by Sara Wolf
“It normally doesn’t. But Luc was concerned.”
“That I’d be unable to find my own way to the godsdamn bathroom?” I say it with more venom than I intend, but Malachite just smirks.
“Most people would be flattered to have the Crown Prince send his personal bodyguard to ensure their safety.”
“I’m not most people,” I snap, rubbing the twine imprints on my wrists to ease the pain. “Those little horseshits. Who do they think they are?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the Priseless twins terrorize someone they don’t like.”
“And the nobles just let them do it?”
“The Priseless family has allied themselves with Archduke Gavik heavily. Apparently in human terms that means they get to do whatever they want.”
I scoff. There’s a quiet before Malachite makes an O with his mouth and fishes for something in his pockets. He holds out a folded paper.
“For you. Luc wanted me to give it to you before you left the banquet, but this seems as good a time as any.”
“Bodyguards are watertells as well, then? What a multifaceted role.”
“The watertells,” Malachite stresses, “are controlled by lawguard hands. Luc’s being a worrywart—thinks someone might sneak a look at your correspondences. So from now on, I’ll be delivering them.”
“You’re awfully candid about the prince.”
He shrugs. “I’ve never been one for suffocating Vetrisian decorum. Besides, he likes it; I’m the only one who dares talk bad about him. Well, I was. Until you came along.”
I act offended. “I do not talk bad about the prince!”
“No, but you don’t mince words around him, either. And you dared to speak to him first during the Welcoming. That took vachiayis.” I quirk a brow. He clears his throat and translates, “Ox balls.”
“Lovely.”
“Isn’t it? I keep trying to tell these humans swear words sound much better in Beneather.”
The noise of the banquet filters in through the open doors, the conversation getting louder as the wine flows longer. The hunger that gnawed at me is muted to its usual background noise, my teeth dull. Malachite looks to me.
“You know, when we’re alone, Luc always says you’re wasted here, thrown at his feet as an offering.”
I ramrod my spine like I’d seen Y’shennria do so many times before. “I’m no offering, wasted or otherwise.”
“Really? Because when I came in here you were bound like a suckling pig to be put over a fire.”
“They took me by surprise. Trust me when I say that doesn’t happen twice.”
His smirk is crooked as he bows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Malachite leaves, and I smooth my skirts and put the note into my pocket before following at a modest lag so the court doesn’t get the wrong idea. When we return, the banquet is in full swing, a windlute quartet playing in the corner and conversation erupting. Honey-roasted potatoes and brined shadefish await me, but I’m far from hungry. Fione flashes me a polite smile as I sit back down, and Y’shennria throws me a questioning look, but I shake my head minutely. I’ll tell her later.
I manage to down a few bites of food, the aching pain immediate, but Fione provides the perfect excuse not to eat. We talk about her lessons, how her mother and father are always traveling as Cavanos ambassadors and are never home, leaving Archduke Gavik as her guardian. Servants take away our plates, replacing them with paper-thin, translucent slices of chilled lamb and green truffle. Dessert is a fluffy cake of crushed chestnuts topped with sweet cream and gold foil leaves. I savor every bite. I suffer every bite.
As I’m trying to figure out how many people a single gold leaf on this dessert could feed, Fione chimes up.
“Forgive me, Lady Zera, but you’ve looked terribly angry for a while now. Did I say something wrong?”
“What?” I look up from the cake. “No—as if your ladyship is capable of ever saying something wrong.”
It’s a biting thing to say, a petty thing to say, my mind crowded with the way Y’shennria praised her so lavishly and treated her so kindly. Fione’s face falls minutely, but she plasters on a careful, practiced smile over it. The pain from the food pierces at me, up through my lungs, into my spine, the hunger dragging me into the darkness.
Eat her, the hunger froths. Take her eyes, her hands, soak in her blood and just maybe Y’shennria will think you human—
It takes all the energy I have left to stamp down the hunger and manage civil words in Fione’s direction.
