No.
For the first time in a while, I smash my breakfast plate against the wall, screaming as I do it. The water glass next. It explodes in crystal shards. Broken things make me feel a bit better.
My door bursts open in half a second as the Arvens enter. Egg is the first to my side, holding me back in my chair. His grip is firm, preventing me from getting up. Now they know better than to let me anywhere near the wreckage as they clean.
“Maybe you should start giving me plastic,” I scoff to no one. “Seems like a better idea.”
Egg wants to hit me. His fingers dig into my shoulders, probably leaving bruises. The Silent Stone makes the hurt bite bone-deep. My stomach twists as I realize I can barely remember what it’s like not to be in constant, smothering pain and anguish.
The other guards sweep away the debris, unflinching as glass drags over their gloved hands. Only when they disappear, their throbbing presence melting away, do I once again have the strength to stand. Annoyed, I slam shut the book I wasn’t reading. Genealogy of Nortan Nobility, Volume IX, the cover says. Useless.
With nothing better to do, I put it back on the shelf. The leather-bound book slides in neatly between its brothers, volumes VIII and X. Maybe I’ll pull the other books down and rearrange them. Waste a few seconds of the endless hours.
I end up on the floor instead, trying to stretch a bit farther than I did yesterday. My old agility is a faint memory, restricted by circumstance. I try anyway, inching my fingers toward my toes. The muscles in my legs burn, a better feeling than the ache. I chase the pain. It’s one of the only things to remind me I’m still alive in this shell.
The minutes bleed into one another and time stretches with me. Outside, the light shifts as spring clouds chase each other across the sun.
The knock on my door is soft, uncertain. No one has ever bothered to knock before, and my heart leaps. But the rush of adrenaline dies off. A rescuer would not knock.
Evangeline pushes open the door, not waiting for an invitation.
I don’t move, rooted to the spot by a sudden rush of fear. I draw my legs up under myself. Ready to spring if I need to.
She looks down her nose at me, her usual superior self in a long, glinting coat and tightly sewn leather leggings. For a moment she stands still, and we trade glances in the silence.
“Are you so dangerous they can’t even let you open a window?” She sniffs at the air. “It stinks in here.”
My tightened muscles relax a little. “So you’re bored,” I mutter. “Go rattle someone else’s cage.”
“Perhaps later. But for now, you’re going to be of use.”
“I really don’t feel like being your dartboard.”
She smacks her lips. “Oh, not mine.”
With one hand, she seizes me under the armpit and hoists me to my feet. As soon as her arm enters the sphere of my Silent Stone, her sleeve falls away, collapsing to the floor in bits of gleaming metal dust. It quickly reattaches and falls again, moving in an even, strange rhythm as she marches me from my room.
I don’t struggle. There’s no point in it. Eventually she loosens her bruising grip and lets me walk without the pinch of her hand.
“If you wanted to take the pet for a walk, all you had to do was ask,” I growl at her, massaging my newest bruise. “Don’t you have a new rival to hate? Or is it easier to pick on a prisoner rather than a princess?”
“Iris is far too calm for my liking,” she shoots back. “You still have some bite, at least.”
“Good to know I amuse you.” The passage twists in front of us. Left, right, right. The blueprint of Whitefire sharpens in my mind’s eye. We pass the phoenix tapestries in red and black, edges studded with real gemstones. Then a gallery of statues and paintings dedicated to Caesar Calore, the first king of Norta. Beyond it, down a half flight of marble steps, is what I call the Battle Hall. A stretching passage illuminated by skylights, the walls on either side dominated by two monstrous paintings, inspired by the Lakelander War, stretching from floor to ceiling. But she doesn’t lead me past painted scenes of death and glory. We’re not going down to the court levels of the palace. The halls become more ornate, but with fewer public displays of opulence as she leads me to the royal residences. An increasing number of gilded paintings of kings, politicians, and warriors watch me go, most of them with the characteristic Calore black hair.
“Has King Maven let you keep your rooms, at least? Even though he took your crown?”
Her lips twist. Into a smirk, not a scowl. “See? You never disappoint. All bite, Mare Barrow.”