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It’s not that my room is unpleasant. The furnishings are quite lovely, featuring a peacock theme reflected in the patterns of the upholstered chairs, the colors of the bedding, and the mirror at the dressing table, whose frame features two golden peacocks lifting their wings to encircle the oval glass.
Despite the lateness of the hour, as proclaimed by the ornate porcelain clock on the dresser (also shaped like a peacock), I haven’t been able to persuade myself to turn the lamp all the way down, nor have I been able to sleep, even though I’ve been lying in bed for what feels like ages. My mind keeps circling the problem at hand.
The king wants wives with magic. I have no magic. Whether I have magic or not, my fate is now sealed—I’ll live out my days as a prisoner in this house, unless I can manage to escape. But judging by all the guards, the walls, and the locks, escaping would be a monumental task. There’s one window in my room, and it’s bolted shut. Even if I was desperate enough to smash through it, I’m not sure I could—the glass is unusually thick and the wooden frame looks equally solid. Beyond the window is a three-story drop to the ground, which is patrolled by more soldiers, and then there’s the wall and the gate, with more guards on duty. Beyond that lies the outer wall of the palace compound—another obstacle, with more guards.
Which means that I’ve reverted to my original plan—waiting it out, keeping my head down, and hoping that a path of escape will present itself.
But my brain still won’t shut up. It continues to churn through the options, the possible scenarios, the risks and the benefits.
I yank the pillow from under my head, press it over my face, and groan aloud into its feather-stuffed depths.
“Why did this happen?” I whisper against the pillowcase. “Why, why? Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I deny it? Why didn’t I tell them right away that I couldn’t do magic? Why did everyone stand there? Why did Prain do this to me?”
I haven’t cried since we arrived, but as I murmur my brother’s name, I picture his face, frantic and earnest as he voiced that great lie.
Tears well up, squeeze from the corners of my eyes, and slide over my temples into my hair.
Why? Why me?
Why would he do this to me, his family, his blood?
It’s not fair. I’ve worked so hard. I wanted to do so many things. And to be traded like this—to be treated like cattle—why do we live in a kingdom where the King is allowed such liberties? I’ve heard of countries where the monarchs are checked and balanced by a council, a board of overseers, a group of lords, or even a collective of elected officials, including regular citizens with no titles or wealth. But here, in this land, the King’s word is absolute. The lords who own the largest tracts of land have some influence with him, but even they seem cowed by his personality and his power. The military is firmly behind him. They like his penchant for conquest, and they admire his strength as a warrior, while the lords revere his charisma as a politician. At least, so I’ve heard through tavern-talk and market chatter. The King seems unassailable. Irresistible. Even if I did get out of the palace, I’d have to make it out of the city without being caught. And I couldn’t go home. They’d look for me there.
Prain wrecked my life with that single careless speech, and as much as I wanted to save him, I’m beginning to feel a choking, desperate, ferocious rage toward him. The rage forces more tears from my eyes until I let myself sob quietly, angrily.
My bed frame creaks, and the mattress dips at the end, near my feet, as if a weight has settled there. I shove the pillow aside and startle upright.
There’s a man sitting at the end of my bed. He’s dressed in the livery of a servant—a yellow shirt, a leather vest, dark pants with decorative X-stitching up the sides. He has blue eyes, dark brown hair, and a neat beard, closely trimmed. High cheekbones pair with straight, thick brows, giving him a striking look that could be a scowl if the corner of his mouth wasn’t tilted in a wry smile.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Cry all you like.”
I scoot farther away from him, conscious that I’m only wearing the plush robe they gave me after the bath. It’s the sole piece of clothing in this room, so I decided to wear it rather than going naked. But robes have a tendency to loosen in bed, and this one is currently giving the stranger a generous view of my cleavage. I pull it together. “Get out, pervert, before I yell for the guards.”
“What are you afraid I’ll do to you?” He pats his crotch. “We’re all eunuchs here, remember?”
His voice sounds vaguely familiar, as if I’ve heard it somewhere before, but I can’t place it.
“Eunuch or not, I don’t want you in my room,” I tell him.
“I’ll leave,” he says. “But first, tell me why you’re crying.”
Maybe this servant is truly concerned or sympathetic, and he just has a strange way of showing it. Or maybe I’m doing that thing again—believing the best of people, even when their intentions are obviously bad.
Still, he’s the first member of the House staff who has shown any interest in how I’m feeling. It couldn’t hurt to have an ally here.
“I’m crying because I’ve been taken from my family and locked in this room until it’s my turn to bed the King,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “That’s not all of it.” He inhales through his nose, like he’s sniffing the air to catch a scent. “You’re not just sad and scared. You’re angry.”
I gnaw my lip and look away.
“Tell me,” he says. “Maybe I can help.”
“If I tell you, I’ll be punished.”
“Punished? Have you been a very bad girl?” His tone deepens with sensual suggestion.
I whip back around to glare at him. “I’m not joking. If the King hears of this, I could be killed. At the very least my brother will be hunted and possibly hanged.”
