“How long has it been?” she murmurs again, still not looking away from the page.
I lean back in my chair a little and huff at the ornate ceiling. The electric chandelier above me is dark, unlit. It sparked out about an hour ago, when Mare decided to furiously pace the room. Her moods have a trembling effect.
“Twenty minutes since you last asked,” I reply. “I told you, Maven’s taking his time with a response. He wants to make us sweat.”
“But it won’t be much longer,” she says, unmoving. “He doesn’t have that kind of restraint. Not with us. He won’t be able to resist the chance of meeting us face-to-face.”
“Especially you,” I growl.
“And you,” she replies with equal fervor. “His mother poisoned him toward us both. Made the obsession he carries now.” Annoyed, she sighs. “The meeting will be pointless. A waste.”
I blink slowly. Her knowledge of my brother and how he thinks unsettles me. Mostly because I know what a high price she paid for it. And, if I’m being honest, because I know it’s rooted in emotions I don’t want to trace. But who am to judge what she feels? I still love Maven too, or at least I love the person I thought my brother was.
What a mess, both of us.
My knee cracks as I draw back my leg, an echoing snap. Wincing, I massage the joint, letting my hands warm to a soothing temperature. The heat sinks in, relaxing the muscles beneath.
Mare finally looks up, smirking as she tosses her hair back. “You sound like a creaky door.”
I hiss out a pained laugh. “Feel like one.”
“See a healer in the morning.” Despite the playful twist of her lips, I hear her concern all the same. Her eyes narrow, looking darker in the dim light. “Or send for Sara. She’ll come now if you want. I don’t think she or Julian will sleep until we get an answer.”
I shake my head and heave myself out of the chair. “I’ll bother them tomorrow,” I say, taking even steps toward the bed. Every foot closer seems to tighten my muscles with a different kind of ache.
She tracks me like a cat as I ease down next to her, lying back on my elbows. An ocean breeze rolls in at the window, billowing the golden curtains with an invisible hand. We both shudder. Slowly, I take the letter from her hand, put it to the side without breaking our stare.
I dread these quiet moments, and I think she does too. The silence, the empty waiting, makes it impossible to ignore exactly what we’re doing. Or not doing, rather.
No change has been made on either side, in her heart or in mine. No choice reversed. But every passing second makes my decision more difficult as I’m reminded of what I’m going to lose when the time comes. What I lost for so many weeks. Not just her love, but her voice. Her sharpness. The push and pull of a person who has no regard for my blood or my crown. Someone who sees me, and no one else in my place.
Someone who calls me Cal, and not Tiberias.
Mare puts a hand to my cheek, splaying her fingers behind my ear. She is more tentative than before, more clinical. Like a healer examining a wound. I lean into the touch a little, chasing the cooling feel of her skin.
“Are you going to tell me this is the last time?” I ask, looking up at her.
Her expression melts a bit, as if wiped clean. But her eyes don’t waver. “Again?”
I nod against her hand.
“This is the last time,” she says flatly.
I feel a hum deep in my chest. My fire roars in response, begging to burn free. “Are you lying?”
“Again?”
Her lips twitch as I run a hand the length of her leg, from ankle to hip. The fingers on my face trace a gentle path as I bob my head, feeling my own blood heat.
Mare’s response is quiet, barely more than a gasp. “I hope so.”
She stops me before I can say anything else.
Her kiss devours.
No choices made.
Again.
Mare is dressed, perched precariously in the open window, when someone knocks on the bedroom door, waking me. I half expect her to duck out and disappear into the night air, but instead she pulls back inside. Her face flushes and she tosses me my robe. I get a faceful of silk.
“Staying put?” I ask, low enough so the person in the adjoining chamber won’t hear. “You don’t have to.”
She just glares at me. “What’s the point? Everyone will know soon enough.”
Know what, exactly? I want to ask, but I hold my tongue. Stretching, I stand from the bed and pull the robe tight, knotting it at my waist. She watches as I move, eyes trailing. “What?” I whisper, sporting a half grin.
Instead her lips press into a thin line. “You had some scars removed.”
I can only shrug. It’s been weeks since I had a healer erase the older scars across my back and ribs, wiping away the raised edges of white, knotted flesh. Wounds unbecoming of a king. I’m a bit flattered she remembered enough to know. “Some things don’t have to be held on to.”
Her eyes narrow. “And some things do, Cal.”
I can only nod in silent agreement, unwilling to follow her over the precipice of that particular conversation. It won’t lead us anywhere productive.
Mare settles against my desk, leaning a bit, squaring herself to the door. Her countenance changes, her eyes sharpening as the rest of her seems to harden into a different person. A bit of Mareena, the Silver she pretended to be. A bit of the lightning girl, all sparks and merciless fury. With herself in between, the girl I’m still figuring out. She ducks her chin, nodding at me.
As I open the door, I can just hear her suck in a fortifying breath.
“Julian,” I say, moving aside to let my uncle into the room.
He takes a step forward, already talking, a faded sweater tossed over his nightclothes. The page in his hand has very little writing on it. “We’ve received Maven’s reply,” he says. He falters only a little at the sight of Mare, doing his best not to let her break his momentum. He clears his throat a little and forces a casual smile. “Good evening, Mare.”
