The door to the carriage slams, and I’m alone. My heart pounds in my chest. Again, too much has happened, and my world feels like it’s been turned upside down for the tenth time today. e pouch rattles with coins when I li it, and the dagger is heavy. When I pull it free of its sheath, it looks sharp and ready. I try not to wonder if he’s ever used it on anyone.
I don’t trust Corrick at all, but this . . . this doesn’t feel like a trap. What would be the purpose? What would he have to gain?
I’m quick and sure-footed. is dress is dark. If the captain and his men are distracted, I could slip away like a ghost.
I couldn’t go back to Mistress Solomon’s, but I could nd work in another city. Especially with a purse full of silver.
But then I think of my meeting with King Harristan. It’s easy to love your king when everyone is well fed and healthy. A bit harder when everyone is . . . not.
He cares. What’s happening in Kandala weighs on him. I’m not sure how I can tell, but I can.
Despite everything, I can tell it weighs on Corrick as well.
I have never tricked you. I’ve been treating him like the man who everyone fears, as if his entire life has been one big trick. But he’s been progressively protecting me since the instant I arrived in the palace, from the way he provided me with food and a room to sleep in to the note he slipped me before his meeting with his brother. Prince Corrick has done a lot of terrible things, but his words rang true. Maybe I don’t understand things from this side, just like they don’t seem to understand things from mine. And maybe the king was just indulging his brother by allowing me to meet with the royal apothecaries, but it’s an opportunity to tell people who matter that they could be doing better with the supplies they’re given.
I can’t keep stealing to help the sick, but maybe I can help them in another way.
Maybe.
It’s a lot of maybes.
When Wes stood in front of me on our last night together, I said we needed to stop hiding and cause a revolution. Running now would be hiding. And this isn’t the type of revolution I was thinking of . . . but maybe I can bring about change. Maybe I can show the king how badly his people are suffering.
Maybe this is a chance no one else would ever have.
I leave the dagger and the coin pouch on the seat, then put my hand on the latch of the door. I open it boldly, stepping onto the cobblestones with no effort to be silent.
e captain’s head whips around. So does Corrick’s.
“Ah . . . forgive me.” My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat. “Your Highness?” I curtsy for good measure. “It’s been a long day, and I’m rather hungry. You mentioned you were as well.”
Corrick looks at me across een feet of darkness, his blue eyes dark and inscrutable. He’s gone very still.
My heart is beating so hard that I can nearly taste it in my throat. I hope I’m not making a mistake.
“Indeed,” he nally says. “We’ll discuss the pattern of those search lights another time, Captain.”
He walks back and looks down at me in the moonlight. In the dark it’s easy to remember him as Wes: the way he moves, the way the stars glint in his eyes. Brocade and silver have replaced homespun wool and rough leather, but he’s still the same man. is morning, I told Quint that my friendship with Wes was an illusion based on a trick, and he said, “Are you so sure?”
As always, I’m not sure of anything.
Corrick’s eyes skim my face as the cool night air streams between us. “Dinner awaits,” he says. Any trace of an edge has vanished from his voice.
A footman scurries forward to hold open the door. Corrick offers me his hand to help me into the carriage.
is time, I take it.
We sit opposite each other again. A whistle and a whip crack later, and we’re rocking over the cobblestones. Corrick settles back into his cushions, regarding me. ere’s no challenge in his expression now—simply consideration. He’s obviously waiting for me to speak, to explain myself, but my tongue is twisted into knots.
Eventually, his eyes narrow just a bit. “Did you stay because you truly wanted to, or did you stay because you do not trust me?”
“Oh!” at didn’t occur to me—but voicing either of those options makes me feel too vulnerable. “I . . . I chose to stay. I have obligations in the palace.”
His eyebrows go up. “You do?”
“e king asked me to speak with the royal apothecaries and physicians.” “Ah.” He says this graciously, but his eyes search mine, and I can tell he
knows there is more that I’m not saying. My thoughts are too complicated to put into words.
Maybe his are, too, because he says nothing more.
I pick up the small purse of coins and toss it back to him. He nimbly snatches it out of the air.
My ngers curl around the dagger, though, and I keep my eyes locked on Corrick as I tuck it into the side of my boot, then let my skirts fall to cover it. “You’re not getting this back.”
