Page 59 of Storm of Shadows

I laden my arms with as much as I can carry – bread rolls, whole slabs of cheese, cured meats, jars of pickles and sweetened fruits.

Then I carry it back to the table and go in search of a plate and cutlery. The cupboards are full of pots and pans and at least three different types of dinner services as if these guys are going to be hosting dinner parties every day. I pick one plate made of fine bone porcelain, an intricate flower design hand painted across its surface and take it over to the table, staring at it the whole time. This plate in itself is probably worth more than my dad makes in a month. Again I have the desire to smash it into athousand pieces. Again my stomach protests and I sit and make myself the biggest, most decadent sandwich of my life.

As I hold the thing between both hands and bring it up to my mouth, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t mean eating the sandwich, as I sink my teeth into the fresh white bread, I conclude this was the best decision I ever made.

No, I mean about the Princes.

Fly and Clare both seem to think I’m mad for not accepting my fate as a thrall.

Beaufort certainly seems to agree. Not accepting my fate has led me into an awful lot of danger.

I lower my sandwich to the pretty plate and lean back in the chair, closing my eyes.

It would make sense. Just do as they say. It’s only a goddamn year. And can it be any worse than what I’ve endured back home?

I could eat food like this every day. Maybe I could even live in this palace of a tower. They’d protect me.

Sure, there’d be things I’d have to give in return. Things I’m not sure I even understand. But wouldn’t it be worth it?

But then Amelia’s face comes floating into my head. So like mine. Only painted with hope and excitement. Believing, truly believing things could change.

I can’t betray her like that. I can’t let her down.

I open my eyes, pick up that pretty plate and sling it across the room.

They took her from me. And there’s no way – no way in hell – I could trust them. No way I’ll be anything but a spitting hissing hellcat to them.

When I’ve stuffed as much food down my throat as I can stomach, I decide I’m going to show them just how much of a hellcat I can be. I start with the crockery. It pains me – the plates and bowls are beautifully crafted and obviously hand painted with care, most probably by some poor bastard back in Slate Quarter. I do it anyway. Hurtling plate after plate, bowl after bowl at the walls and the floor.

It proves to be pretty cathartic. I imagine I’m tossing the plates at Odessa’s head, at Stanley’s face and at the fleeing back of those Iron Quarter girls. Once I’m done, I start on the glasses and then the cups. The pots and pans turn out to be unsmashable but throwing them at the floor does dent and bend them out of shape and I manage to snap all the wooden spoons and cooking implements in half.

I make my way through every cupboard until the only thing left to damage is the remaining food.

I can’t bring myself to do that though. It’s just too damn wasteful, besides all that destruction has worn me out – especially after the lack of sleep last night and the run this morning.

I listen out for the clock tower and after a while I hear it ring out eleven o’clock.

I smother a yawn, then spot a cushioned seat under the window.

I was hoping to be awake to witness their expression when they discover my trail of destruction, but my eyelids have other plans and wrapping myself up in Clare’s coat, I curl up on the seat, falling asleep with a sly smile on my lips.

I’m going to make them regret they ever chose me.

Something stroking my cheek wakes me later.

I blink awake, my mind taking several minutes to remember where I am.

For a moment, I think it’s Baxter’s soft head snuggled against mine. Or my sister climbing into bed with me. But soon I realize it isn’t.

I’m not back home, or snuggled up with Baxter out in the woods somewhere, not even in my new room at the academy.

No, I’m in the kitchen in the Princes Tower. A kitchen I have destroyed.

And that softness against my cheek is a hand.

I peer up into the face of Beaufort Lincoln.

Before I went to sleep, trashing the room they locked me in seemed like a really clever idea. Now faced with the imminent consequences of their disapproval, I’m less sure.