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“The first defiance is the hardest.”
I nod. “I owe Emilius too much. He saw potential in me and taught me how to be shrewd in court. I suppose he’s like what a parent would be—”
“It’s easy,” Dante interrupts, as gently as one can, “to confuse fear for respect.”
I glance down, studying the bloom of red in the palm of my hand. I want to protest, sayI’m not afraid,so confidently like I’d told Cyrus, but a cold feeling spreads through my gut, and it’s all I can focus on. Dante sees the parts of me I don’t recognize for my own sake, the worry and joy I shrug away, and he’s known me long enough to be dangerous.
As much as Cyrus and I fight, a secret part of me looks forward to the prince’s ascension as a fresh start. Or I felt that way before the ball happened, anyway.
“It’s late. I should go,” Dante says, gratefully breaking the silence. He gets to his feet, leaving my side empty. I hear him slide his coat on and his footsteps move toward the door. “Should we do anything about that new voice in your head?”
“I’ll find out who they are if they come back.” I whirl around to watch him leave. “We were only talking…. I don’t think they can hurt me.”
“Well, if anything changes…” He gestures vaguely at his weary self. “You should also visit a healer tomorrow to get your dressings changed—or I can stop by.”
“You’re busy enough. Just get some sleep.”
He smiles crookedly. The door shuts behind him, and I’m alone again.
After a few minutes, when I’m certain Dante’s gone, I take the remaining bandages and go outside the tower.
The lights of the Sun Capital twinkle below as I remember it. Tiled roofs cover the hillside like the scales of a sleeping dragon. For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve kept my roots shallow, but it’s home nonetheless. I know the servants and the quiet corners of the garden. I walk through the palace with my fingers drifting along the priceless art as if it were mine. I never thought that I might have to leave.
On the streets, getting too comfortable is begging for a knife in the gut. Up here, secrets cut just as deep.
I have so many secrets.
Halfway down the tower’s outer set of stairs, I see a dark stain on the vines. In the same spot, there’s fresh sap welling from something that’s been broken off. I go all the way down to the bottom of the tower and circle around the base until I find it, nestled in a clump of grassy weeds: a shining, red-tipped thorn.
Wrapping it in a bandage, I tuck it into my sleeve.
Whatever Dante is doing to uncover Raya’s true intentions, he isn’t doing it fast enough, and he certainly hasn’t encouraged a healthy sense of self-preservation in the prince.
Cyrus and Raya begin going out on romantic dates, pretending they’re in love. They shop for wedding jewelry. They share chaste kisses. They “flee” their guards to row a boat privately on the lake, all in view of Sun Capital denizens spying on them. A play in a theater couldn’t be more staged. All that’s missing is a string quartet hidden in the bushes.
I’m not jealous.
Fine, I’m a little jealous.
All the tales ever told speak of beautiful boys and girls falling in love simply because they’re beautiful. But even the most beautiful witch is strange and wicked. Unhappy ever after, heart unmended, wishes unheeded, and alone, always alone.
Cyrus will get showered with rose petals on his weddingday.
I get thorns.
The thorn borne from my blood is hidden in a locked box in the back of a cabinet. I try to forget about it until one patron, a pock-cheeked farmhand, tells me, “Sighted Mistress, I am not sure if you have seen, but there is rot on your tower.”
I follow him to check, pretending I have no idea what he means. The black scar of rotted growth is not only lingering where the thorn had broken off—it’s spread.
Thanking the farmhand profusely, I send him on his way. Then I go back inside to retrieve a sharp knife to dig at the blackened parts. With my hand injured and little room to maneuver on the steps, it’s tough work.
I can’t tell anyone about this. The palace couldn’t know about the thorn, couldn’t know the reason this rot is here, but I’m paranoid just the same. Everyone’s looking for more signs of Felicita’s prophecy.
All the tale needs is the villain, and the line between revered and reviled is as thin as an accusation.
I don’t plan on using the thorn. I don’t trust that voice, and even if I did…Maybe to whoever is watching over me, killing Cyrus to save myself is an easy decision, but I’m no villain—just an opportunist, like everyone else.
Besides, what I really want is to look Cyrus in the eye when I best him. To strip away every trick and cunning smile of his until people see what I see.