To my surprise, he smiles, his eyes lighting with challenge. “Consider it a gi.”
 |
In the center of the Royal Sector sits the Circle, which isn’t really a circle at all, and is instead a dais constructed of marble and granite in the shape of an octagon, stretching at least y feet across. Hundreds of years ago, it was used when the king wanted to hear from his people personally. en Corrick’s great-great-great-grandfather took a dagger in the neck, and it was decided that requests from the people should be made in writing and le at the sector gates.
Over time, the Circle became a convenient location for merchants to sell their wares. As the story goes, twenty years ago, an enterprising tavern owner at the edge of the dais set a few tables and chairs out and out tted his serving girls in fancy dresses. Within a year, he’d taken over the entire space.
Now it’s turned into a place where the richest elites gather to gossip and be seen spending their coins on things they don’t need.
I’ve only ever seen the Circle in the early hours of the morning, and only when I’m sprinting through the deserted streets of the Royal Sector with stolen petals in my pack. In the dark, the dais is gray, the tables and chairs unremarkable, the pots of owers drab and lifeless.
When Corrick leads me out of the carriage, I’m jolted by the difference. Now, yellow and white roses spill from massive pots set among the tables,
lling the air with a rich aroma. Stained-glass lanterns hang suspended on wires strung above the patrons, casting a ickering multicolored glow across the crowded space. No walls separate those dining from the cobblestone streets, but dozens of carriages line the way, bored attendants waiting with the horses. In the Wilds, it’s rumored that the elites would spend a week’s worth of silver just to dine here.
I look around at the painted faces, the elegant nery, and I think it might be true.
Every eye follows us from the carriage to our table.
Our presence here must have been prearranged, because our table is at one end of the dais, set apart from the others, with room for the guards to stand between us and the other diners. Wine has already been poured, and a basket of steaming bread sits between us. It’s simultaneously private yet not at all. If the guards were steel bars, this would be a cage. Conversation is loud in the night air, but the space between us hangs heavy with silence again.
Corrick sits in his chair as comfortably as he lounged on the velvet seat of the carriage, and he takes a lazy sip of wine.
I’m perched on the edge of my chair, and I want to drain my entire glass and ask for a dozen more.
e prince is watching me. “Second thoughts?” he says.
“Quint said it would be public, but . . . I didn’t realize it would be like this.”
He lis one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “We could have dined in the palace, but that would have been worse.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Worse?”
“Here, few people will dare to approach our table.” He takes another sip of wine. “In the palace, we wouldn’t have had a moment of privacy.”
“And you think we have that now.” I pick up my glass and limit myself to a sip.
“Not as much as I’d like, but Quint wants people to see you as a potential ally to the throne.” His voice turns dry. “Not the outlaw who, according to rumor, slipped into the palace to assassinate the king.”
I cough on a sip of wine. My rash decision to enter the palace feels like a nightmare I wish I could shake off. “Of course.”
He glances past the guards, and his expression goes still. “Lord.” He downs the rest of his glass.
“What’s wrong?”
“Our evening is about to get less private.”
I follow his gaze and see a man weaving between tables.
Corrick looks at me, and his eyes spark with devilry, reminding me of Wes. His voice drops, like we’re co-conspirators. “If you want to throw a drink at this man, you have my full permission.”
I blink. “Wait. What?”
But he’s standing, smoothing his jacket, his face transforming into the darkly beguiling Prince Corrick.
If he’s standing, I probably should as well. I shove myself to my feet. A man steps between the guards without hesitation, so he must be someone of importance. He’s not much older than Corrick, maybe Harristan’s age, with a goatee that’s so thick it appears to be glued onto his face. It does nothing to hide the sour pinch to his mouth. He looks like a man who isn’t attractive at all but clearly believes he is.
“Consul!” Corrick says joyfully, like he’s greeting a long-lost friend. “Have you dined this evening? Join us.”
e man stops short. His eyes narrow. “Corrick.” He glances dismissively at me. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner with your . . . guest.”
He says guest as though Corrick invited a sow to leave a mud pit to sit at this table with him.
I don’t want to throw my drink. I want to throw that dagger.
“Nonsense,” says the prince. “Tessa, you have the honor of meeting Consul Allisander Sallister.”
Consul Sallister. Moonlight Plains. e man who would volley for power if he could.
A serving girl appears with another chair for the table. Another lls Corrick’s wineglass before vanishing. Invisible.
