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But at this hour, I can’t even bother to be nervous. “I’m up!” I shout, not that they can hear me through the soundproofing enchantments. I pad down into the divining room with a candle. “The sun isn’t up yet, but by the Fates, you made sure I’m up.”
I yank open the door.
Cyrus is standing alone in the antechamber, eyes bloodshot.
He’s still in the same clothes from the ball, his shirt untucked and collars askew, a far cry from the pristinely white-suited beast. He sways on his feet, smelling sweetly of wine and rain. In his hand is…my shoe.“Forgot this?”
Gaping, I take it from him. “Did you get in a bar fight with a troll?” is all I manage to say.
He pinches his nose, drawing out a long sigh. “Tell me the truth, Violet. Who was she? The girl who ran off?”
Her face winks into mind—her surprise and fear in that glow of five fairies. Surely Cyrus wasn’t up all night looking for her. “I…barely caught a silhouette. Do you know what hour it is?”
“I’m tired.”
“Because you haven’t slept, probably. Princey, I don’t think it’s evendawnyet.”
“I’m tired,” he says again, “of everyone lying to me and thinking they can get away with it.”
“Aren’t you a cheerful drunk?”
“I know the girl is a setup.”
Whatever words meant to leave my throat next come out as a cough. Cyrus looks up with a satisfied grimace as he clutches a fistful of his hair, flicking rainwater and the gold dust of his makeup. He’s figured it all out and he looks like he wished he hadn’t.
“So, can I come in?”
When I don’t answer, he pushes past me into the diviningroom.
“Every lord I met between the Sun Capital and Verdant had a scheme up their sleeve. It doesn’t surprise me to find out my father apparently hatched a plan, too,” Cyrus says as I shut the door behind me. “I know you think I’m some honorable half-wit, and I appreciate that very much. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I like it when my enemies underestimate me.”
Tread carefully. “I’m your enemy?”
“We’ll see.” He’s jittery. Pacing. “Just now, Dante tracked down that girl who ran off and told me he knows who she is. Raya Solquezil. Raya of Lunesse, the Head of the largest region in Balica. The one with the most Fairywood jurisdiction, most clout. What a coincidence that she’s my true love as well.”
I set the candle down. I’ve built up enough goodwill with our current king; better to mend the trust of the future king. “Your father arranged it. I only knew what she was going to wear. That’s it. I didn’t know she was Raya. I barely know who that is.” The Republic of Balica doesn’t have a single monarch, but one leader for each of its four states: Lunesse, Gramina, Hypsi, and Solrook. I’ve only heard Raya’s name in passing, spoken in terms of an ally to flatter.
“Father was desperate to see me married and useful. I was willing to give him and you the benefit of the doubt, but this match is clearly meant to turn our neighbors into our subjects.”
Why does it come as such a surprise for Cyrus? Without the dangling threat of prophecy, kings never marry for love; they marry to make useful alliances and useful babies. “If you haven’t found your true love by now, you can’t thinkpeople would be fine if you just kept waiting. And I did dream that rhyme….” How did it go? “What if this girl really is your true—”
“She’s not.” A sour cheer paints him as Cyrus swings around to face me. He draws a breath too quickly and I realize I’m standing in my shift. Flushing, I tighten the grip on my robe, refolding the starless silk around myself. He averts his eyes to the offering fountain, to the curtains, to the bare shelves—anywhere else.
My heart thuds a warning. Blood rings in my ears. “What are you doing here, Cyrus?”
“I needed answers. But for someone who claims she knows everything, you don’t know much.” Sobriety seems to have returned to him. His steps are sharp as he moves toward the door, but I block him.
“You burst into my tower at sunup, making it seem likeI’mthe one playing tricks, when you already figured out it’s your father—”
“This is not about you,” he says, clipped.
“It always comes back to me!” I jab a finger in his chest. “Whatever you’re paranoid over, you’ll blame me. It’s always me, because everyone else thinks you’re pristine and tragic, but I know better.” Words loosen from my tongue faster than I can parse them; they’d always been there in the back of my mind, waiting to corner him. “As much as you loathe it, I’m the only one you don’t have to pretend with, so here you are. I see the way you look at me.” Those green eyes of his darken into twin chasms. “You don’t hate me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying your hardest not to want me—”
Cyrus’s mouth is on mine.
We slam back against the door, his knees against my thighs, the pommel of his sword digging into my hip. He’s bruising.Smothering.
A surrender and an ambush—the truest thing he’s ever done.
