I crinkle my nose. “That sounds awful.”
She smiles. “That’s why you’re having us do it instead.”
Walking over to Timothy, I link my arm in his. His jaw tics as he stares at where we’re connected, and I grin up at him, moving us toward the door. The second it opens, he drops my arm, adopting a glacial look; the man from moments earlier disappearing into the air.
I’m silent the entire way, memorizing our steps so I can sneak away and come back alone, but once we’re at the garden’s door, I spin around, pointing my finger at his chest. “You said you know every corridor.”
“I do.”
“Even the hidden ones?”
His dark eyes peer down at me as if he’s deliberating on how to answer, and that alone is enough to send excitement sparking through my insides. He knows what I’m talking about.
“Will you show me?” I press.
He’s silent for long, strained moments, the muscle in his jaw tensing over and over. Finally, he nods.
A smile creeps on my face, satisfaction worming its way through my veins.
He reaches to his side, placing his hand on a wall sconce. I watch his movements, fascinated, my heart pumping in my ears.
I wonder if when I look back, I’ll think of this moment as the one where I realized everything hides in plain sight. Because the wall I was just staring at disappears, revealing a dark and narrow passage in its place.
CHAPTER 20
Tristan
When Michael and I were children, my father was often too busy to spend time with us, and my mother didn’t care. Even if she had, that’s not how it works in the monarchy. Queens aren’t meant to raise their offspring; they’re only meant to birth them.
As a result—and as was expected—nannies were the ones who brought us up. The other kids who roamed the halls were families of the servants, ones who we either weren’t allowed to play with, or they weren’t allowed to play with us. But Michael somehow always had his group of friends, and they would never miss an opportunity to come find me and rain down terror.
I was easy prey. I had no interest in being the center of attention, and much preferred staying on the sidelines with my sketchbook, watching how everyone else interacted.
You can learn a lot about human nature when you observe from the outside looking in.
For some reason, my brother didn’t enjoy that about me. He’s enjoyed nothing about me, nor I him. We’re connected only by blood, and even as a child, I would imagine chaining him up by his limbs and draining him of every drop, if only to sever our connection.
Back then, of course, I didn’t have the wherewithal.
And it only takes so many times of being thrown in the dirt and told you’re a freak for you to believe it. That because you’re a little different, you’re somehow less than.
It was beat into me by angry fists and brushed off as “kids will be kids.” And the fact that when it came down to family, I was unseen and unimportant, compounded the feeling. Being the second-born son gave me freedom, yet they forced me to live it in Michael’s shadow.
But at least for a time, my father cared.
He would take me to the cliff’s edge, showing me the constellations and how even in the darkest of nights, they light the way home. I treasured the quiet evenings with him because it was the only time I felt like I belonged. He saw me, and he loved me.
But as I aged, the late-night meetings grew further and further apart, his time for me replaced with preparing Michael to be king.
Just like with everyone else, eventually, I was forgotten.
And the stars don’t shine as brightly when you stare at them alone.
Michael was the crowned prince, and I was just… me. So, I never understood why, when he had everything, he always made sure I had less than nothing, too.
I thought maybe as we grew older, things would get better, but the opposite turned out to be true. The shoves turned to prolonged torture, and bruised ribs turned into fractured bones. I slunk away into the secret tunnels of the castle just to get away.
It was then I realized they led through the mountains and into the middle of the forest. And it was also there I first decided to stop being Michael’s victim, spending hours visualizing the day I would take everything from him, and everyone else who wronged me, or stood by silently and watched.
That’s the thing about resentment. It grows and wraps around every piece of you like ivy, feeding off the anger until it’s so enmeshed that it becomes you. A living, breathing, pulsating incarnation of hatred.
And for me, the boy who was tossed to the side like garbage, I had nothing but time to pour water on the weeds. Let it fester and grow until it blotted out everything else.