“Good morning would be more appropriate, Julian,” she says, dipping her head in greeting. Unwilling to give anything more or anything less. But our appearance says enough. Her with still-disheveled hair, and me in nothing but a robe. Julian reads us as easily as he does his books. At least he has the good sense not to comment, or even smirk.
I prod him farther into the room. “What did Maven say?”
“As we suspected,” he replies, recovering, “he agreed. Dawn.”
Already I curse my decision to meet so early. I’d much rather do this on a full night’s rest. But it’s best to get it over with as soon as possible.
“Where?” Mare’s voice is ragged.
Julian looks between us. “They’ve chosen Province Island. Not exactly neutral, but most of the islanders have gone, fleeing the war.”
I fold my arms across my chest and try to picture the island in question. It comes to me quickly. Province is the northernmost point of land in the Bahrn Islands, sprinkled in a hook off the coast. It’s a little like Tuck, the Scarlet Guard base. Home to little more than disappearing dunes and sea grass. “It’s Rhambos territory. And small enough. If anything, this is in our favor.”
At the desk, Mare scoffs. She surveys Julian and me like children. “Unless House Rhambos decides to betray you.”
“I’d be inclined to agree, if his family didn’t hang in the balance. Or his own life. Lord Rhambos won’t risk either,” I tell her. “Province Island will do.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but nods anyway. Her eyes pass to Julian, then to the single paper in his hand. The copy of Maven’s response. “Did he have any other demands?”
Julian shakes his head. “None.”
“May I see it?” She holds out a hand in gentle request, palm turned upward. Julian is happy to oblige.
For a second, she hesitates, gripping the paper between her thumb and forefinger like something unclean. He used to write her letters, back when we were o
perating from the Notch, collecting newbloods. He used to leave them on the corpses of the ones he got to first. Each one begged her to return, promising to stop the bloodshed if she went back. Eventually, he got his wish. I would take the paper from her, protect her from the pain his words bring, but she doesn’t need me to shield her. She’s faced worse without me.
Finally, she blinks, steeling herself to read Maven’s response. Her frown only deepens as her eyes scan the words, over and over again.
I glance at Julian. “Has Nanabel been informed?”
“She has,” he says.
“Does she have thoughts?”
“When doesn’t she?”
I offer him a wry smile. “True.” Julian and my grandmother aren’t exactly the closest of friends, but they’re certainly allies, at least where I am concerned. Their shared history, my mother, is enough for them both. At the thought, I feel a sudden cold, and I can’t help but look at my desk drawer. It’s firmly shut, the book out of sight.
But never far from my mind.
Ocean Hill was my mother’s favorite palace, and I see her everywhere, even though I have no memory of her face. Only what I’ve seen in pictures or paintings. I’ve asked for some of her portraits to be rehung, at least in the salon outside my bedroom. Her colors were gold, more vibrant than the yellows Julian wears now. Fitting a queen born of a High House, though she was far from the norm.
She slept in this room. She breathed this air. She was alive here.
Julian’s voice snaps me out of the quicksand of my mother’s memory. “Queen Anabel thinks you should send someone in your stead,” he says.
A corner of my mouth tugs into a half smile. “I’m sure she suggested herself.”
His face mirrors mine. “She did.”
“I’ll thank her for the suggestion and politely decline. If anyone is going to face him, it should be me. I’ll present our terms—”
“Maven won’t bargain.” Mare’s fist closes, crumpling a bit of the communication. Her gaze feels like her kiss. Devouring.
“He agreed to the meeting—” Julian begins, but she cuts him off.
“And that’s all he’ll agree to. This isn’t to discuss terms. He isn’t anywhere close to surrender.” I hold her livid stare, watching the storm in her eyes. I almost expect a peal of thunder overhead. “He just wants to see us. It’s his way.”
To my surprise, Julian takes a harried step toward her. His face pales, draining of color. “We should still try,” he pleads, exasperated.
She just blinks at him. “And torture ourselves? Give him the satisfaction?”
I respond before Julian can. “Of course we’re going to meet with him.” My voice deepens, heavier than before. “And of course he isn’t going to bargain.”
“So why do this?” Mare spits. I’m reminded of one of Larentia Viper’s snakes.
“Because,” I mutter, trying not to growl. To keep some semblance of control and dignity. “I want to see him too. I want to look into his eyes and know that my brother is gone forever.”
Neither Julian nor Mare, two of the most talkative people I know, has any response to give. She looks at her feet, brows knitting together, while a red bloom rises in her cheeks. It could be shame or frustration or both. Julian only goes paler, white as a sheet. He avoids my eyes.
“I have to know that whatever his mother did to him cannot be reversed. I need to be sure,” I murmur, moving closer to Mare. If only to calm myself. I’m suddenly aware of the cloying heat in the room, rising with my own temper. “Thank you, Julian,” I add, trying to dismiss him as gently as I can.
He takes the hint well. “Of course,” he replies, bowing his head. Even though I’ve repeatedly asked him never to bow to me. “Have you . . . ,” he adds, stumbling over the question. “Have you read what I gave you?”
