Chapter no 28 – Tessa

Defy the Night

It’s been a day of dresses and curls and lessons and so many curtsies that I want to lodge a protest.

I haven’t seen Corrick. I haven’t seen the king.

I’ve hardly even seen Quint, and during the few moments he did appear, he seemed tense and distracted. e attacks on the sector have everyone on edge—including me. Rocco hasn’t been outside my door at all, but the guards who replaced him have the same purple and blue royal insignia on their uniform.

e entire day has carried a sense of anticipation. Of waiting. Of something to come.

But now it’s nightfall, and nothing has happened.

I haven’t spoken to the royal apothecaries—though I’m sure the king has more important things to do right now. I have no idea whether Corrick will take a chance as Wes again. Last night, he didn’t give me an answer, and I began to wonder if that’s answer enough, especially as the day wore on.

I’m not a prisoner, but today, I feel like one. Rocco willingly took me out of the palace, but I wonder what would happen if I asked the guards to take me out of the sector. I imagine showing up at Mistress Solomon’s in one of these silly dresses, how surprised she would look. I imagine wrapping Karri up in a hug. She was such a good friend—and then I vanished. I wonder what they think has become of me. Is there gossip in the sector about me breaking into the palace? If so, I’m sure it’s been eclipsed by everything that happened last night. Will there be another attack? Will Consul Sallister stop providing Moon ower to the sectors? Will he be able to, if his supply runs keep getting raided?

I have so many questions that they tangle up in my thoughts and keep sleep a far distance away.

Jossalyn took down my curls hours ago, leaving me with a hot cup of tea and a tray of baked twists of dough dusted with sugar. A vial of the elixir sits beside it, so much darker than the ones I mix. I swirl the liquid in the vial and wonder how much of this concentrated Moon ower would save families in the Wilds.

But then I consider Harristan’s cough last night. He didn’t have a fever— but he’s still not wholly well. He’s the king of Kandala, so he’s certainly receiving more than enough himself. I don’t understand.

When I climb into bed, I don’t think I’ll sleep, but I must, because a sound wakes me. My room is cloaked in darkness, and the hearth has fallen to embers.

A hand comes over my mouth.

I suck in a breath to scream, but then Quint’s voice says, “We have less than a minute for you to get into Corrick’s quarters. ere is no time for questions. Can you run?”

My thoughts spin, but I nod against his hand.

He lets me go. e door is open and unguarded. I run.

e hallway is empty somehow, and I sprint like a ghost. is stupid palace is entirely too big, because Corrick’s room seems to be a mile away, and my bare feet skid on the velvet carpeting.

Just as I hear a male voice saying, “Master Quint, there doesn’t appear to be anything amiss,” Corrick’s door swings open and I run smack into him.

He catches my shoulders and holds me upright. “Quiet.” I’m gasping for breath. “But—”

“I said quiet.” He shoves me into his room and leans out into the hallway. “Guards! What is going on?”

My heart won’t stop pounding. I hope the guards know what’s going on because I sure don’t.

A male voice calls back, “Master Quint thought he saw suspicious activity in the streets.”

“e sector was attacked last night. Doors should not be le unguarded,” Corrick snaps. “Return to your posts at once.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He lets the door fall closed, then turns to look at me.

I’m still a bit winded. He’s dressed in nery again, all velvet and leather and brocade, which is quite a shame aer I’ve seen him shirtless. His eyes are as cold and hard as the rst night I arrived, which makes me want to back away.

He sure doesn’t look ready to play the role of Wes.

I swallow and try to calm my heartbeat. “What’s happening?”

“Quint got you out. It’ll be a real challenge to get you back in, because they won’t fall for that twice, but we’ll worry about that then.”

“What are we doing?”

He grabs two leather packs from beside the hearth. He tosses one at me, and I catch it against my chest. en, without a word, he moves to the window, swings a leg over the sill, and disappears into the darkness.

All the air leaves my lungs in a rush. I sling the pack over one shoulder and peer out the window aer him. ere’s a thick, heavy rope attached to the ironwork below the window, and it creaks with his weight.

My heart is in my throat again.

is was my idea, but it’s terrifying.

“Remember how to climb a rope?” he whisper-calls up to me. “Did you think I’d forget in two days?”

He grins, and in an instant Cruel Corrick is gone, leaving Wes in his place. “en step quick. We’ve got rounds to make.”

e night air is cool, with a bit of wind to grab tendrils of my hair and toss them into my eyes. e dark sky hangs heavy with clouds, only a bit of lighter gray in the distance to reveal the location of the moon. Rain feels like a distant promise that might not be kept. Far across the palace grounds,

ames icker against the sky and my heart stutters, thinking of the attacks, but then I remember the arch of torches we spotted during our carriage ride. Stonehammer’s Arch, the proclamation of love his great-whatever- grandfather once made.

