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The music quickened, the violin’s melody so painfully haunting it spoke of terrible things.
I had to get to him.
I hadn’t saved my court, or its people. I hadn’t even saved myself. But I could save him.
I called out. He played on, the music too loud, too fast, and he danced and spun and played toward the cliff’s edge.
I ran through the flowers.
The cliff edge—he was right by the edge, his music building to its crescendo.
He stopped. Frozen. The music cut off, as abrupt as the slash of a knife. He stood on the cliff’s edge, face up.
He was safe, he’d stopped playing, he’d be all right. I slowed again and waded through the flowers, so close now that if I called out, he’d hear.
He tipped forward—
“No, don’t!”
I bolted awake, wrapped in cold, damp sheets.
The drapes rippled, teased by the desert’s nighttime air. “Lark?” Of course, Lark wasn’t here. Just a dream. “Damn…” There was no going back to sleep with my heart galloping in my chest.
I climbed from the bed, threw on a gown, and ventured onto the balcony. The moon hung high and bright, so full it lit the dunes in ice-white light, turning them into frozen waves.
Lark was out there, somewhere far away, playing the same games he always had. Like me, he pretended the hurt couldn’t touch him. But also like me, it was lies.
I couldn’t have saved himandmy court, but in the end, I’d saved neither.
If only he was here with me. He’d sprawl in the chair, one leg over its arm, so casually flamboyant, then recite a poem about how awful a prince I was, because he could say what he pleased and live how he liked. Because, he’d been free in the Court of Love. As free as he could have been.
And my actions had put him back in a cage.
Someday soon, I’d free him again and I’d keep my promise to save him. “Hold on, Lark.” Perhaps, wherever he was, he dreamed of his Prince of Flowers, and perhaps in those dreams, the prince saved the fool.
CHAPTER23
Lark
The Courtof Pain rarely had guests. Which meant the staff entering one of the guest rooms had to be there for the representatives of Justice. I hung back, behind a corner, and waited for them to reemerge. This was a long shot. All members of Justice might have been with Razak and the council. My escape could all be for nothing. But I had to try.
The maid left. I darted forward through the door as it closed, and froze.
A young red-haired woman sat on the edge of a bed, half-dressed—or undressed in a blue lace vest and panties. Her eyes widened, then her mouth—a scream poised on her lips.
I lunged and smothered her mouth. “Hush.”
She writhed and bucked, and thumped my arm.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” I breathed hard, fast. My chest burned, body struggling to hold itself together. I trembled too. And my hand on her mouth was stained with blood; my clothes, the little I wore, hung askew. To her, I was a madman, breaking into her room to hurt her.
“Hush, please, listen… I’m not here to hurt you… I promise.”
Please listen, please don’t scream.
How could I make her see?
I let go and lurched back but held out a hand—my bloody, mutilated hand, but it was too late to hide it. All I could do was hope she saw me, not as a madman, but as someone who needed help.
