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“Be that as it may,” Anton responds, “everything is quite under control.” But the uproar has begun, voices competing against one another.

“Your Majesty, how could you have kept this from us?”

“How can we feel safe here?”

Prince Raiden, the young prince of Zar, stalks over, his brown skin almost glowing in his silver jacket. “The culprit,” he says. “Have you detained them?”

Illian selects this moment to slink forward.

“Please,” he calls over the chaos. “Calm yourselves.” The commotion dies down, a temporary hush.

He rests a hand on Anton’s shoulder. “My little brother has the best intentions, I am certain. Let us allow him the chance to speak. Please, Anton, tell us what happened, from the beginning.”

Anton, unamused by Illian’s act, clasps his hands together behind his back, surprisingly stoic amid the turmoil. He recounts the night of the banquet, including the meal that was served, the timing of events, and lastly, the guests in attendance.

He does not mention me.

“Just to confirm, Your Majesty,” my father cuts in, “you said it was your most trusted nobles alongside the Razami court, yes? Would you vouch, then, on your honor as a Miridranian Crown, for every attendant that night?”

I hold my breath, fingers carving into my palms. My father is trying to get Anton to admit he doubts either his own court or Razam’s.

But it was me.

Me.

Anton senses the trap. “Every last one, General.”

I understand why he can’t hesitate. If he questioned them, it could lead to accusations against Razam.

Then it hits me, Illian’s intent. Razam.

Laurent believes Illian is funding King Rurik’s future war against Razam, and I wonder if this is their first move.

The first knight slid in a board of chess, because if they can incriminate Razam before the Crowns, they can get support.

Allies. More funding. I flick my gaze toward King Rurik.

His pale features are contorted, wrought with rage.

An act. A role, like the one my father plays now.

“Right, then,” my father says, circling Anton as if he can make him prey. “If it was the wine that was poisoned, let us examine the wine itself. Where did it come from? Was it grown here? An import? A gift from Her Grace?”

Again, the insinuation is clear, but Anton is swift.

“Every ounce of food and drink brought inside these halls is examined first and accounted for. Her Grace brought no wine with her. Check the records yourself if you wish to confirm it. In fact, the contaminated bottle was brought in by Lord Bayard himself.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Prince Sundar standing protectively in front of his mother, while Gustav looks like he’s seconds from fainting.

“Then let us focus on the sequence of events,” my father says. “Was it or was it not served from a fresh decanter?”

“It was,” Anton says, the first hint of annoyance slipping through. In any other case, a general would never be permitted to question a king, but in the presence of other royals, he has no choice but to pacify them and respond.

A trap, so perfectly set.

“Then let the Head of Staff answer for this.”

For one heart-seizing moment, I think—hope—Laurent might have retired early. That he might be far enough away. But when he shoulders through an assemblage of courtiers, warm torchlight falling across the planes of his cheeks, my eyes fall shut.

Don’t speak, I silently beg him.

“Your Majesties,” Laurent addresses both Illian and Anton, bowing stiffly, an arm reverently tucked against his ribs. “The wine served that evening was stored in King Anton’s cellar. As previously stated, it was from Lord Bayard’s personal collection.”

“Then it’s simple,” my father says. “One of your staff is to blame. Whoever opened and poured the bottle into the decanter—which would have been done in the cellar itself—would have ample opportunity to slip bellamira inside without being seen.”

“With all due respect, General, no one in my kitchen would dare.” Laurent says it ardently, perhaps too much so, and I recall his vow to always protect his staff. “No one would have motive for such an act.”

Just then, another figure is dragged into the room.

Air rushes through my ears.

“The cellar wench, Majesties,” says a guard, his hand latched around Marian’s upper arm. He releases her beside Laurent. “She would have poured the wine.”

I freeze. Laurent’s eyes widen in horror. Marian, somehow composed, rights herself then bows.

“The Crowns are constantly burdened by threats,” says the general, striding around them with slow, deliberate steps. “Perhaps she was paid off. An ample sum for a quick job. The motive matters not.”

“With respect, I beg to differ,” Laurent says. “Every member of our staff comes with documentation, references. Familial records.” Like the ones Illian forged for me. “No one here would commit such treason, not when it would put their family at risk. I trust my staff with my life.”

