer him the best reassuring glance I can, squeezing his arm.

When finally he tells me, I wish to all the Fates he hadn’t.

“There is a network of tunnels that run throughout the palace. They were built almost a century ago and had been completely forgotten about, but Anton rediscovered them.”

Secret tunnels. A network of them. Is that how Illian reached my room? Or has he merely paid off enough staff to ignore his comings and goings?

“Only the Miridranian kings know of this?”

“Only His Majesty, King Anton,” Laurent clarifies, “and his most trusted guards. He’s since added to them, and he opted to keep them a secret should a precarious situation ever arise and he needed an escape.

” He pauses. “Just this once, you may use them to bring your friend in unseen. You’ll find an entrance in the kitchen cellar.

Follow the main tunnel. If you don’t branch off, it will lead you underneath the guard’s barracks and straight to the docks.

Go after nightfall, and don’t get caught. ”

I squeeze his hand again. “I can do it.”

His fingers curl into mine. “I’m trusting you.”

“I know,” I whisper, heart bleeding. I wish I were actually helping him. I wish . . . I wish our friendship was genuine. That I deserved his trust.

After this, I won’t deserve to look him in the eye.

I rise after that, but he wraps a hand around my wrist. “Vas?”

When I turn, his eyes go unfocused. “Be careful around the halls, yeah?”

“Of course,” I say, something about his tone setting me on edge.

“Something big is happening. Something bad.”

A thread of unease twines around me. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, exactly. Last night, we were expecting the arrival of three prophets from the Temple of Mirin.

We received a short but urgent correspondence, a mention of an augury, for which they demanded to be taken before all the Crowns.

His Majesty charged me with ensuring their safe arrival, but word reached me that King Illian found them first. He sent them away, threatening them with arrest for attempting to incite chaos at the Gathering. ”

The Temple of Mirin dates back to the Mirin clan, and Queen Mercy.

It’s one of the few active temples in Miridran.

Not only does the temple house all of Miridran’s historical records, but its prophets are well respected.

Authorities in the community. They teach at universities, attend local hearings, ensuring not only justice but grace to those who need it. They allocate taxes to help the needy.

To outright deny them an audience is not only a slight against the Fates, should they exist, but a dismissal of a valued Miridranian community.

“Can’t someone track them down if it’s so important?”

“We tried,” Laurent says. “We couldn’t find them.

Then a page reported to me this morning that he witnessed King Illian issue orders to follow and quietly subdue them once they left—until the Gathering has concluded.

It means, Vasalie, that whatever auspice they intended to deliver, King Illian wanted them silenced.

Furthermore, he wanted the arrest to take place outside of Anell, in the hopes of it going unnoticed by the Syndicate. ”

“But there hasn’t been a new prophecy in over a hundred years.

” It’s yet another reason religion has dwindled.

Aside from the prophets of Mirin, most prophets hole up in their near-abandoned chapels, studying the stars, translating their interpretations into poem and verse, waiting for the day their words are confirmed, while others have abandoned their faith, saying the Fates have abandoned us.

I once thought such prophecies were mere myth.

My father drilled that into me. But Emilia had been obsessed with the Fates.

She collected old tales, poems, and various literature on them behind my father’s back.

She believed in them, believed that the only reason the Fates were distant was because they feared the Fate of Morta after she tricked one of them, stole his power, and obliterated his soul.