Page 27 of Heartbreak Prince

6

The prince had all the tools he would need to pull off something like this.

First of all, he’s an accomplished artificient. And three of the glyphs on his nails are unfamiliar to me. I’m not an expert on the glyph compendium, but I did study hundreds of glyphs when I was choosing mine. I suspect he invented the three I couldn’t place, which means he’s not just an expert—he’s a master.

As a prince, Vawn could have amassed the forces, the allies, and the funds necessary for a dramatic political move. He had knowledge of his relatives’ schedules; he knew when they would be most vulnerable. And he placed himself outside the palace grounds on the night of the assassinations.

Maybe he even arranged for the death of his former bodyguard so a new, untried one would be present instead—someone who didn’t know him well, who wouldn’t ask questions if he behaved out of character or did anything unusual. Someone like me.

Our flight from the Lyre & Vice seemed too easy. Maybe it was. Maybe the attackers feigned the assassination attempt while under orders to let him escape.

So why is he running away with me? Why not return immediately to the palace and complete his takeover of the kingdom?

Unless he’s got a plan for that, too. If he returns too quickly and takes the crown, it might be obvious that he orchestrated everything.

That’s why no one has claimed responsibility and announced their rulership over Belavrin. Vawn is having his soldiers maintain a holding pattern. They’ll wait a few days, maybe even a week, during which he can produce some trumped-up allies to help him take back his family’s kingdom. Then he’ll return as the surviving heir, defeat the “enemy,” and claim the throne.

He’s the villain.

He destroyed his entire bloodline. And I’ve been playing the fool, thinking I was protecting him. He must be laughing at me deep in that black heart of his.

Vawn taps his foot, arms crossed. “Are you going to unlock the room?”

“I am,” I say crisply. “But neither of us is touching the bed until we’ve bathed.”

“My disguise will wash off,” he reminds me, touching his filthy locks.

“You can wrap your head and face with an extra towel.” I shove the door wide, surveying a plain room with dingy plaster walls and a dusty wooden floor. There’s a bed, barely wide enough for two. On the washstand sits a lamp, a chipped pitcher, and a bowl scarcely large enough to dip one’s fingers. The decorations on the wall consist of a spotted mirror and a cross-stitch of several lumpy-looking blackberries with splotchy leaves.

I lift the blanket, peeking at the sheets. “Bedding looks clean enough. No bugs that I can see.”

“Are you satisfied, then? Ready to bathe?”

I want to confront him now, but talking about sensitive things in this house, where the walls are thin, would be ill-advised. Best to wait until we get to the baths.

“You should leave your belts here,” Vawn suggests. “No use taking weapons to the bath. What is in all those compartments, anyway?”

My brain rattles off the list: nail repair kit, cotton twists for my cycle, our money, mild herbs to chew for headache pain, emergency antidote tabs in case of exposure to toxins, teeth cleansing pellets, and a tiny vial of perfume. “None of your business. And I’ll be bringing everything with me. You think I’m going to leave our possessions here to be stolen? And what if we’re attacked in the bath-house?”

“The lady said it would be empty.”

“Don’t believe everything people say.” I push past him into the hallway.

He shuts the door to our room and follows me down the back stairs, out into the yard behind the inn. I scan the grass-tufted dirt, the garden, and the sheds nearby.

A small girl in a tattered gray apron watches us curiously while tossing handfuls of feed to the chickens clucking in their pen. “Are you looking for the baths?” she asks.

“Yes, please. Which building is it?”

“Not a building.” She points to a low hill past the garden. There’s a stone archway that seems to lead into the hill itself. The sign at the bar did say Historic Subterranean Mineral Baths, so it makes sense that they would be underground. My mind conjures images of steaming, blue-green pools lit by golden lamps, surrounded by smooth gray rock.

I really hope that’s what we’re getting.

“Thank you,” I tell the girl.

As we start toward the arch, she adds, “You’re lucky. There’s no ghosts today.”

The prince turns slowly on his heel. “Sorry… ghosts?”