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I tugged the door handle, sighing in irritation when it didn’t budge. I yawned and sat on a stair, the tug of sleep still pulling at my eyelids. If I’d known the Whittings wouldn’t even be here yet, I could’ve slept a few minutes longer.
A few people trudged by on the street below, making their way to jobs their test scores had chosen for them. None of them looked up the stairs at me. In fact, none looked up at all.
“You’re actually here,” said Mrs. Whitting when she arrived.
Her round, smiling husband escorted her by the arm, though it looked more like she was the one tugging him up the steps.
“I must say, I would have greatly preferred to see you in a different dress,” she said. “That shade of gray is terribly unfashionable, even for a girl of your rank.”
I took note of her severely tight gray bun and the high-collared, long-sleeved, ankle-length dress that would do nicely as mourning garb and tried to envision it as fashionable. My imagination failed me.
“Well!” She clapped her hands with an enthusiasm that wiped away my smile. “Time to get to work!”
Being a volunteer didn’t seem to lighten the workload Mrs. Whitting demanded of me. She followed me every step of the way, hands on her hips, scrutinizing my work while I climbed rickety ladders to reach the dust on the highest shelves.
I watched the doors constantly for any sign of the heir’s arrival while I dusted shelf by shelf, book by book. As the morning went on with no sign of him, I was beginning to believe I’d made a huge mistake—no, I was one hundred percent sure.
Not only was the heir not making an appearance, but the library remained as quiet as it had been yesterday. I needed to get my hands on the day’s news, but when the delivery finally came, Mr. Whitting buried his nose in the paper, never giving me a moment to sneak a glimpse at the articles.
Finally, at noon, Mrs. Whitting beckoned me down from a ladder. “We’re going to lunch. You have one hour until you’re expected back.”
I showed her my cleaning bucket, hoping for at least a little praise or acknowledgment for my work. “Look at all this dust,” I said. “You could knit a blanket from it.”
“Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose and walked away. “I don’t knit.”
I sagged, setting the bucket on the floor. Clearly, she wasn’t the grateful type.
Her husband joined her at the end of the long aisle, keeping his newspaper clasped firmly in his hands as they exited the library together.
I glanced around to make sure I was alone in the aisle before sinking to the floor in exhaustion, my back aching. I was a grimy, sweaty mess, and if I had enough vanity, I would’ve walked out the doors and given up on trying to get to the heir today.
My stomach growled, reminding me I only had an hour to eat, but just before I stood up to leave, a familiar voice spoke on the opposite side of the bookshelf behind me.
“It’s not only that, Patrick. This feels bigger than Sir Pearce trying to maintain his position. I’m almost certain my mother is behind this.”
My breath caught. The heir had arrived.
“Do you think she’s the one who planted the questions?” Patrick replied.
“At least some of them, yes,” Graham said. “The question about studying here was the only one that didn’t seem intended to belittle and control me. And then, coincidentally enough, it was the only one excluded from the papers. Of course, the Academy has to edit and screen the news—it would be irresponsible not to—but doesn’t this seem a bit . . . suspicious?”
“More than a bit,” said Patrick. “But what I don’t understand is why you’re coming here to study now that the city won’t even hear about your promise. Do you really want to spend your days surrounded by the stench of commoners?”
“The city might not know, but the journalists do. And, in all honesty, I somewhat like the idea. My parents never mentioned the tradition, but sometimes I suspect there’s a lot they didn’t bother to tell me.”
“Perhaps your mother intends to keep you ignorant,” said Patrick. “That way, you might feel more inclined to delegate your rule to her, as she would obviously prefer.”
Graham let out a long sigh. “Maybe Ishoulddelegate to her. I’ve never felt like king material.”
“Don’t say that,” said Patrick. “Imperator Irvine made no mistakes when creating the inheritance order. Youaremeant to be king.”
There was a long pause before Graham responded softly. “My brother was meant to be king.”
I held my breath, hoping he’d say more. How his older brother died was one of Cambria’s best kept secrets.
“Well . . . circumstances being what they are, it’s your turn,” said Patrick. “The people are depending on you.”
“I suppose, but sometimes it feels as if they really don’t like me.”
