I glance at him, but his eyes are on Hugo, who shuffles over the edge of the bed and drops to the floor. With a wild sort of longing, I suddenly wish I could tell Lark the truth. I want to share this burden, tell him everything, let him understand my fears.
My voice comes out small. “He was intense.”
“That’s one word for him.” Lark sighs.
I nod, but my mind won’t stop spinning. The tension’s curled so tightly in my chest I’m not sure if it’s panic or guilt anymore. Even if there was any chance in theDeepthat Lark wouldn’t hate me if he knew my true identity, I can’t make him choose between turning me in or hiding me. It wouldn’t be fair.
“Why did he talk to you?”
“We’ve, uh…met before.” Lark hesitates. “He questioned me about Princess Talvie and shared a warning.”
An icy chill snakes up my spine. I try to keep panic off my face, because Lark is watching me all too carefully. “What kind of warning?”
“That the queen is coming to the Trade Light festival in a fortnight.”
It's a punch that drives the breath out of me. “She’s coming here?”
This can’t be coincidence.
She’s done waiting. She’s lost patience with the huntsmen and started searching for me herself. Beron has never taken this long to find his mark before. It must be driving Taynia insane. She won’t rest until she gets what she wants, which happens to be my head on a pike.
I drag the blanket to my chin. My pulse won’t slow. Ice glistens at my fingertips, my magic building with fear.
Lark props himself up on one elbow. “Val. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” I snap. Then soften. “It’s really… really not.”
“Hey.” He shifts closer. So calm. “You’re safe here.”
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me.”
I bite my lip.
I want to.Storms, I want to. I want to tell him everything. About me. About Lumi and her magic. About my stepmother.About Beron’s orders, and the danger I’ve dragged this family into.
But after what I’ve seen in the Wild territories—the desperation, the oppression, the shuttered businesses, and the hardships Lark and the kids face—how could I ever expect kindness from someone whose whole life has been shaped by the failings of my crown?
He’ll hate me.
And after this horrid, stressful day, I can’t stomach that. Anything but that.
But even if I can’t tell him the whole truth, maybe I can tell him some of it?
“I’m not… exactly who I said I was,” I whisper. Even this small confession feels like a noose tightening around my lungs.
He doesn’t press. Just listens.
“My family is, um, well-off. We’ve been to the capital.” My mouth is dry. “We stayed at the palace. I’ve met the queen. And her family.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. Sympathy? Understanding?
I push on. “Something happened, and I ran away.”
“From your family?”
I nod.
