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Chapter Forty
Aika
My mind reels the entire carriage ride home, too many thoughts and emotions swirling around to make sense of.
Remy, who carried me from the scene of my breakdown and shielded me from myself with his arms.
The prince.
A liar.
And what does that mean for last year? All the times he had accused me of being the reason we didn’t work out, but he was never in a position to have any kind of a relationship.
Why does that feel like the worst part?
Hadn’t I known all along it wasn’t real? At least now, I know we were on the same page.
I don’t want to think about that anymore, so my mind moves on to my conversation with Einar, which feels stranger by the minute.
He’s hiding something, but why lie about what he did with her body? To spare my feelings? Possibly. He is unexpectedly... decent, all things considered.
Did she come to see that, too? Did she see it right away? Was her marriage to him some unexpected fairy tale, or is he playing me?
Maybe he isn’t lying at all, and I’m only seeing what I want to see. That thought gives me pause. Do I want to see deceit everywhere? Or am I just better at spotting lies because I am a liar?
I used to believe I was good at judging these things, but Remy has proven me entirely wrong about that.
Remy is Francis...
I ask the driver to take the long way back, but by the time I reach the estate, I still haven’t managed to formulate any kind of solid reasoning to stave off Mother’s wrath.
One of the servants tells me she’s in her room.
It’s tempting, so tempting to trudge back to my own chambers, but I know she will hear about what happened tonight and it will look like I have something to hide. So I steel my nerves and school my features into something a little more neutral before heading down the hall.
I remove the dragon mask, looping the sash around my hand while my other fist knocks lightly on her door. For all that I was complaining about the weight of the mask earlier, I miss the shield it offers.
“Enter.” Her cold voice floats through the wood, and I reluctantly push the door open.
She’s on the balcony, looking out at the waves crashing against the cliffs with an inscrutable expression.
“You’re home early.” She doesn’t turn to face me.
Her tone is a lethal calm, like the beat of silence before a storm descends.
“I had already danced with Prince Francis twice, so I thought it was better to leave with an air of mystery.” It’s the best I can come up with, and the hard line of her mouth tells me it isn’t good enough.
“You thought that with three nights to secure the prince’s hand and make it appear as though it wasn’t fabricated, your best option was to leave less than two hours into the first one?”
It was more like one and a half, but now hardly seems the time to point that out.
“As I said, we had already danced together twice. Between that and the outfit, I left a strong impression.”
“I see.” She’s still staring out at the sea, her voice even colder than the frigid, churning waters will ever be. “And you danced with no one else?”
“No.” I regret the lie as soon as it pops out of my mouth, but I can’t quite bring myself to tell her the truth, to be put in the position of telling her what Einar and I talked about.
She rotates slowly to look at me, her expression paralyzing in its eerie emptiness.
