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“Do you think I would be stupid enough to remain unprotected around you?” he asks.
“They’re gages?” I say, and Cormac nods. “So much for trust.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Adelice. This is not a relationship based on trust. It never will be,” he says. “More gloves await you at the Coventry. You will always wear them in my presence until a more permanent arrangement can be reached.”
A tremble races through me at his threat. “And if I don’t?”
“I’m protected. Remember that,” he warns me.
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“What is your plan? Are you going to kill me? Take my face? Alter my memory?” he asks with a laugh, stumbling back toward the mantel.
So he’s known all along that I planned to alter him. I showed my hand when I attacked Kincaid, and Cormac was smart enough to protect himself even after our arrangement. “You still want to continue this charade?”
“You cannot possibly understand how far I would go for Arras.” Squatting down, he reaches past the grate and places his hand in the fire, withdrawing a remnant of wood as I stare, unable to move.
He stands to face me, crushing the smoldering wood between his hands. It turns to ash, blackening his burned palms. He’s beyond anything mortal, like pain. He’s evolved past it.
Instead of staying pressed to the wall, I saunter toward him and jab a finger at his chest. “There will come a day, Cormac, when no amount of technology will save you, and not only will I be there, I’ll feel your life in my hands.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Cormac growls, but he doesn’t touch me again. Instead, he calls for his valet to bring him renewal patches. Security arrives shortly after to escort me to the rebound station. Before I leave, Cormac looks up from his wounds and smiles at me.
“Good night, Adelice. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The farewell is almost sweet, so I nod, confusion churning inside me. As I climb the stairs, trailed by a guard, the emotion inside me shifts to fear.
If I was truly the Whorl, I could hold things together. Instead, everything is unraveling. Even Cormac.
SIXTEEN
AMIE MILLS ABOUT MY QUARTERS WHILE SERVANTS bustle in and out, packing my trunks in preparation for the wedding, which will take place in the Northern Sector. She does a good job of looking excited, but the joy doesn’t reach her eyes. Immediately after I returned from the engagement gala, Cormac sent her a telebound with the news that she wouldn’t be coming to the wedding, leaving me to deal with her disappointment for the past two days. His message explained she was too young to attend a political function.
For once, he’s calling something as it is. Our engagement is politics, after all.
“You aren’t missing anything,” I tell her. “A bunch of snooty ministers and their wives, each vying to be the biggest suck-up.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, but her words are punctuated with sighs. “I can watch on the St
ream. You’ll be on the purple carpet. Cormac promised the whole event will be filmed.”
Admiration colors her words and I cringe. I’m no longer the girl who watched the purple carpet with glee in her living room. Now I know about balancing on heels and fending off drunk ministers with grabby hands. But one look at Amie’s face, and I suddenly wish I could enjoy it. I pretend to be giddy—if only to cheer her up for a moment.
“What if I trip?” I ask, dropping onto my bed and widening my eyes for effect.
“You should practice.” Amie plucks a pair of heels from a loaded rack and tosses them next to me. “Show me how it’s done.”
I slip them onto my feet, left foot first. I watch for some sign that Amie has noticed this old ritual of our mother and grandmothers, but there’s no recognition on her face.
“Gloves?” She holds up a pair of petite white gloves.
“They’re back in fashion,” I say in a tight voice.
“I’ll have to get some,” she says as she lays them back on my bed.
I bite my lip so hard I taste iron on my tongue. Cormac’s orders were clear. As soon as I leave the walls of the Coventry, I am to wear them. There’s been no more mention of the permanent solution that will forever cripple my abilities, and for now I can only hope the gloves will pacify him. Either way, after I leave here, I will never touch again. Not really. He’ll rob me of my strongest sense—with a pair of gloves or an alteration. All I will have is the memory of the weave tingling across my fingertips and of the hot pressure of Erik’s fingers threaded through mine.
“Will you return here?” she asks, drawing me back to this moment.
