“Rise. Red as the dawn,” she mutters, spitting.
Then her face changes one last time. To a face we all recognize.
Samson falls back a half step, surprised, while Maven gives a strangled sort of cry.
Elara stares back at us from the floor, a living ghost. Her face is mangled, destroyed by lightning. One eye is gone, the other bloodshot with vile silver. Her mouth curls into an inhuman sneer. It triggers terror in the pit of my stomach, though I know she’s dead. I know I killed her.
It’s a clever ploy, buying her enough time to raise a hand to her lips, to swallow.
I’ve seen suicide pills before. Even though I shut my eyes, I know what happens next.
It’s better than what Samson would have done. And her secrets stay secrets. Forever.
TEN
Mare
I tear apart every book on my shelf, rip them to shreds. The bindings snap, the pages tear, and I wish they would bleed. I wish I could bleed. She’s dead because I’m not. Because I’m still here, bait in a trap, a lure to draw the Scarlet Guard out of their sanctuaries.
After a few hours of pointless destruction, I realize I’m wrong. The Scarlet Guard wouldn’t do this. Not the Colonel, not Farley, not for me.
“Cal, you stupid, stupid bastard,” I say to no one.
Because of course this was his idea. It’s what he learned. Victory at any cost. I hope he doesn’t continue to pay this impossible price for me.
Outside, it’s snowing again. I feel none of its cold, only my own.
In the morning, I wake up on my bed, still in my dress, though I don’t remember getting up from the floor. The ruined books are gone too, meticulously swept from my life. Even the smallest pieces of torn paper. But the shelves aren’t empty. A dozen leather-bound books, new and old, occupy the spaces. The urge to ruin them too consumes me, and I stumble to my feet, lunging.
The first one I grab is ratty, its cover torn and aged. I think it used to be yellow, or maybe gold. It doesn’t really matter to me. I flip it open, one hand grabbing for a sheaf of pages, ready to tear them to bits like the rest.
Familiar handwriting freezes me to the spot. My heart leaps in recognition.
Property of Julian Jacos.
My knees stop working beneath me. I land with a soft thud, bent over the most comforting thing I’ve seen in weeks. My fingers trace the lines of his name, wishing he would spring from them, wishing I could hear his voice somewhere other than in my head. I flip through the pages, looking for more evidence of him. The words skim by, each one echoing with his warmth. A history of Norta, her formation, and three hundred years of Silver kings and queens blaze past. Some pieces are underlined or annotated. Each new burst of Julian makes my chest constrict with happiness. In spite of my circumstances, my painful scars, I smile.
The other books are the same. All Julian’s, pieces of his much larger collections. I paw through them like a girl starved. He favors the histories, but there are sciences too. Even a novel. That one has two names inside. From Julian, to Coriane. I stare at the letters, the only evidence of Cal’s mother in this entire palace. I put that one back with care, my fingers lingering on its unbroken spine. She never read it. Maybe she didn’t get the chance.
Deep down, I hate that these make me happy. I hate that Maven knows me well enough to know what to give me. Because these are certainly from him. The only kind of apology he can make, the only one I could possibly accept. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. As quick as it came, my smile fades. I can’t let myself feel anything but hatred where the king is concerned. His manipulations aren’t as perfect as his mother’s, but I feel them still, and I won’t let them pull me in.
For a second, I debate ripping the books apart like I did the others. Showing Maven what I think of his gift. But I just can’t. My fingers linger on the pages, so easy to tear. And then I shelve them carefully, one by one.
I will not destroy the books, so I settle for the dress instead, ripping the ruby-encrusted fabric from my body.
Someone like Gisa probably made this dress. A Red servant with keen hands and an artist’s eye, perfectly sewing something so beautiful and terrible that only a Silver could wear it. The thought should make me sad, but only anger bleeds through me. I have no more tears. Not after yesterday.
When the next outfit is delivered by silent, stone-faced Clover and Kitten, I pull it on without hesitation or complaint. The blouse is flecked with a treasure trove of ruby, garnet, and onyx, with long, trailing sleeves striped in black silk. The pants are a gift too, loose enough to pass for comfortable.