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Chapter Twenty-Two

I tread soundlessly through the halls.

Pain is a constant, but determination pushes my feet onward. I find the cellar, plunge my hands into the crevice behind that bottle of wine, and yank the lever just as Marian showed me.

Her clock, like Laurent’s, is ticking away.

The tunnels blast cool air against my face, and I move as fast as my body allows, ignoring the pain digging deep into my bones. I pass room after room, mosaic after mosaic. Keep going. Don’t stop.

Different courts hold private after-parties, their carousing echoing through the glass and down the tunnel walls. The palace won’t sleep for a long time yet. The havoc from earlier was hardly a disruption.

According to Laurent, only Anton and his most trusted know these passageways. I’m relying on it. And if I’m caught, I suppose I’ll find out just how badly Illian needs me, or if I really am no more than a button on his doublet, showy but easily replaced.

Dizziness sways both my vision and my steps by the time I reach the eastern wing. Cold clambers through me, icing my very bones. But it isn’t much farther. Anton’s chambers are after Illian’s, so I just need to follow the outer curve.

Only, as I near Illian’s corridor, I can’t resist a peek. Is he celebrating his victory? Conspiring?

I let myself approach the glass above his hearth and peer inside.

He’s still awake, his quill fluttering across parchment, letters fanning across his desk. He pauses, blows on the ink, then compares it carefully to another letter.

Almost as if he’s attempting to write in someone else’s hand.

Satisfied, he cracks open a small leather box, retrieving the wax seal inside. I’m too far to make out the details, but not so far that I can’t tell the seal he holds is not his own. Because I’ve watched him sink his fat golden ring into blood-red wax to seal hundreds of let-ters.

I tuck away the information, about to leave when a voice announces, “Your Majesty, your guests have arrived.”

King Illian rises from his seat, stretching leisurely.

He scoops the letters into a drawer before arranging himself on a chaise, permitting someone entrance.

That ominous, tapered glass chandelier flicks razor-sharp shadows along his face.

Behind him, the door is ajar, revealing a luxurious four-poster bed.

Two women enter.

The first is older, severe, her chamomile hair twisted into a tight crown, modest red garb clinging to her curves. After a reverent bow, she turns, offering both Illian and me a clear view of the second.

My breath hitches in my throat so fast I almost choke. I lend my weight to a jutting stone so that I don’t fall. Surely my eyes are deceiving me. Surely, because . . . it couldn’t be . . . I pinch my cheeks, but I am horrifically, indisputably awake.

The girl sashays forward, tossing her curls—curls that look so much like my own. Lips, painted like my own. Eyes, winged with kohl, just like mine.

Nausea bubbles up, lurching against my ribs.

Because she’s wearing my dress. The very costume I’d sewn myself with Annais’s help and worn mere hours ago.

Had Annais retrieved it? Brought it to this woman? Is this girl meant to take my place? But I completed my task; I did what Illian wanted.

No, she couldn’t replace me. As much as we resemble each other, her face is rounder, her chin flatter. And she stands a little too upright; someone would notice. Copelan would never allow her to perform in my place.

I don’t understand. Or maybe I don’t want to.

Illian circles her like a vulture, chin propped on his hand. A curt nod, and he dismisses the older woman along with his guards.

Leave now, I beg myself. I don’t want to see this. Yet I can’t force myself away.

I need to know.

Illian comes to stand behind her, whispering something I can’t hear. She looks up, just as he gathers her curls in one hand, and—

Yanks her head back.

Drags his lips across her throat.

Unhooks the skirt.

Breathes my name.

I jerk away and cover my mouth, swallowing a pool of hot, burning bile. My tongue feels like ash in my mouth.

I wish I hadn’t come here.

I wish I hadn’t seen.

All of this, I had known, deep down. I had seen the lust in his eyes. But I hadn’t known how far he’d taken it.

How many look-alikes has he requested? How many nights has he pretended it was me?

And by the Fates, why not just summon me ? Why take pains to have someone dress like me when I am at his beck and call? My head whirls, the ground beneath me pulsing. Every inch of me trembles.

I shake myself. I have a purpose, and I’m wasting precious minutes. Hugging the wall, I skirt toward my destination: King Anton’s wing. It isn’t much farther. If I could find the blue light, that strange room—

A hand snatches my arm.