I hope you fell a lot. Never once.

I’m barefoot, dew clinging to my feet as I slip through the darkness to follow him. I can’t tell who he is tonight, or which personality is going to

show itself when he decides to let me know what’s going on. He’s moving so silently that I don’t dare to make a sound either. I have no idea what guards patrol out here or who we might encounter.

I sure hope he doesn’t expect me to play the role of outlaw in my nightgown. en again, he’s not dressed like Wes. ere must be clothes in these packs.

e farther we walk, the darker the night gets. Grass and dirt squish between my toes, turning Corrick into a shadow, while I’m a ghost in my pale-green nightshi. My hammering pulse has long since slowed to a normal pace. Gradually, the lights of the palace become smaller as the

aming torches of the arch grow closer, dripping sparks.

“Here,” he nally says, slowing to a stop. We’ve been silent for so long that his voice is loud to my ears. He turns to look at me, and there’s tension around his eyes.

“Here what?” I whisper.

“You don’t need to whisper. ere are no guards along the rear wall of the palace, because they guard the wall surrounding it. But I wanted us to get closer to the arch in case anyone was looking out the window.”

“You . . . you want us to be visible?”

“e opposite, actually.” He unbuttons his jacket and slips free of the sleeves. “Haven’t you noticed yet that when you look at the light, the nearby darkness seems darker?”

“No, I never really—” e breath leaves my lungs in a rush. He’s pulled his shirt over his head.

Corrick’s eyes ick skyward. “Maybe you should focus on changing.”

I focus on the shadows and lines of his chest in the darkness. “Uh-huh.”

He throws his shirt at my face, and I laugh under my breath, ducking to unbuckle my own pack. ere’s a homespun skirt in some dark color, along with thick socks, rough boots, and a gray stitched chemise. With a start, I realize these are the clothes I was captured in. Freshly laundered, obviously, because they smell like roses and sunshine.

I glance up to nd Corrick staring at me. He’s pulled a black shirt over his head, but that’s all. I can’t read his expression in the darkness.

I straighten. “What?”

“You laughed. I wasn’t sure that would ever happen again.” I blush and look down, glad he can’t see my face. “Well.”

I’m not sure what else to say.

Well, I don’t feel like a prisoner right this moment. Well, I forgot that Weston Lark was an illusion.

Well.

I’ve grown too quiet, and so has he, and the air seems weighted with . . . something. I shiver and shake out my skirt.

“Turn around,” I say. “Why?” he says brightly.

What a scoundrel. I throw his shirt back at him. “You know why.”

He smiles wol shly, but he turns around. I dress with extra care anyway, slipping the skirt under my nightclothes, then pulling the shi out through the neck of my chemise. e palace clothes were more lovely than anything I’ve ever worn, but there’s something comforting about slipping into the old Tessa. I use the shi to dry my feet and then turn my back for him, balancing on one foot to pull on my socks and lace up my boots. Fabric rustles as he nishes changing behind me. I keep my eyes xed ahead, on the

ickering torches of the arch, watching how embers fall in tiny bursts, defying the night before burning out in the water below.

“Ready?” he says.

I turn around. My breath catches again.

He’s not shirtless. He’s not the King’s Justice. He’s . . . he’s Wes.

I’ve known the truth for days, and he proved it once before, but this . . . this is like seeing a ghost. His mask, his hat, his clothes. He’s Wes. He’s Wes.

It’s too much. I can’t help it. I stumble forward and throw my arms around him. My breath is hitching, and I’m trying to stop tears from falling. I’m failing.

He catches me, and at rst I think he’s going to set me upright or make a bratty comment about how I really need to stop crying on his shoulder, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me, his arms tight against my back.

Eventually, my breathing steadies, but I don’t raise my head. He’s warm and sure and real against me, his breath whispering against my hair.

“Forgive me,” he says quietly, and his voice is rough. I squeeze my eyes closed again. His thumb dris across my cheek. “Please, Tessa. Forgive me.”

I take a deep breath—but there’s so much. Too much? I don’t know.

I think of that moment when the Hold exploded, how he was about to kiss me, and I stopped him.

He’s not Wes, not really.

I’m not quite ready to let him go yet, though.

Eventually, I remember that we have things to do and lives to save. I draw back and look up into those eyes I know so well. “We can’t stay here.”

He nods, but his gaze doesn’t leave mine.

I blink the last of my tears away. “Do you—” I have to clear my throat. “Do you have a mask for me?”

“Yes.” He pulls one from his pack, along with a hat.

I tie it into place and swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

Now he’s staring at me the way I was just staring at him, and I have to force myself to look away and tie up my pack. “Where . . . um, where are we leaving these?”