I wish I were. e tension between these two men is palpable. My heart thrums against my ribs, but I paste a smile on my face and curtsy. “Consul. I am honored.”
He doesn’t even look at me. “I understand from Harristan that our argument in the Hold was a misunderstanding.”
“Our argument?” Corrick blinks as if startled. “Allisander,” he says smoothly. “Did you truly think I would ban you from the palace?”
“I question your actions,” the consul says, his voice low and vicious—but not so low that nearby tables aren’t getting an earful. “I question your motives. Last week, you had eight captives and three escaped. Today, I brought you a dozen rebels and instead of interrogating them, you’re coddling them.” He glances at me pointedly. “To be frank, I’m surprised they’re not at this table with you.”
I inch.
Corrick doesn’t. “You brought me a dozen unconscious rebels,” he says evenly. “I will question them and punish them in due course.” He pauses. “I will not do it over dinner, however.”
I shiver at the chill in his voice.
Consul Sallister leans in. “You promised my supply runs would be safe—” “I promised guards, which you received.”
“—and you promised an end to these attacks—” “Which you know I cannot guarantee.”
“—which you’ve made no effort to stop, if the new evidence of these Benefactors is to be believed.”
Silence falls between them like a blade. Corrick’s eyes are blue ice. e consul’s cheeks are red, his shoulders tight. I twist my ngers together. I wish Quint were here to talk about the tablecloths or the design of the lanterns.
“Perhaps,” I say, and my voice sounds wispy. I swallow. “Perhaps if word spreads that your apothecaries could make the medicine more effective, the supply raids will lessen.”
e consul’s eyes don’t shi to me. “What is she talking about?”
“Tessa’s arrival in the palace was unorthodox, I’ll admit,” says Corrick, “but she has presented evidence to Harristan that perhaps the dosages could be made more effective.”
“Or more people could die,” says the consul.
A new tightness wraps itself around my chest. He’s not wrong. My theories are only that—theories based on the small population of people in the Wilds. More people could die.
“Or more could live,” says Corrick. “Which I believe is an outcome we should all hope for.” His tone is cold, and hope feels miles away. “Don’t you agree, Allisander?”
“You are going to contradict the royal physicians for some . . . some girl? You go too far, Corrick. If there is another attack, I will halt my supply runs until you have determined who is responsible.”
I suck in a breath. is man controls the greatest supply of Moon ower petals in Kandala. If he stops providing it, people will die.
I’m not the only one who thinks so. A whisper ies through the crowd beyond the guards.
Corrick takes a step forward, and the night is full of so much dangerous potential that I wonder if he’s going to strike the other man or order the guards to put an arrow through his back.
Instead, Corrick drops his voice to a level that won’t be heard away from this table. e edge leaves his tone. “It’s been a long day for us both. I let my temper get the best of me earlier. I was angry that the Benefactors seem to be funding these attacks, and I can’t force answers out of unconscious thieves. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you.” He pauses. “Let’s not allow a few heated words to come between us.” He gestures to the table. “Please. Join us.”
e consul hesitates, but now he looks uncertain instead of furious. “My supply runs—”
“Allisander.” Corrick claps him on the shoulder like they’re old friends. His voice is no longer so, and I can see necks craning to hear. “I’ll grant you whatever you need to protect your people. As always.”
Allisander clears his throat. “Very well.” He glances at the table. “I will not intrude on your dinner.”
“Will you be staying at the palace this evening?” says Corrick. “Perhaps a game of chess in the morning. We could discuss some alternative methods of protecting your deliveries.”
“Good.” Consul Sallister tugs his jacket straight and takes a step back. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“I look forward to it,” says Corrick.
Aer the consul leaves, I expect Corrick to look aggrieved, but he doesn’t. He extends a hand toward my chair. “Forgive the interruption. Please. Sit. Have you tried the bread?”
I sit, but I stare at him. He’s so formal and polite all of a sudden. is is like Prince Corrick Number Four. Or maybe Number Nineteen. I’ve lost track.
He must notice my bewildered expression. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m upset about what just happened,” he says, his tone low enough that his words are for me alone, but as perfectly even as when he mentioned the bread. “e cheese is very good, too. Try some. I insist.”
“Ah . . . sure.” I tear a piece of bread, trying to remember which knife was for cheese during my lesson with Mistress Kent.
