Page 41

Bronwyn

B ronwyn had spent much of the day before in her quarters, trying not to worry over what Malik was doing. He had a few meetings, he’d said. Better that she stay at the castle with her family than linger at his apartment with no company and, admittedly worse, no food. He didn’t keep much on hand, and they’d mostly gone through the little he had the day before—in bed.

A fresh ache built between her thighs at the memory. Two days. They’d had so little time together, yet it felt like he’d always had a piece of her heart and now it was no longer missing.

At least this morning she had something to do.

The letter had come the evening before, around dinner time. The moment she’d seen the decorative looping of her name on the front, she knew immediately who had sent it. Charlotte’s note had been brief, yet it gave her more true hope than anything had in days.

Come for morning tea at 10. I’ll tell you everything.

Bronwyn woke before dawn and nearly considered heading over immediately. But if Charlotte was willing to talk now, she didn’t want something like an early arrival sending her into a fit or causing her to change her mind.

She could wait. However difficult that was. The minutes had never passed quite so slowly as they did that morning. She paced alone in her room, begging the sun to rise faster.

When her carriage finally stopped in front of the Davies’ manor, she sprang from it like a buck through the trees, barely remembering to tell the driver to return in an hour. They might not be done by then, but oh well.

Her father, and Malik for that matter, would have a fit if they discovered she hadn’t brought a troupe of castle guards with her. But she was just visiting Charlotte, for goodness’ sake. Arriving with an entourage of men and women in tow felt wrong. That, and she wasn’t about to let anything—like the presence of a few additional guards—change Charlotte’s mind about speaking with her.

Besides, what need did she have of them when the inspector’s men were still all over the place? Charlotte might be willing to speak to her, but it seemed she still spurned the city officials. Just as well.

Bronwyn sighed, shaking her head as she spied the same two men at the gate as the other day. At least they knew who she was now.

“Miss Kinsley.” The men bowed at the waist.

“I’m here for tea at Miss Davies’s invitation.” The men looked at one another uncertainly, and Bronwyn nearly groaned in frustration. They weren’t going to try to deny her again, were they? “See, I have her letter right here.” She held it out to them, but neither man moved to take it.

Now that she took in the small yard beyond the gate, there seemed to be even more people present than before. Strange.

“Well? Will you let me pass?”

“You see…”

“What? Are you denying her visitors now? The inspector and I have an agreement.” It was from the other day, but surely, it still held. She would tell him anything of note, especially if he could help her track down the dragons.

“That’s not it, Miss Kinsley,” the quieter of the two said, stepping up where his companion seemed at a loss for words. “It’s just that, well…” His gaze darted before settling on her once more. “Miss Davies was found dead this morning.”

Bronwyn blinked at him, the words not registering.

And then they did. All at once and with the force of a horse’s hoof to the chest.

Charlotte’s letter fell from limp fingers. Bronwyn stumbled back, curling in on herself.

“Miss!” The man who’d spoken rushed forward, grabbing her arm to steady her, probably worried she’d faint on the spot.

“She’s…” She could not form the words over the silent scream echoing through her head. Dead. Dead. Dead.

But she’d just written the evening before. She’d invited her over. She’d been grieving but certainly lively, full of the same vigor and passion Bronwyn had become familiar with.

Tears blurred her vision and fell to the flagstones.

It was all too much.

“Miss! Your Highness!” The other man was there opposite his companion, stumbling over his titles but with kindness in his voice. The accent he tried to hide slipped back in full force. “I’m sorry. Mayhaps we shouldn’ a said.”

“Should we call a carriage? Where are your attendants? Should we take you inside?”

Now they offered to let her in. She sniffed, wiping at her tears and trying to clear her eyes. Crying wouldn’t help. It never did.

“The staff is in a state, but—”

“No. No thank you.” The voice that came out was far stronger than she felt. She was on the verge of falling to pieces, and in that house, surrounded by whatever traces remained of her friend, she really might. Oh, why, oh, why had she chosen this of all times to shirk her guards and send the carriage off?

Fate was a bitter mistress sometimes.

“How did she…” Bronwyn looked past them at the house. No wonder there were so many more people present today. They weren’t just investigating the sister of a man responsible for the opera house disaster. They were inspecting a murder scene.

“We’re still investigating how someone—” He snapped his mouth shut. “We’re still investigating.”

Her doom had not been by her own hand, then.

“I understand,” Bronwyn replied. She did. Likely more than most. There was little doubt in her mind what had happened. Charlotte knew valuable information. She knew the dragon’s identity. And she was going to speak. Somehow, he, whoever he was, had learned that and taken drastic action.

