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Maybe it’s the look I saw on her face—disappointment, love, resignation, courage…
She yielded without a fight. She could have protested, could have saved herself… but for the love of her brother, she didn’t.
The wagon and the riders picked up their pace once they left the town walls, and since I’ve maintained a casual saunter, they’re far ahead, approaching a bend in the road.
Juliette will be gone in another moment.
Once the wagon rounds that corner, she’ll leave my mind as well as my sight, and I’ll continue with my day.
A day that seems suddenly hollow and dull… less important and interesting than she is.
What will they do to her when they find out she has no magic? Send her home, keep her, or kill her? From what I’ve heard of the King’s carnal appetites, I suspect he’ll keep her as a concubine.
A flicker of fiery resentment lashes through my heart at the thought. He’ll get to taste her before I do.
Why should I care how she tastes, or who enjoys her?
I shove the last bit of muffin into my mouth as the wagon disappears around the hill.
She’s gone, so there’s an end to it. Whatever happens to her is none of my business.
I turn toward the forest’s emerald gloom…
And then I turn just as resolutely in the opposite direction and run after the wagon.
I may be a Half-Elf, but I could match any of my full-blooded Kin in a foot-race. I can keep pace with the riders easily.
I’ll follow Juliette to the royal city of Giltos, get myself a disguise, and slip right into the House of Bounty where the concubines live. Not because I care about Juliette, but because I want to claim her body before the King does. Once I’ve done that, I’ll be able to wash my hands of her and return to my life.
3
My brain can’t seem to move past Shenya’s statement. I’m stuck in a paralyzed kind of shock, trying to understand what it means—how drastically my life has changed in such a short time.
The girls who aren’t chosen as queen won’t be going home. They’ll be concubines—not even secondary wives, but a stable of sorts, a collection from which the King can select the face and body type he’s in the mood for.
The lie Prain told is far more dangerous than I realized. I need to tell someone the truth about my lack of magic as soon as possible. I have to get out of this wagon. I want to go home.
“How can we speak to one of the guards?” I ask, in a voice much calmer than I feel. “Will they answer if we call out?”
“No,” Shenya says. “One of us already tried that.” She glances significantly at the weeping girl. “But you can try speaking with one of them the next time they open the door.”
Heart thumping, fingers clutching the edge of the wooden bench, I wait for the wagon to halt and the door to open.
I wait.
And I wait.
Onward we roll and rattle, jostled against each other occasionally like a few apples bumping around in a bucket.
More time passes, and the girl in the corner finally stops crying.
Maybe I should call out after all. But I can’t bring myself to yell for the guards. I’m on the verge of it several times, but the words won’t come. If we’re too close to home when I confess, the guards could still go after Prain. Their anger at being deceived might outweigh their desire to stick to their schedule.
The strain of waiting gnaws at my nerves so badly that I’d welcome the distraction of a conversation; but none of the other women speak, and I can’t think of the right words to break the silence.
After what feels like years, the ground beneath the wagon wheels changes, turns hollow. We’re crossing Becker’s Bridge, a three-hour carriage ride from the mill.
I should speak now. Cry out, make a fuss, get them to stop, then tell the truth.