“Sorry,” I say. “I mean—my apologies. Out of all the garbage things I’ve said in this city, that one took first prize.”
Fione freezes over her wine, a little smile staining her lips. This one is clever, catlike, and somehow more real than the practiced ones she gives so freely.
“It’s all right. It’s sort of a relief, really, if you are mad at me.”
“Relief?” I wrinkle my nose. She nods.
“It means you aren’t afraid to show me your emotions, like everyone else here. I don’t have to guess, or probe, or bribe, or weasel information from your servants or aunt. You just…show me. No work required on my part, for once.” She motions with a flat palm to the nobles at the table around us. “In a court like this, where no one betrays their true feelings, you’re a restful, easy oasis.”
I rile at being called easy, but the way she says it belies no malice, her blue eyes sparkling intently. Not a shade of shyness or pleasantry dims them. I look up to see Archduke Gavik gazing at us, his older, thinner blue eyes intent. He stares like a mountain lion—never blinking, searching for some weakness, some slowness to pounce on. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Fione relents, softening and clutching her napkin anxiously, but I smile and nod at him, forcing him to be polite. He looks momentarily surprised, then smiles back.
The archduke and Fione—I’m beginning to learn the Himintells are schemers at their cores.
The banquet concludes after tea and Avellish brandy coffee, and the king and queen take their leave. The prince follows (looking back only once at me in a single piercing moment, Malachite throwing me a wink), and then the rest of us are free to go. People linger in groups in the hall, speaking in hushed tones as Fione and I pass. For once they aren’t staring at me, but at her.
Grace and Charm are a good way down the hall, but even I can see them laughing in our direction. Laughing at Fione’s limped gait. Something snaps in me at the sight of Fione’s expression—strong and stoic yet clearly upset in the well-hidden tightness of her jaw. The urge to punch Grace and Charm is overwhelming. No matter how nasty they’re being, I can’t let it show. And neither can Fione. That wouldn’t be “proper”—that isn’t how the Vetrisian court works. You never show your true feelings, no matter how unfair or wrong something is.
Grace laughs a little louder, the sound like serrated bells.
Screw proper.
“Is there something you’d like to say to Lady Himintell, miladies?” I ask clearly, aiming my gaze at Grace and Charm. The nobles passing us go still, everyone’s attention drawn to them, to me. I keep my gaze ice, steel, trying desperately to imitate Y’shennria’s most intimidating stare. The two girls go pale, mouths zipping closed as they dart behind a nearby pillar to avoid the attention. I turn back to Fione, and the crowd begins to move again, whispering bewilderedly to one another as they take the grand steps down the palace’s facade.
Fione’s blue eyes are shocked. “You—you didn’t have to do that.”
“I can’t stand nasty people like that,” I snort. “Which is unfortunate, because it seems that’s the only sort of person the king stocks this court with.”
Fione is quiet, and then, “Let me repay you with a word of warning; in this place, be careful how much kindness you give others. There are some who can and will use it against you.”
“Like you?” I ask lightly. “You could betray Y’shennria and me any time you please.”
Fione
swallows, her eyes settling on Archduke Gavik as he emerges from the palace. Her face transforms in an instant; shy, tender. Easily frightened. But her whisper is strong.
“If I betray you, Lady Zera, then I lose everything I’ve been fighting for.”
Without another word she turns, her cane tapping out a staccato rhythm against the marble floor as she walks over to Gavik. He barely acknowledges her before he walks down the steps to their silver carriage, never once offering her help inside. I watch them go, cursing the man in that carriage with everything I have in me.
“A whisper on the wind tells me you chastised Lady Steelrun and Lady d’Goliev?” Y’shennria murmurs as she draws aside me. Hearing Grace’s and Charm’s real names throws me off momentarily.
“‘Chastised’ is a bit of a strong word choice,” I say. “Personally I’d go with ‘verbally spanked.’”
“Any particular reason you ‘verbally spanked’ them, or are you just determined to become as unlikable as possible?”
