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My wardrobe is just off the bathroom, separated by frosted glass doors. When they open, it triggers the lighting that illuminates every shelf, every rack, every bar bearing the mountains of clothes I’ve purchased with Nathan’s money, in addition to what I brought with me from my parents’ house.
The first time I brought her in here, Hannah almost had an asthma attack. Now, though, she’s comfortable pawing through everything, which she does with ruthless efficiency as I sit on one of the square white leather cubes near my shoe rack. It’s amazing how easily tired one can get when they’re trying to recuperate from a traumatic amputation.
“It has to be something I can fit my bandages through,” I remind Hannah as she pulls out a narrow-sleeved blazer. “We might have to get a little formal.”
“What’s this for, anyway?” she asks. “It might be easier to narrow down what not to wear.”
“We’re sentencing Ashton today.”
Hannah stops flicking hangers across the bar. She turns slowly. “What are you sentencing him to?”
I shrug. “Death, probably. I hope.”
At least, that’s what I asked Nathan to do. He wasn’t fully committed to that when we spoke about it last night.
“And… you’re okay with that?” she asks cautiously.
I narrow my eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?”
She puts up her hands, defensive. “I’m not inserting myself into this or arguing either way. I just want to know what kind of support you’ll need from me, if we have to watch one of our childhood acquaintances get executed.”
“I’ll need help opening the champagne,” I quip.
“Bailey, be serious,” Hannah urges. “This isn’t something you would ever take lightly. I know you hate him, but this is life and death.”
“I know.” I rub my forehead, trying to ease the sudden tension there. “But I have much different views of life and death these days. I have no problem with someone else going to their death because they tried to steal my mate’s life.”
“Fair,” Hannah agrees. Even though she and Ryan aren’t remotely interested in each other beyond a platonic level, I know it would devastate her to lose him.
I get to my feet. “There must be something in my ceremonial clothes that will work.”
Hannah beats me to that bar of gowns. “What about this funerary garb? They sent it over in case—”
I hold up my hand. “I know what they sent it in case of.”
The gown is similar to my coronation gown, a Tudor-inspired style in black brocade, but without the train. The sleeves lace to the bodice separately, so I’ll be able to put them on without tugging on my bandages too much. Tiny white pearls accentuate the flowers embroidered on the fabric; Aconitum flowers, or Wolf’s Bane.
“How many people are we expecting?” I ask.
“His Majesty didn’t say. But judging from the number of thralls and vans dispatched after lunch, I would say a decent number.” Hannah pulls the hanger off the rack. “We don’t have a lot of time. Are we really going this Anne Boleyn route?”
“I don’t see why not,” I say. “Heads are going to roll.”
With a final check to make sure my stump is hidden by the bell of my sleeve, I step through the door behind the dais, followed by Xiao and Hannah. Nathan is already there, speaking to two of the men from Greater London that had been in attendance at the coronation riot.
One of them has an eyepatch that I’m pretty sure I would have noticed before, and I get a little sick to my stomach. All morning, I’ve thought about the revenge I want against Ashton for almost taking my mate’s life. Now, I’m face with graphic proof that Nathan and I aren’t the only ones who were impacted that day.
I knew that, of course. My nightmares often feature the shocked face of the dying acolyte as she lay at my feet. Ashton isn’t the only person who participated in the riot. He’s not the only person who hurt someone. He’s just the one who got closest to the crown.
Nathan turns when I enter. It’s unnerving, the way we can feel each other. He takes in my gown and looks down at his own outfit. He’s dressed in all black, as well, black shirt, black trousers, black jacket and tie. It matches the black beard he’s grown out to try to cover his scar. He can’t totally disguise it, though; the angry red line slices from just beneath his eye down to his jaw.
“You’re still leaning toward execution, then?” I whisper when he gets close enough to hear.
“You clearly are,” he shoots back, gesturing to my dress. “Was that for any particular special occasion.”
“They worked fast when they thought you would die,” I joke.
My sense of humor has gotten grim.
“Let’s take our places, shall we?” he offers me his hand, and I make a point to walk to his right side. It’s kind of cute that he blushes when he says, “I forgot. I’m so sorry.”
