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Still, my feet won’t move. I think of Wes standing in the workshop, declaring that he wasn’t a smuggler, that he wasn’t doing this to line his own pockets.
I’m not a killer.
The instant I have the thought, I can breathe again. My parents risked their lives to save others—and so do I.
I’m not a killer. I heal people; I don’t harm them.
A door a short distance away opens, and a man steps through. He looks to be in his early twenties, with vibrant red hair, a scruff of beard growth on his jaw, and a half-buttoned green brocade jacket. He’s carrying several books and papers, and he’s reading one of them as he steps through the door.
For half an instant, I think he’ll turn the other way without seeing me, that somehow my bizarre luck will continue. But his eyes lift, and he startles so hard that a few papers drift from the stack.
I take a step back and put up a hand. “I—I’m sorry—I—”
“Guards!” His expression has quickly shifted from surprise to alarm. He drops his books and throws open the door he just came through, but he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Guards! Secure the king! Secure the prince—”
“No!” I cry. “No—you don’t—this was—this was a mistake . . .”
Run, Tessa. Weston’s voice is like a whisper in my ears.
I dig my feet into the velvet carpeting and run. The stairs are behind me, but they only lead to a padlock, so I run directly at the red-haired man. He tries to grab me, but I throw a punch right at the base of his rib cage, and his grip slackens.
I’m loose and I’m running, and I’m about to burst through the first door I see. I thought my heart was pounding before, but now it’s sprinting in my chest, pulling me forward.
Two other doors open, and guards appear in front of me, weapons drawn.
Itstartles a short scream out of me. My feet skid on velvet. There are too many of them. I don’t even have time to fall on the carpet before two of them have a hold on my arms, and they’re dragging me upright.
They’re going to kill me. They’ll do it right here. Daggers will be plunged into my ears or they’ll cut off my head or they’ll burn me in pieces while I watch. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve seen what happens to traitors and smugglers. My breathing is a panicked rush that won’t let me speak. My vision goes spotty for a long moment, and I think I’m going to pass out. In a way, it’s a relief. I don’t want to be conscious. I don’t want any of this to happen. But my body still has needs, and the only thing keeping me from wetting myself is the idea that I want to die with some shred of dignity. The stars in my vision clear.
The man with red hair steps in front of me, but he’s looking at the guards. “Search the palace. She can’t be working alone. Is the king secure?”
The one pinning my right arm nods. “Yes, Master Quint.”
“I’m alone,” I gasp, and my voice is nearly a keening wail. “I’m alone. Please. Please. Please. This was a mistake.”
“It’ll do you little good to beg from me.” He’s not even looking at me. “Search her things. Take her to the throne room. I’ll speak to Prince Corrick.”
Prince Corrick. My muscles go slack. Fear wins, leaving no room for humiliation.
Master Quint glances down, sees that I’ve soiled the velvet carpeting, and sighs. “I’ll also send someone to clean that up.”
My underthings are wet and I can smell urine, but the guards have chained me tightly and left me lying facedown on the cold stone floor of what must be the throne room. I expected to be beaten and broken by now, but while they haven’t been gentle, the guards have been practical and efficient, chaining my wrists behind my back with practiced ease and then lowering me to the ground to wait.
My breath shakes and shudders against the stone floor, but the guards say nothing and do nothing. This uncertain waiting is the worst torture.
No, surely the worst torture is yet to come.
I was so foolish. Wes would never let me hear the end of this. Maybe I’ll find him in the afterlife, and he’ll roll his eyes at me and say, “Lord, Tessa. You really did need me around, didn’t you?”
Fresh tears squeeze free of my eyes.
I hear light footsteps approach, and I try to curl in on myself. I don’t want to be afraid. I want to rage and fight, but I’m pinned in place, and there’s nowhere to go. My eyes clench closed. “No,” I say, and my voice sounds broken and raw. “Please. No.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, girl.” It’s a woman’s voice, her tone landing somewhere between frustrated and disappointed. When her footsteps come closer, I peek up, and I find myself looking at a stunning brown-skinned woman in a floor-length emerald-green gown. “I can’t speak for anyone else in the palace, however.”
“This was a mistake,” I say to her. “I didn’t—I don’t know what I was doing.”
“It’s difficult to mistakenly find yourself in the middle of the palace at midnight,” says a harsh male voice, and I clench my eyes closed again. The words are so cold and edged that a chill grabs hold of my spine.