“They were being terribly—how do I put this—unladylike about Fione’s leg.”
Y’shennria’s glare, hard before, softens minutely when I say that, and she doesn’t bring up the subject again during the carriage ride home. I tell her about the Priseless twins, about Malachite intervening. She looks pleased.
“Prince Lucien sent his personal bodyguard to check on you. How remarkable.”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Oh, hush. As if those two hellions could’ve done anything to you.”
“They would’ve seen me heal.”
“Not likely—they tend to favor hit-and-run tactics. I have no doubt they were…encouraged to target you by Archduke Gavik.” Y’shennria frowns. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s encouraged them to scare off a Bride or two. He thinks the whole Welcoming tradition pointless—would much rather have Prince Lucien arranged into a marriage and be done with it. Regardless, it’s good the prince is so worried about you. If this keeps up, he may even take you on the next hunt.”
“I’m thrilled. I love hunting…what? Foxes? Wolves?”
Y’shennria breezes past my question. “If the prince wishes to, he takes a small entourage with him on his hunts. He’s never done so before, of course, but if he does now, it’s a sign he truly wishes you to be close. It’d be the perfect opportunity to take his heart. You and him, alone in his tent. You could escape so quickly once the deed was done. The more I think about it, the more perfect the opportunity becomes.”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Auntie.”
The carriage halts before Y’shennria’s dark, looming manor, the shadow of it obscuring her face for a moment. She gets out, saying nothing as she retreats into the house. I open the carriage door to dash after her, the insistent question lingering on my lips, but Fisher’s faster to answer from his driver’s seat.
“Witches, milady.”
I turn slowly, and he tips his hat to me.
“Prince Lucien goes into the woodlands and hunts witches every few months. Keeps trying to find the witch and Heartless who killed his sister, if you ask me.”
I go still. Fisher sighs deeply.
“Lotsa people say it’s for revenge. I just say it’s a godsdamn tragedy—killing only makes more killing. Killing only makes more hate, and the world’s got enough of that right now.”
Five men. Ended by my hand.
Two parents. Dead and gone by theirs.
I swallow the bitterness suddenly welling in my throat, and hurry inside as if the darkwood walls will shelter me from the memories of the day I lost everything.
9
Monsters
of us All
Verdance Day looms, closer on the fire-calendar with every sunrise. I struggle to swallow my impending panic attack each time I look at it. Ten days. That’s all that stands between me and the end of everything.
The prince’s hunts, thankfully, don’t last ten days. They last exactly three, according to Y’shennria—one for travel to the suspected area, one for the hunt itself, and one day for the ride back. He prefers to kill witches in their animal shapes. But of course he would. They look too human otherwise. Thinking about him doing such a thing sends waves of nausea through me. How did I ever hold a civil conversation with him—with a murderer? But the hunger taunts me; I’m no better. I’m also a murderer, though I’m sure my body count is much lower. How can he care so much for the poor of his nation and yet ruthlessly hunt witches? How many has he killed? I try to put myself in his shoes, perhaps uselessly; if my mother and father’s killers were still out there, would I ever rest? Or would I hunt every bandit I could get my hands on until I found the ones who killed them?
If Nightsinger hadn’t brought me the bandits themselves, would I be consumed with as much revenge as Prince Lucien?
Yes.
Undoubtedly, truly, clearly—yes.
Maeve wakes me the next day to a breakfast of chocolate drink and spiced buns. My morbid thoughts are thankfully dulled by the precise ritual of makeup and dresses. She helps me squeeze into a sensible sage-green dress. I remember the note from Lucien suddenly, and rummage in the pockets of last night’s dress before Maeve takes it away for cleaning.
Tomorrow night, nine half, at the Tiger’s Eye Pub. You can have a portion of my time there, blackmailer.
I find Y’shennria on the balcony of her master bedroom, nursing a cup of tea and a book, her lavender dress robe casual and her voluminous tufts of hair left to shine freely in the afternoon sun. It’s the most informal I’ve seen her. She looks startled as I come in, reaching for a starched jacket.
