Page 29

It was confirmation I sought, Miss Moran, he’d said. But then, if he had proof, he would have detained me by now.

I will have to be more careful.

I continue on, drifting past several more mosaic displays. There are small ones, clustered like jewels on the walls, and large ones, like the great tapestries in Illian’s palace.

I find the Dome Hall next. It’s above me now—a wide circular expanse, with a small mosaic designating the center of the floor. I use the mental mark and veer left, toward the Miridranian wing.

Crimson light teases a passageway ahead, and I find what I’m looking for: the mosaic of Illian’s coronation.

It’s an older one, clearly predating Anton.

Only, it’s as if Anton had it moved out a few feet from its original place on the wall, narrowing the hall just fractionally.

And though the glass is thicker than the new ones, it’s still somewhat translucent.

A quiver passes over me as I recall his lucent eyes, the feeling of being watched. Perhaps I had been.

Farther down, the next mosaic is the West Miridranian crest, just outside the tall, double doors of Illian’s corridor.

Two guards stand sentinel outside. I follow the bend until I reach another: a black and red diamond over a hearth.

I peer through. It looks like an antechamber, and a plain one at that, with a few wingback chairs angled over a luxurious, crimson rug.

Until I notice the chandelier.

Like the rest, it’s glass. It hangs unlit, crystalline, looking as if it was sculpted from ice. And it’s massive. Hundreds of shards hang down like spears, each carved to a thin, fine point.

I shudder, tearing my eyes away, my gaze snagging on Illian’s desk, just there in the corner. I recognize the seal stamped on scattered documents.

But he is nowhere to be found. I swallow my disappointment and press on, but even as I find more mosaics, the remaining rooms are dark and empty. Nothing.

I’m about to turn back when I reach the outer edge of Illian’s wing. I don’t have time to explore further, as much as I want to, and it’s too much of a risk.

But then a flash of blue draws my eye.

A quick peek, I decide, and then I’ll return. Only, this time, it isn’t a mosaic I find but a crack in the wall.

No, not a crack. A door, set ajar. A quick glance tells me the space is empty, so I nudge the door a sliver more, enough that I might see what lies beyond.

My fingers rise to my lips.

There are images everywhere. Strange ones, blurry, as if I’m looking at them underwater, each one individually lit. Faces, trees, blooms. White-capped waves. They remind me of the ones I saw at Anton’s banquet, but there’s nothing to project them. No tubes, no torches.

What is this place?

It must be artwork of some kind, magnified by glass, extraordinary in detail.

Then one, brighter than the rest, pulls my eye, and the breath catches in my sternum. Because it’s Anton, his virescent eyes sharp as a cutlass. And he looks so real, as if someone froze him in time. In fact, the longer I stare, the more I return to one detail.

His eyelids are mid-blink.

Odd, that an artist would capture that.

Unless they aren’t paintings. At the banquet, I hadn’t asked where the images came from. Art, I had assumed. But these aren’t canvases laden with brushstrokes. They are different, more . . . immediate. I would almost think it magic if I dared.

But magic exists only in myths and tales of old, reserved for divinity and the Fate of Morta. So how is this possible?

A figure eclipses the doorway.

I lurch back, but it passes by. Voices crowd into the space, more entering from the far door.

I race down the hall, not willing to get caught. Nor can I keep Annais waiting any longer.

The tunnels feel longer, dimmer, but I retrace my steps, sure someone is following me, until finally the tunnels spill me back out onto the main one underneath the cellar. This one is dark, full of cobwebs and dust.

A bell signals ten minutes until midnight. I pick up my pace despite the patter of my heartbeat and the way it screams at me to rest, my steps beginning to waver and swerve.

It takes me longer than I expect to reach the outdoors.

When finally I stumble out a discreet outer door that blends into the stone, the air is dense and humid from the storm, and the night suffocating and thick.

The tunnels have led me underneath the barracks and disgorged me into a formation of rocks and sand dunes near the docks.

Even still, a few patrols are scattered along them.

I study their rotation, and when I see an opening, I make a run for it, damp sand crunching beneath my feet.

When my heel catches on a rock, I stumble.

A guard pauses his trek along the western dock, right near King Illian’s ship. I don’t move, praying the dune in front of me casts a bold enough shadow.

It doesn’t. The guard walks my way.

I hear the puff of his breath as he draws near.

I have no weapon, nowhere to hide. But my eyes track a small hilt on the back of his boot. If I stay low, I can trip him and pilfer it—because I can’t get caught. This can’t be it. With quavering hands, I rip a strip of cloth from my tunic.

But when he stops a few feet away, the moon spotlights the emblem on his shoulder.

Illian’s. He gives me a quick once-over then turns, approaching the closest group of guards. “Time to toss the pots, assholes,” he says, drawing two flasks from his jacket. “The evening’s plenty quiet.”

He’s distracting them.

Of course Illian wouldn’t have risked it, not if there was a chance I’d fail.

I dash across the ramp and descend the stairs leading to the captain’s quarters.

My calves are screaming, but I knock softly against the door to Illian’s cabin.

It parts with a creak, and then I’m looking at a woman twice my age with large brown eyes and dark, ruddy tresses, her skin rosy and freckled like a sea of stars.

“Annais?” I prompt. I expect her to scold me for being late.

Instead, she seems dazed. Frightened, even, as I try her name once more.

Then, as if being ripped from a dream, she snaps from her trance. Offering me a curt nod, she slips out the door and awaits my lead.

“Does she talk?” Laurent asks me, his tall form propped against my door.

I want to know the same thing; I’ve yet to hear Annais speak.

Even last night, as we traversed the tunnels and slipped back into my room; even as I offered her my bed and prepared myself a spot to sleep on the floor, cushioned by fabric; and even when I brought her breakfast the next morning, she didn’t utter a word.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. I asked questions.

She met each one with the press of her lips.

I wonder if she’s meant to watch me. To report to Illian, after I frayed his trust at the banquet.

Then, when I awoke this morning, I found her toying with the sewing kit, expertly mending a deep tear in my skirt.

That, at least, was a relief.

“She’s suffered a great deal,” I tell Laurent, dismissing the rising dread in my chest. “Just show her what you need her to do.”

Laurent gives me a wary look, then relents with a sigh. “You’re right. I suppose we all need time to heal, and a second chance.” He gathers a pile of fabric into his hands. “I can take her to the sewing room.”

I want to cry at his kindness. I don’t deserve him. But this is a reminder that I don’t know her past, the hold Illian might have over her. She might be as bound as I am.

Perhaps we aren’t so different.