He’s trying to keep the speculation, the focus, off her.

“Is that so?” My father narrows the space between himself and Laurent—an attempt to intimidate, no doubt, though Laurent stands tall. “Are you telling me you have never made an exception? Not even, say, for a friend?”

My knees beg to buckle. I should have seen it coming.

Illian discovered Marian. Is this, in part, revenge against her for denying him? Or is this mere happenstance, because Laurent put her in charge of the cellars to guard the tunnel access?

In which case, if Illian did not know about Marian before, he certainly will now.

Laurent works his jaw. “I will not be subject to baseless accusations, nor will my staff.”

“You tread a dangerous ground without proof, General,” Anton warns, his eyes flashing, and I glimpse the storm now stirring within, an undercurrent of char and smoke. “I will tolerate your interrogations no longer. The harm was contained to my court, and as such, it falls under my rule.”

A valiant effort, but my father won’t let this go, and neither will Illian, who now watches me. He nods, the slightest bump of his chin. Silently, I beg him to reconsider, but it’s as futile as blowing a breath against the wind.

He raises his hand, ceasing the dialogue. The little food I managed to eat rises in my stomach.

“Miss Moran, is it?” Illian steps toward me, black curls shining like the leather of his boots. “You look ill, my dear. Do you have something you want to tell us?”

Harden your heart, I tell myself. I wish I could rip it from my chest.

He has no room for patience. “Miss Moran?” he urges.

Don’t force me to leave you in the dark once more.

I feel the calluses on my skin, the iron around my wrists. I hear the crack of Emilia’s bones over dust and stone. I remember how it felt to run after that, what it was like to leave her all alone.

My feet step forward, as if on their own accord.

“Vasalie?” I hear Laurent say.

My eyes burn. The floor feels like sand, sinking beneath me. King Illian presses, “Miss Moran, you have nothing to fear. Please speak whatever is on your mind.” Two of his guards move pointedly behind him.

I see it for the warning it is. I try anything, and they will arrest me. Illian will send for Lord Sarden’s body, and my life will be over, my hope for justice gone.

Harden.

Stone.

I let my heart drop low, lower, until it falls through the glass floor to sink into the watery depths below.

“I have come to know the Head of Staff,” I hear myself say.

A hot tear glides down my cheek. I feel it track a line from my jaw to my neck, pooling on my clavicle.

“I’ve come to know how k-kind he is. How generous—” Illian clears his throat.

I drag my eyes away from Laurent, unable to watch him when I say my next words.

“But the goodness in his heart lends itself to danger. He—” I cough, the words thick in my throat.

My cheeks are soaked now. “To help a friend . . .” I omit Marian’s name; it wasn’t a part of the deal besides .

. . “Laurent confessed to me that he once forged documents. There are indeed staff members here without references.”

I try not to look at Laurent.

I try, and fail. When my eyes slip his way, I find him watching me with aching betrayal that threatens to steal the last of my strength.

“Staff without references?” King Rurik yells.

“If the Head of Staff allowed unregistered workers into this palace, any one of them could be guilty, including this so-called cellar maiden. In fact, they could both be conspirators!” the general shouts with a zeal I remember.

Like when he roared my name, the echo following me through the garden and out the front gates, where I’d taken refuge in a ditch canopied by vines until I could escape under the cover of night, Emilia’s ring in my palm.

“Anton, you must do something!” King Rurik demands. It almost looks like his glass eye could pop out of his skull. “Is he not a subject of yours? Will you treat our safety so callously?”

“He should be in irons!” says someone else—the Sovereign Ruler of Serai, I think. My head spins. The air grows thin.

“What an embarrassment, Anton,” I hear King Estienne mutter. “I expected more of you, truly.”

“This is your territory, brother,” Illian says. “We defer to your punishment, but do not be so foolish as to do nothing.”

Anton steps forward, assessing the room in a cold sweep.

Then something like pained resignation weighs in his eyes, and he signals for his guards.