“I’ll just … take a walk,” she said. “If my carriage returns before me, have them wait here.”

The men asked further questions. One might have offered to go with her. She wasn’t sure, could barely hear them over the thoughts and emotions roaring like a gale inside her.

It was a beautiful day: clear skies, an unseasonably cool breeze that was a balm against the heat as the sun rose higher in the sky. Birds chirped. People went about their business, oblivious to the tragedy nearby. It was the type of day Charlotte would have loved in the city that she called home. Yet it didn’t notice the hole her absence left in it. It was bitterly ironic.

Bronwyn hadn’t made it more than two blocks when a raised voice snared her attention.

“You there! Miss Kinsley!”

The sound of her name rooted her in place. Though she’d been looking ahead, her gaze was unfocused, or, rather, focused inward—everything given over to taking one breath after another and not losing herself to sorrow and shattered hopes.

As the world came back into focus, the sight that greeted her was of Mr. Yarwood marching toward her, his dark face set in a scowl, his brisk and determined pace in sharp contrast with his impeccable attire.

“What do you want?” Bronwyn snapped as he stopped feet from her and stared her down in a rage. Her tears dried up at once, burned away by her own fury as she crossed her arms and glared at him. Common courtesy be damned. He’d thrown that out the window in his approach, anyway.

“Did you know? Were you part of this, too?” he demanded.

“Part of what?” she scoffed. The man had lost his mind.

“Oh, go on, deny it,” he all but snarled. “He always had an eye for you, and you for him. My sister never had a chance, did she? Was it all a game?”

Bronwyn leaned back but refused to budge. “Your sister? What does Lady—”

“It was bad enough, breaking her heart, but this?” He’d had a folded piece of paper clutched in his hand and now he waved it in her face, nearly grazing her nose. “I hear the inspector is at the Davies’ manor. I’m on my way there to report this.”

“The inspector is a little busy this morning,” Bronwyn said coldly.

“He’ll make time for this,” Mr. Yarwood hissed.

“Doubtful.”

His eyes narrowed. “Inspector in your pocket, too, eh? Should have known as much.”

Bronwyn shook her head, at a loss. What in the Goddess’s name is he on about? “Sir, this is not the morning.”

She made to step around him, but he blocked her path, leaning down until he was right in her face. “Off to meet him now?”

The urge to punch him had never been quite so strong.

Then, something flashed across his features, and he drew back. “Or … do you truly not know?”

“Know what ?”

He took his time unfolding and smoothing the letter he clutched, a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he handed it over to her.

She scanned the first few lines, her brow knitting at the randomness of it all. “It’s nonsense.”

“It’s code.” He crossed his arms and stared down at her now, his features carefully even as if she was on trial and he was the judge deciding a sentence. “One used by the dragons.”

Her eyes flew wide. Immediately, she glanced around, looking to see who overheard, but no one was near. Almost like anyone nearby had gone out of their way to avoid them. Probably had.

Was that a confession? Was he a dragon?

“I see the damnation in your eyes.” His lip curled. “I’ve been trying to infiltrate their number for months.”

“To join them?” The words leapt from her tongue.

“To end them.” He held her gaze, unblinking. Where he’d been in a fury moments ago, now his eyes were full of cold resolution. Truth.

He was against the dragons, trying to stop them—like Malik, like Drystan.

“Then why are you making such a fuss? Surely, you can’t think I’m one of them?” she asked, taken aback.

His look turned almost sorrowful. “It’s not all code. Not the end. You didn’t read it all, did you?”

An unexplainable tremor gripped her limbs as she unfolded the page once more.

“I’d wager one of these was delivered to many of the noble houses this morning,” Mr. Yarwood said.

A deep sense of foreboding landed heavily in her stomach. As she skimmed the page, her eyes landed on the looping signature at the bottom.

A signature she knew.

Impossible.

Yet…

Signed, Alistair Malikant Ithael . Prince of Castamar. Rightful heir to the throne. The Dragon.

“It can’t be.” The denial was far away, said beyond the buzzing hum beginning in her head and rising to a scream. “It can’t. He wouldn’t.”

Weakness gripped her legs. Her skin tingled. The world spun.

“It’s his signature, is it not? And seal?”

It was the seal that she couldn’t look away from. Wax red as fresh blood stamped by the ring he always wore.

“It can’t be.”

If she said it enough maybe it would make it true. Maybe it would stop the breaking of her heart, her soul, as it crumbled apart and fell around her in a heap. Maybe it would stop the tears as they slipped down her cheeks.

But she couldn’t deny the words on the page. The confession.

Malik was the Dragon.