Corrick lis one of his and taps it with his index nger, so I look for my own. Out of everything, these tiny kindnesses from him are the most unexpected. I follow his lead and spread cheese across the surface of the bread, then take a bite.
It’s divine. e cheese melts onto my tongue, and I nearly forget what just happened.
But now that we’re eating, the other patrons go back to their meals. Conversation regains the near-cacophony volume from before Corrick and Allisander argued.
I study the prince. He’s such an enigma. Every time I think I understand the slightest thing about him, he does something new that doesn’t quite make sense. I can’t even tell who just gained ground—and who lost it.
He takes another piece of bread and slathers it with cheese. “I sense that you have questions.”
“Who just yielded? Was it you or him?”
“He did,” says Corrick. “But it looks like I did, which is what matters. I can’t have the entire Royal Sector thinking Allisander will blockade access to the Moon ower petals. I’m surprised he didn’t start a riot right here.”
“He really controls so much?”
“Yes. But he also doesn’t want to cease his shipments, because we’d be forced to rely on Lissa Marpetta alone, which would mean her prices would increase, and he doesn’t want to give up one single coin of pro t—or the illusion of control.” Corrick sighs, looking irritated. “But if outlaws keep
attacking his supply run, it won’t be worth it to him. Especially if someone with money is funding the attacks.”
Outlaws. My chest is tight again. “He said you have . . . prisoners.” “I do.”
I keep thinking of the way King Harristan said, It’s the same to the night patrol. I have to force myself to swallow the food in my mouth, because it’s turned into a tasteless lump. “What . . . what are you going to do to them?”
“I’m going to question them and see what they know.” He pauses, his eyes holding mine, his tone level. “And then I will act accordingly.”
He doesn’t say this in a challenging way, but I feel like he’s thrown down a gauntlet anyway.
On the day of the execution before the gates, I remember thinking of how horrible the king and the prince were. Prince Corrick stood on the stage, so cold and uncaring. I longed for a crossbow to shoot them both, to free Kandala from their tyranny.
But I didn’t know about Consul Sallister then. I feel like that shouldn’t matter when people are dead . . . but aer meeting him, I realize that it does. I mentally realign everything that happened the morning before the execution that turned into calls for revolution—and the morning aerward.
Wes was unsettled. Troubled.
I think that very few people truly deserve what they get, Tessa. For good or for bad.
I told him he only deserved good things, and he looked away.
He saved me on the night my parents died. He’s saved me countless times since.
He’s been responsible for the deaths of countless people, too.
e king’s voice is loud in my memories.
Every smuggler has a story to justify their actions. e penalties are well known. How can I turn a blind eye to one type of thievery and not another?
ere are too many layers here. I thought it was as simple as right or wrong . . . but it’s not. My chest feels tight again, and my eyes go hot.
Corrick picks up his wineglass. “If you cry, I’ll be forced to comfort you.” His tone says he’s teasing—but also not. It helps chase my tears back.
“However will you manage?”
“Well. Forewarning that I’ll have to do something truly abhorrent to keep up my heartless reputation.”
Something tells me he’s not wholly teasing about that either. Any emotion dries up. A serving girl appears with platters laden with slabs of beef surrounded by root vegetables and a uffy circle of pastry painted with honey.
Once she’s gone, I look at Corrick, who taps his nger against his fork before picking it up.
I mirror his movements gratefully, and we eat in silence for a moment. “Do you think the royal apothecaries will really listen to me?” I venture
soly.
“Harristan has ordered it. ey will.” He rolls his eyes. “And he’s delivered a room full of records for me to review by tomorrow, so if I can nd any evidence to back what you’ve already discovered, it will help.”
I straighten. “Really?”
“Yes. Between that and dealing with Allisander’s prisoners, it’ll likely take me all night.” He gives me an ironic glance. “I’m so very appreciative.”
“Why you?”
“Why not me? As much as you might like to imagine it, I don’t ride around in velvet carriages and order executions all day.”
He’s challenging me again. Not directly, but I feel it. In a way, that reminds me of Weston Lark, too.
Corrick slices another piece of food. “Don’t pity me too much.”
“I don’t pity you.” I feel a bit breathless again. Every moment I spend here changes the way I feel about him and the way I feel about myself. “If you’re trying to gure out a way to make the medicine more effective for all of Kandala, I’m going to help you.”