“I am sorry, Laurent Achea,” he says. “In light of these accusations, you are henceforth stripped of your position and will be escorted from the isle. Until we uncover the truth, you will be held by my guard in the dungeons of Philam. As will this cellar maiden,” he says.

“She will likewise be held and subject to thorough interrogations, along with anyone else on staff that evening.”

I cover my mouth, holding back sobs.

“If any of you are found guilty of these charges,” Anton continues, “if you’re found to have conspired against my court or anyone at this Gathering, the punishment for such crimes will be your life.”

And if I know Illian, he’ll make it so. I wouldn’t put it past him to force a confession. To somehow frame both of them for conspiring with Razam.

“Meanwhile,” Anton says, “we will confirm documentation for every staff member here, starting now.”

Don’t worry about Annais, Illian had told me. I have plans for her.

Plans.

My eyes track Laurent’s once more. I expect him to plead for mercy, or at least expose me in return. He could tell the court about Annais. He could tell them what I did, and he should.

Instead, he looks tired. Face wan, eyes heavy and sad. Illian was correct when he said that Laurent is too loyal, too kind. So he does nothing, not even as guards shackle his hands.

Not even as they haul him away.

My father is another story. His proud eyes walk a slow perusal across the commotion he’s stirred.

He performed his part, whether he knows all the acts to this play.

He does not care if there’s truth to his accusations.

All he wants is war and glory, to impress his king, and it doesn’t matter who he tramples to get what he wants. He’s benefitting from hurting others.

And I am just like him.

Emilia, I had asked her once. If you don’t love him, why do you stay?

It was after a fight. My father had returned from a night with the king, so inebriated he couldn’t land one foot in front of the other.

It prompted him to pick a fight with us, then, spouting off nonsensical words I couldn’t understand.

Emilia had grabbed me and my coat, shoved us both into a carriage, and steered us to a late-night tavern.

It was there that I found out that she had been in love with someone else, but when my father set his sights on her, he cornered her backstage at one of her shows.

They were caught in what looked like a compromising position, effectively ruining their reputation—unless they wed.

I stay, she said that night, because I love you.

But what if I turn into him? I’d asked.

She’d cradled my tiny hands in hers. Darling girl, the choice will always be yours. Refuse to be compliant; refuse to let him mold you into himself. No one dictates who you are but you.

The choice, she had said, will always be yours.

Her words hit me like an axe against wood, and my resolve splinters apart. I chose it. I’m reaping the benefits of hurting Laurent. Whatever my reason—justice, revenge, freedom—it doesn’t matter; I will walk free from this Gathering, and he will not.

Emilia would be ashamed. She would tell me to find another way, because the choice will always be mine.

Because she never sought revenge for the life she lost, the love she lost, when she was forced into being a bride.

She owed me nothing and yet she stayed. And when it mattered, she stood on the line for me instead of protecting herself.

She faced him down.

She defended me.

I wish she hadn’t.

An evening storm rages across sky and sea.

I lean over my windowsill, my skirt fluttering in the breeze, my eyes trailing over a dark ripple of clouds. The wind dries my tears, but my heart is soaked.

I’m drowning.

The choice will always be yours, Emilia had told me, but she didn’t understand. I am the product of lust and greed. I am the result of lies and unchecked power. Darkness choked me until it became my air.

“I didn’t have a choice!” I scream. “Because I am alone and no one can save me! You tried; I know that, but you failed, and this— this is what I have become!” A squall rips through my voice until it’s nothing but the cry of wind. Rain beats down now, slapping my cheeks.

And the lie is sour on my tongue. Because she did save me. And because no matter how I try to convince myself otherwise, I did have a choice.

I still have a choice.

I can’t live with myself knowing I’ve failed Emilia again. Because the definition of failure has changed. It means forgetting everything she taught me, everything she sacrificed. The person she wanted me to become. The person she tried to protect me from becoming.

All this time, I’ve been getting it wrong. I know what Emilia would do because she did it for me.

I shuck off my costume, chuck the jewels from my hair. I pull on my dark leggings, and slip a matching tunic on top. I can’t help Laurent or Marian on my own, but there’s someone who can. Someone who seems to despise Illian as much as I do, and that I can use to my advantage.

Because he just might listen to me.