I shriek, but another covers my mouth. I’m yanked backward and pressed against a solid form, arms pulled tight against me—

“These halls are not soundproof,” my captor says into my ear, “so do try not to scream.” I attempt to wriggle free, but he tightens his hold. The heavy scent of bergamot fills my nose. “If you promise to be calm, I will release you.”

I nod, stifling a whimper, and something clicks onto my wrists. I’m released with a shove. I spin on unsteady feet.

The King of the East stares back at me, jaw working. I almost don’t recognize him in the dark. Like me, he’s clothed in black, a hood dipping over his forehead, but his sharp green eyes spear through the shadows. “Of anyone I expected to find in my tunnels, my brother’s pet is the last.”

A mix of fear and fury clogs my breath. “I’m no one’s pet,” I hiss, writhing to get my arms free, but he’s fettered them behind me with irons. Irons, just like in my cell—

“And yet he holds your reins.” Anton drags me by my upper arm so fast I can barely keep up, then pushes me into a small alcove, far from any mosaics or windows.

Here, it’s even darker, and all I see are the whites of his eyes.

“What is he paying you? What reward is worth two people’s lives? ” He practically spits the words.

I press back against the wall. He’s blocking me in the crevice; I can’t escape.

He could have me killed. He could end it here and now. No one would know.

“Tell me,” Anton pushes. “Is his bed worth it? Do you really believe the promises he pants to you in the night?” He tightens his grip on my arm.

“I suspected, but I didn’t want to believe it.

My suspicions were confirmed the moment I saw his face during that dance of yours.

Really, you and your Master Reveler should know Illian doesn’t share his harlots. ”

His words leech the color from my skin. “I am not his harlot!”

Anton’s hand snakes forward, covering my mouth again.

“What did I tell you about shouting?” His scent fills my nose, thick like incense.

I breathe hot air against the palm of his hand, a half second from sinking my teeth into his flesh, king or not.

I came to clear Laurent’s name and ask for his help, but here he is, accusing me of this.

“Lust is, quite frankly, the most visible quality on a man, Miss Moran. Right next to obsession,” he says, and hot tears scald the backs of my eyes.

I try to speak, but his palm clamps against my mouth.

When he releases it enough for me to talk, he doesn’t back away, doesn’t even give me room to breathe.

“So you condemn me because of his lust?” I manage, an erratic beat pounding through my veins. So typical of a man to think such a thing.

I hate him. I hate him.

“It adds to the evidence stacked against you,” he returns.

“Let’s recount, shall we? First, you pull a rather dangerous stunt to nab my attention that first night.

I welcome you to my banquet, offer you a night of rest, merriment, and—better—a safe place to talk.

My friends welcome you; we treat you like one of our own.

And when my closest friend collapses, you happen to be right beside him.

Do you expect me to believe it was a coincidence? Then—”

“I know, but I came here to—”

“— then, you sidle up to my Head of Staff, learn his secrets, and betray him before the whole of the Gathering. Do you realize who you put at risk? The cellar maiden he helped works for me. What a coincidence,” he spits, “that she’s someone my brother begrudges.

I approved the forging of her documents to keep her safe.

Did you really think any happenings in this palace get past me? ”

He must not know about Annais; Laurent must have kept my secret, even from his king.

I open my mouth, but Anton barges on. “While I entrusted the secret of my passageways to Mr. Achea to use at his discretion, I am hard-pressed to believe he had a good reason to allow you inside. Does my brother know?” A breathy laugh.

“Of course he knows.” I try to squeeze a word in, but still he barrels on.

“And to think I liked you. I even second-guessed myself. Tell me, does my brother wait for you in his bed as we speak?”

All rational thought flies from my mind. “If that is what you think,” I croak, “go and look. See for yourself what he’s doing right now. ”

He brushes me off. “Catching you here is all the proof I need.”

I glower at him, the threat of tears glazing my eyes. “Coward.”

He scrutinizes me, a second ticking by before making up his mind. Capturing my arm again, he ferries me along with him, and when we reach the mosaic, I turn my head. I can’t look.

But I watch Anton as he peers inside.

For a moment, he stares blankly, and I fear Illian and the girl have left. But then his features slacken, his face turning ashen even in the low light. He swallows visibly, and his eyes slide back to mine.

“I have never gone to his bed,” I breathe. “Nothing would ever convince me to.”

Maybe I would have years ago if he had asked. I might have thanked him for it, might’ve felt compelled. A part of me had been infatuated with him.

But that part of me is dead.