Page 17 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)
Burned
The door opened, and light from the corridor flooded in.
The two men entered. The room was empty.
“You see, Your Highness?” said the guard’s voice. “There’s nobody here.”
“Leave me, Captain Roegan,” said Claude’s voice. “I wish to be alone with my father.”
“But…the seventy hours—the tradition.”
“I said leave. You already risk demotion for leaving your post.”
“But, my lord…he is supposed to rest alone—for his soul—”
“Do you wish to be dismissed? I can ensure you will never work again, in the entire Archipelago. I can make sure your family loses everything they have. I can have your sons conscripted and your daughters disgraced. Is that what you want?”
“No, my lord,” said Roegan. “Of course.”
Anya, outside on the balcony, pressed herself against the wall.
She edged her head three inches to the left, so that she could peer into the room. She watched her uncle stretch into the chimney and bring down the gloves.
He took matches from the mantelpiece. He bent and lit the fire.
As soon as it had flickered into life, he dropped the gloves into the flames. Anya barely suppressed the cry that rose in her.
He waited until the leather had burned into ashes. His face was grimly satisfied.
The feeling that came over Anya terrified her: a savage burn across her whole body. He had murdered his own father. He had burned the only proof of what he had done. She wanted to kill him.
Claude turned to the bed. He lifted the sheet. His hand went down and he fingered the cut edge of the collar. A look of confusion passed over his face—and then he turned, and his eyes raked the room.
“You need to get away,” croaked Vrano. “Now.”
The king’s chamber was on the third floor. But below her was another balcony, ten feet down. “Jump,” said Gallia.
Anya swung her legs over, hung for a moment, and dropped to the balcony below.
She jarred her ankle but did not cry out.
Gallia flew beside her as she dropped again, this time to the ground, rolling sideways as she thumped to earth.
She darted over gravel, cursing the monstrous crunch it made under her feet, and pressed herself behind one of the trees nearby.
Her uncle stepped onto the balcony. His eyes scanned the garden, and she thought they flickered as they passed her tree. But they moved on, past her and away. She waited, expecting him to call out, to roar, to set the guards on her.
He stepped back inside. But the look she had seen on his face had been enough to make her whole heart contract, tighter and tighter and tighter, until it was a fist.
—
She ran back through the darkness toward her room.
She turned a corner and collided head-on with somebody coming the other way.
A cry burst from Anya, high and panicked…
but it was only Dr. Ferrara. The doctor had warm, steady eyes, and she took hold of Anya’s shoulders and set her on her feet again.
Relief coursed through her. “Dr. Ferrara! I need to talk to you.”
But Dr. Ferrara was not alone. It took Anya a second to register that the doctor was followed by two guards, walking a pace behind. She stared—it was the middle of the night, and Dr. Ferrara wore a dressing gown and an expression of tight anger.
“What is it, Anya?” said Dr. Ferrara.
“I need to speak to you alone! Right now.”
Dr. Ferrara glanced behind her at the guards. “These gentlemen have asked me to come and speak with the regent. They wish to question me about the poison. I asked if we could leave it until a more reasonable hour, but it seems that your uncle wants to know what my researches have shown.”
“Please. Please! Truly, it’s important.”
The guards moved a little closer. Dr. Ferrara looked at the girl’s wild eyes, and at the soot in her flyaway hair, and at the guards’ twin swords. She drew in a long, steadying breath.
“I will come first thing in the morning, Anya. Do you hear me? I will be with you at first light. And I will hear everything you need to say, and we will find a way to make all well.”
But when Dr. Ferrara came the next morning, Anya’s bed was empty, and the gaganas were gone.