“ere’s a chest outside the gate. Do you remember how I told you to escape from the carriage? at’s my exit.”

I nod and sniﬀ and shoulder the pack, then fall into step beside him. We slip silently through the grass.

e dark and silence begins to feel too weighted, so I say, “What if someone comes to your room?”

“Quint will stay in my quarters and periodically call for food and wine until we return, so it will give the impression that I’m toiling away over those reports. My brother retires early, so he’s probably asleep.”

“What if someone insists on speaking to you?”

“e only person who can truly demand my presence is Harristan, and that’s rare.” ere’s a note in his voice that belies how casually he answers. “Quint has a cache of answers anyway. I’ve been called to the Hold, I’ve been asked to review a funding request before it’s submitted to the king, I’ve been asked to mediate something that doesn’t need mediation . . .” He shrugs.

I glance at him. “Why does Quint cover for you?”

“In the beginning, I think it was because I convinced Harristan to let Quint have his job. He’s young for his role as Palace Master, and you can already tell my brother doesn’t suﬀer fools. But Quint is more savvy than he lets on, and he took me by surprise when he caught me sneaking back into the palace. I’m not sure what he thought I was doing, and at rst we were

both a little wary about it, but gradually I started to take him into my con dence.” He pauses. “Quint is a good friend.”

at heavy note is back in his voice. “Something is wrong,” I say soly.

“No.” He glances at me, then gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, not any more than usual.”

“Tell me.”

He says nothing for so long that I begin to think he won’t answer, and when he does speak, he only says, “Look. e gate.”

It’s exactly as he described, and it’s smaller than I expected: only about three feet high, barring the way to what appears to be a dark tunnel. As promised, there’s a wooden trunk that appears to be decaying with rot, but when Wes—Corrick, I sheepishly remind myself—throws open the lid, the interior is dry and clean.

e tunnel is black and our breathing echoes, and I’m glad for his company, because this narrow space would be terrifying alone. Something skitters over my boot and I gasp, but he grabs hold of my hand to steady me, and I continue on.

“is used to be a spy tunnel,” he whispers, but his voice is loud anyway. “A hundred years ago, there were a dozen, all over the Royal Sector. Some have caved in, but there are a few, like this one, that prove useful for any princes-turned-outlaw.” He pauses. “Harristan and I used to use them all the time.”

“He did this too?” I say, surprised.

“No. When we were children.” Another pause. “Harristan was oen unwell, and our parents would dote on him. He was never allowed to do anything. It drove him crazy. He’d convince me to sneak into the Wilds with him. It would take him twice as long to scale the sector walls, but he’s the one who taught me how to do it.”

I imagine the king and the prince as boys, sneaking through this tunnel, eagerly whispering, daring each other, challenging order and rules the way Corrick does now. It’s harder to imagine Harristan as a sickly child, but I consider his coughing ts, and my apothecary brain wonders if he has some lingering illness that’s masquerading as the fever.

at note is back in Corrick’s voice, but for the rst time, I can identify it.

Longing. Loss. Sadness. Regret.

“Something has happened with King Harristan,” I whisper. “He thinks I’m working with the smugglers,” he says simply.

“Wait.” I wish I could see his eyes, but the tunnel is pitch-dark, and his expression is a mystery. “What?”

“You heard me.” Corrick takes a long breath. “ey’ve been pointing

ngers since we rst learned of the Benefactors, but I never expected anyone to suspect me. Allisander suspects that you’re a part of it, too. at’s why I couldn’t come to you today. Harristan all but accused me this morning. His guards are reporting to him on my movements. He tried to get Quint to talk.”

My chest is suddenly tight. “But—but you’re not! You’re—you’re—”

I break oﬀ. He might not be the kind of smuggler Harristan is imagining .

. . but Corrick isn’t completely innocent either. “Tessa. I know.”

We walk in silence aer that, our feet scraping against the walls of the tunnel, until we eventually burst free into the woods. It’s misting rain now, and I don’t recognize where we are, but I’m sure we’re nowhere near the workshop. He wouldn’t have been that careless. Not to keep this secret for so long.

My chest is still tight. His brother accused him. e king accused him. And still he’s here.

“I don’t have a lot of petals,” he says, “because I couldn’t risk someone alerting Harristan to my request. But Quint was able to gather enough for one round of doses.”

I bite my lip. “is . . . this is treason.” “It always was, Tessa.”

I think of all the times we spoke ill of the king, of the cruel prince, of the way people were executed for doing exactly what we’re doing. I swallow.

“You’re risking yourself,” I whisper.

“Yes. So are you.” His eyes hold mine. “Let’s make it worth it.”