My mind is a mess of chaotic thoughts.
Innate magic, rebellion, shifting into mythical creatures?
Hennesey said the Conclave had fallen, and something about nooses around their necks.
Does this mean my father could be dead?
And even better, maybe Thomas Crankshawe is dead too!
Please Gods, let the revolution have burned Cranskawe, his revolting mustache, and lecherous leering face to ashes. And his fucking creepy-ass French son.
But part of me is terrified. I’m not so innocent that I don’t know the Drakeward name has given me a modicum of safety here. Would Taliesin have fought for me if I was just Aurora Smith?
Nope.
The warden will know about the fate of my father, but there’s no way I’ll ask him for information. I’m pretty fucking sure he’d want something in return.
Ugh.
“Move it, Princess,” Taliesin grunts, snapping me out of my spiral. We’re at the entrance of the chow-hall for lunch. I move up a step, toward the scent of boiled cabbage, old fish and the sweat of hundreds of people.
The canteen is a cavernous, low-ceilinged room that vibrates with the low roar of unhappy voices.
The Diggers are packed onto dented metal benches like sardines, while the Guild occupies a section near the far wall with cleaner tables and better lighting. They even have different trays—actual food instead of the gray sludge being slopped into my plastic bowl.
“Eyes on your tray,” Taliesin warns as we shuffle through the line.
I take my seat, staring at the mush. Back home, my mother’s maid, Marta, had me stand on the scales every Saturday. My father would study the numbers, his lip curling at the slightest gain.
"A Drakeward woman is like a diamond, Aurora—flawless. It is my job to help you attain that perfect form."
I guess after I drove a blade into old Thomas’s fat gut, Father realized I’d never be his perfect diamond. But you know what? I’d rather eat this gray shit than another one of those miserable egg-white omelets.
We sit at a table surrounded by Taliesin’s inner circle. Including the boy from education class—Imran.
Fuck.
That poor kid must be my age, but his eyes are sunken so deep into purple shadows they look like inverse plums penetrating his skull. He’s staring at the bowl of sludge with a look of profound nausea.
“Eat, Imran,” Clay mutters, pushing his own piece of bread toward the boy. “You need the calories.”
“Tastes like shit.” The boy coughs, then starts trying to clear his throat.
Again, and again, and again.
Clay starts gently thumping his back, another dude shoves a plastic beaker of water in his direction.
Cough, cough, cough.
Layla runs across the room, pulling the boy up and into her arms. Her fists are in the middle of his belly and the next second she pulls inward.
Heimlich, right?
A wad of something bloody flies out of his mouth, and he sucks in amuchneeded breath, thank fuck. Layla sinks to the floor, Imran still in her arms.
Looking around, I don’t see any medics.
What the fuck? The guards are watching, not responding at all. In fact they look totally bored. “HELP HIM!” I shriek.