The pain of another person lost flares in my chest. My eyes dart to the desk drawer again. Mare follows my line of sight, even though she doesn’t know what we’re talking about.
I’ll tell her later. At a better time.
“Some,” I manage to say.
Julian looks almost disappointed. “It isn’t easy.”
“No, it isn’t, Julian.” I’m done talking about this. “And if you could . . . ,” I mumble, gesturing feebly between myself and Mare to change the subject. “You know.”
Mare snickers slightly, but Julian is happy to comply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with an easy grin.
As he goes, stepping back out into the salon, I follow his retreating figure. When he passes the painting, propped up against a chair for now, he slows. But he doesn’t stop. He only trails a hand along the frame, unable to spare a glance for his sister.
They have a similar look, based on the portrait. The thin chestnut hair and inquisitive eyes. She was simple, an easy beauty. The kind most overlook. I don’t have much of her in me, if anything at all.
I wish I did.
The door swings shut, removing her and my uncle from sight.
Slowly, smooth fingers weave into mine, taking my hand.
“He can’t be fixed,” Mare breathes, resting her chin against my shoulder. Not quite on top of it—she can’t reach—but now isn’t the time to tease her. Instead I lean down into her grasp, making it easier on us both.
“I need to see for myself. If I’m going to give up on him—”
Her grip tightens sharply. “There’s no giving up against the impossible.”
The impossible. Part of me still refuses to believe that. My brother is not a lost cause. He can’t be. I won’t allow it. “Davidson tried,” I whisper. Reluctant to say the words out loud. But I have to. I have to make them real. “He searched. There are no newblood whispers.”
She takes a long, trailing breath. “And that’s probably for the best,” she says after a moment. “In the grand scheme of the world.”
It stings to know she’s right.
Methodic, she puts her hands on my shoulders, steering me away from the desk. Away from the memory sitting in a drawer. “You should sleep,” she says firmly, pushing at the bed. “Maven wears exhaustion better than you do.”
I stifle a yawn, eager to follow her commands. With a sigh, I slip between the blankets. When my head hits the pillow, I almost drop asleep instantly. “Will you stay?” I mumble, watching her through slitted eyes.
She crawls over to me in reply, kicking off her boots as she goes. She worms her way under the silk. I watch her, smirking, and she shrugs. “Everyone will know anyway.”
Without thought, I take her hand, knitting our fingers at the hem of the blanket. “Julian can keep a secret.”
Mare barks out a laugh. “Evangeline can’t, not with her agenda.”
I have to chuckle too, halfhearted in my exhaustion. “Whoever thought she’d be the one pushing us at each other?”
Next to me, she shifts, trying to get comfortable. Eventually she settles on curling up at my side, one leg kicked free. “Even though Maven can’t change, other people can,” she mumbles against my chest. The vibrations of her voice make me shiver.
It takes little concentration to douse the candles burning all over the room, plunging us both into a gentle blue darkness.
“I don’t want to marry her.”
“That’s never been my issue.”
“I know that,” I whisper.
It isn’t in me to give her what she wants. Not when it means betraying my father, my birthright, and any chance I may have at making some kind of difference. She might not agree, but I can do more on a throne, with a crown, than I can without them.
“After the parlay,” I breathe, hesitant, “once Harbor Bay is secure, I think we hit Gray Town next. Full strength. We won’t catch another tech slum off guard, not after New Town.”
In the darkness, the brush of her lips on mine takes me off guard. I jump at the sensation. I feel her smile against my skin.
“Thank you,” she whispers, shifting back into place.
&n
bsp; “It’s the right thing to do.”
But am I doing it for the wrong reason? For her?
Does that even matter?
“What did Julian give you?” she mumbles, half asleep. Mare is just as tired as I am, if not more. The day has been too long and too bloody.
I blink in the darkness, staring at nothing. Her breathing slows and evens as she drifts away.
She is asleep when I finally answer.
“A copy of my mother’s diary.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Mare
It’s still dark outside when I wake, roused by shuffling across the room. I tense on instinct, ready to fight. For a second, I’m puzzled by the sight of Cal in the same chamber as me. Then I remember the events of yesterday. His near death, and the way it broke us both, shattering whatever resolve we’d had before.
He’s already dressed, looking regal in the soft light of a few candles. I watch for a second, seeing him without any kind of mask or shield. Despite his broad, tall form, he looks younger in his fine clothing. His jacket is a deep bloodred, trimmed in black, with silver buttons at the cuffs. The pants match, tucked into oiled leather boots. He hasn’t donned a cape or a crown yet, leaving both discarded on his desk. He moves slowly, fastening the buttons up his throat. Shadows ring his eyes. He looks more exhausted than he did last night, if that’s possible. I wonder if he slept at all, or if he spent the night tortured by the prospect of seeing Maven again.
When he realizes I’m awake, he straightens, shoulders squaring toward me. He fills the kingly mold quickly. The transformation is small but unmistakable. He puts up his guard, puts on a mask, even with me. I wish he wouldn’t, but I understand why. I do it too.