“Did you barge into my room unannounced for any particular reason?” I show her the note, and she quirks a brow. “In the city? Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” I set my fists on my hips. “There are a dozen dark alleys I could take his heart in.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety outside the noble quarter. Or your escape in one piece. You aren’t strong enough to lift his body in secret all the way back here. You’d take his heart, come back to the manor, put it in the jar, and then what?”
“Lead Fisher to Lucien’s body,” I insist. “And then we put it in the carriage and leave, back to the Bone Road, back to Nightsinger.”
“You think it will be that easy? Any lawguard’s wandering eye blows that plan to smithereens.”
“You’ve taught me how to be seen,” I say slowly. “But I taught myself how to go unseen.”
Y’shennria thinks on this, then shakes her head. “No. The Hunt is a much better option. Safer.”
“If I fail at the Hunt, there’s only one day left after that. Who cares about what’s safe?” I throw out my arms.
“I do,” she snarls.
“Why? I’m a Heartless. I’m the thing that killed your family.”
“Witchfire did that,” she corrects, jaw tight. “Not Heartless.”
“Then what about those scars on your neck?”
At this she falls silent, staring into her tea.
“You can’t fool me. I know the shape of those scars,” I press. “Those are Heartless teeth marks. I’ve seen them before. I’ve…I’ve made them before.”
She shuts her book with a soft, final note and puts it on the table, moving slowly, as if to avoid startling me. Like I’m some wild animal. Dangerous.
“What does that matter?” she asks.
“It matters.” I harden my shoulders. “Because I don’t care about what’s ‘safe.’ I just want my heart back.” I clench my fist. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Y’shennria doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. The hunger never relents. Heart or no heart, you’ll always be a monster, it sneers. Magma needles of pain run through my chest at its dark words, so abrupt my throat curls around a bitter, dissolving laugh.
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Even if I get my heart back, even if I delay a war, even if I return two hearts to two children’s chests—I’ll still have blood o
n my hands. I can’t undo what I did.” I force myself to look up at her. “So don’t. Don’t bother trying to keep a monster safe. Throw me to the wolves. Throw me to the lawguards. But don’t ask me to wait a moment more, because that’s far crueler.”
Y’shennria’s looking at me differently, in a way I’ve seen only when she looks at Lord Y’shennria’s painting. Tenderness. Heartache. Regret. Fondness. All things that shouldn’t be aimed at me.
“I am nothing if not cruel.” Her words contradict her expression completely. “The Hunt is safer. You may go to this clandestine meeting with the prince. But you will not take his heart. It will be done at the Hunt.”
“Why?” I demand.
“Because I said so.” She raises her voice minutely, enough to puncture.
I feel like someone’s scooped out my innards, spread them on hot coals. I turn and storm from her room, fury and agony warring like dark gods in my head, in between the gaps of the hunger’s mockery.
I try to drown myself in reading a children’s storybook from the impressive library in the manor, but even there it haunts me—a picture of a Heartless, all fangs and claws, limbs unnaturally long, tearing through the woods after a child, its eyes wide and feral and blacker than night, no whites to be seen. A Heartless consumed by the hunger. I’ve lost sight in all the silks and pretending; at the core of it all, this thing on the page is what I am, and they are the children who should be running from me.
To escape this monstrous fate, I have to condemn Lucien to it. Will he mourn, I wonder? Will he rage as I did when I was first turned? Will his life be a hopeless darkness he tries to cover with light words and pretty jokes, as mine is? Will he curse my name?
Will he hate me as I hate me?
Outside my window I watch Y’shennria’s stable boy, Perriot, play with two other children; servants from other manors, not starving like street orphans, yet not dressed richly like nobles. They hold hands and circle a leather ball, joyously singing what sounds like a children’s rhyme at the top of their lungs;
“One kick, two kick, find the head,
