Page 169 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

What?

A glance out the window confirms the sun has risen above the frame, sitting high in the sky.

“Lord Rian insisted I let you rest,” Thea says, drawing my attention back to her.

I fight to keep my foolish heart from racing. “Did he?”

“He claimed you were fatigued from the festivities.” Her eyes track the tear stains marring my cheeks. “Are you sure everything is all right?”

No.

“Yes, Thea. I’m fine.” My hands press into the mattress.

I have to be fine.

She watches me for one more lingering second before clearing her throat. “Very good. We must get you dressed. Luncheon begins in an hour.”

She glides to the closet and returns with a pretty green gown embroidered with delicate pink flowers along the skirt—soft, charming, and utterly wrong for how I feel inside.

Thea spends the next twenty minutes dressing me for the day, arranging my hair, and applying modest makeup. Her fingertips are gentle, her movements practiced. She converses with me despite the fact that I barely say anything in return.

At last, Thea caps the last vial with a soft click and lines the makeup neatly beside the others.

“I’ll return later this afternoon,” she says lightly, “to prepare you for the final betrothal contest this evening.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror and nod. “Of course.”

With a departing, wary smile, she turns for the door.

The latch clicks shut, and my smile collapses.

The thought of joining the others at the luncheon makes my stomach curdle. I could hide out in this room, but if I stay still, my depressing thoughts will swallow me whole.

No. I need to move. I need fresh air. I need space to think.

That’s how I find myself strolling through the palace halls, passing Virendrellians on their way to the start of the day’s events, ignoring their probing stares and loaded whispers.

I blow out a heavy breath and pray to Olyra that the seas are calm—that the men Augustus sent to investigate our damaged ship return soon.

I’m eager to leave this island. To escape this scrutiny.

My sandals slap against the stone stairs as I descend to the bottom floor. Conversation and laughter spill from the dining hall to my left.

I turn the other way. My feet carry me to the library.

The scent of parchment, ink, and dust fills my nostrils the moment I enter. It’s blissfully quiet. I don’t see a single soul.

Tension flows out of my shoulders, and a sigh slips out.

I wander the stacks, my fingers gliding over spines, smearing dust that coats the rarely touched volumes. I rub my thumb against my fingertips, savoring the grit—proof that the mayor’s pristine palace isn’t, in fact, perfect.

Nothing is.

Time slips by. The tight coil of anxiety in my chest loosens, easing into something like contentment. It’s temporary, but I cling to it anyway.

I reach the same shelves Anders had guided me to—the place where I learned the truth about Queen Calla. About myself.

My fingers pause, tracing one title, then another. Volume after volume. Thin and thick. Smooth and rough. Knowledge of the world sits in front of me. Everything I wish to know about the past, my homeland, is within reach. Even if it’s written in the Fae tongue, I can read it thanks to Jaxon.