I need to get out, I need—I need—
I tear a hand free, seize the first of his knives I find. It sings free of its sheath. Candlelight zips along the gold-plated blade as I snap it to his throat.
Emeric goes very still.
For a moment, the only sound is both of us struggling for breath.
“You almost got me,” I rasp, bitter as cyanide. I yank my other hand away, then shove myself off the altar as Emeric reels back. This is just one more narrow escape in the end, I reason, the cruelest trap I’ve evaded. And I speak that language perfectly. “You almost . . . No wonder I’m not part of the plan. The amnesty’s a—a fake. You were going to arrest me here. Today.”
Emeric takes another step away from me, hands half raised between us, like he can’t decide whether to keep me at a distance or show he’s unarmed. His lips part, still flushed. Something awful flickers in his eyes, almost like grief. His voice is so quiet I barely hear it. “I gave you my word.”
No—no, my fear is never wrong. It can’t be wrong.
Distantly I remember sitting together in the alcove the night of the ball, the strain in his voice when he said he can’t fake anything like this. He had no reason to lie then.
He has no reason to lie now.
I can’t be wrong about him. I can’t be.
Because if I am, I found someone I cared for, someone who knew my scars, someone who cared for a girl like me.
And when he bared his throat to me, I answered with a knife.
I made sure he will never trust me, never touch me again.
I can’t be wrong. My fear can’t be wrong.
Nothing stolen is ever mine. But there’s another truth on the other side of that coin: What is mine can always be stolen.
I will not be anyone’s servant, not even my own; I will always be a thief. I am never going to let myself be happy.
I’m always, always going to steal it from myself.
I press my fists over my eyes. Panic roars through me, and I cannot keep the tide at bay, I am falling through shame and horror, I’m a fool, I can’t do anything right, I will always be haunted by myself—
The golden knife clatters to the floor.
“This was a mistake,” I say brokenly. Then I shove past Emeric, seize my cloak, and do what I should have done in the first place: run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SweetDreams
The bedroom is empty and still when I stumble in, almost jarringly so. I’m trembling, cold and hot and furious and ruined, and the worst part is I know I have done this to myself. I am falling, falling, and the longer I plummet, the harder I know I will crash.
The tears are coming, I know they are. If I stop for even a moment it will all overthrow me. Instead I tell myself to go back to packing, to count the gold, to be ready to run—
A slip of paper crackles under my boot. I must have knocked it off the credenza. I pick it up and find a short message from Gisele:
The “baker” decided he doesn’t need to socialize this afternon, so I’m doing the same. Ragne and I will be keeping an eye on the children tonight to giveUmayya a break. Ragne may be back later, and I’ll see you tomorrow. G
P.S. If security’s a concern, I know someone who might be willing to spend the night again!
I didn’t realize until this moment that I wanted to talk to her. Or Ragne. Or Joniza. Even my mothers, just once. Someone.
Damneverything, I—I want to talk to Emeric.
But apparently I can’t without holding a knife to his throat.
