“Until very recently, Tear Queen, I would sooner have invested my money in magic beans. Now I’m committed to these people, who agitate for a more equitable Mortmesne. But they require victories to keep going. Open support from the Tearling would be good for morale.”
“What of Cadare?”
“The Cadarese have already begun to sabotage their tribute to Mortmesne, which is a useful distraction. But the Mort hold the Cadarese in small esteem, whereas you’re a figure of much curiosity over there, particularly among the poor.”
“I’ll consider it. I need to talk to Lazarus.”
“You know the Mort have broken through the border.”
“Yes.”
“What will you do when they come?”
“The entire population will be in New London by then. It’ll be a tight fit, but the city can hold them, at least for a time. I have an entire battalion laying in supplies for siege and fortifying the back side of the city.”
“They will breach the walls eventually.”
Kelsea frowned. “I know that.”
“And what will you do?”
She said nothing, kept her eyes away from the fireplace. The Fetch didn’t press her further, only leaned his chin on one fist, watching her with clear amusement. “Your mind is a fascinating thing, Tear Queen, always moving.”
She nodded, wandering across the room to her desk. She realized that she was trying to put herself front and center, trying to force him to notice her, the way she always noticed him. She suddenly found herself loathsome. She was the same Kelsea she had always been, and he hadn’t wanted her before. If he suddenly wanted her now that she had a pretty face and a pretty body, what did that make him?
I can’t win. Her old appearance had been genuine, and had gained her nothing. But her new appearance was worse, hollow and false, and anything that she gained by it would carry that falsity like a disease. If this was the work of her jewels, then Kelsea didn’t want it anymore.
“You grow pretty, Tear Queen.”
Kelsea flushed. The statement, which might have pleased her moments before, now made her feel sick.
“What will you do with your new beauty? Catch yourself a rich husband?”
“I won’t share my throne, not with anyone.”
“What about an heir?”
“There are other ways to get one.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Practical, Tear Queen.”
Kelsea looked toward the curtain, thinking of Pen. If the Fetch’s laughter hadn’t woken him, he really must be out cold.
“Your guard is fine. I’ll wake him on my way out. If it’s any consolation, he was a tougher mark than your uncle’s guards ever were; at least Alcott stays awake on duty.”
Seeing an opportunity to change the subject, Kelsea jumped on it. “I suppose I should thank you for my lawn ornament.”
The Fetch’s face sobered, turning thoughtful. “Thomas died well, though it galls me to admit it. He died like a man.”
Dying well. Kelsea closed her eyes and saw again the Mort coming, crossing the Caddell and breaching the walls. She turned away, staring at the fireplace. Where was the handsome man, Rowland Finn, now? Where had he gone back to?
“Don’t think about him, Tear Queen.”
She whirled to face him. “Do you read minds?”
“I don’t need to. You’ve never hidden anything from me. I can’t stop him from coming here as he pleases, but I repeat my caution: give him nothing. Nothing he asks for, no house room in your mind. He’s a seductive creature, I know—”
Kelsea started in surprise, feeling caught.
“—and even I was deceived once, long ago.”
“How long?” Kelsea blurted out. “How old are you?”
“Too old.”
“Why haven’t you died?”
“A punishment.”
“What are you being punished for?”
“The worst of all crimes, Tear Queen. Now be quiet and listen.”
Kelsea winced. He had used Carlin’s tone again, the tone one would take with a wayward child, and Kelsea felt a sudden desperation to prove him wrong, to show him that she wasn’t a child anymore. But she didn’t know how.
“Row Finn, the man, was a liar,” the Fetch continued. “He’s a liar still. The Mort Queen gave in; she was a fool. Are you a fool as well?”
“No,” Kelsea mumbled, though she knew she was. She had become pretty, and she no longer felt like a child. But she was the worst fool in the world for thinking that these things would make a difference to the Fetch. He was still as far beyond her reach as he had ever been.
“You’ve impressed me, Tear Queen. Don’t ruin it all now.” The Fetch stood from the chair, pulling something from his pocket, and Kelsea saw that it was his mask, the same dreadful mask he liked to wear about the countryside. He meant to leave now. This was all she would have.
Good riddance, a voice whispered inside her head. But Kelsea recognized that for what it was: her mind’s sad attempt at self-defense. The Fetch would disappear now, leaving her with nothing. She longed for something to hold on to, and on the heels of that longing came anger. She was the most powerful woman in the Tearling, and still this man was able to wreck her with only a few words. Was this really the way it would always be?
Not always. Not forever, please God. Give me some light at the end.
She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, she noted with pleasure that her voice had strengthened, become hard. “Don’t ever come here uninvited again. You’re not welcome.”
“I’ll come and go as I please, Tear Queen. I always have. You just make sure I don’t have to come for you.” He drew the mask over his head. “We made a deal.”
“Fuck the deal!” Kelsea snarled. “That creature Finn offers actual aid. What have you ever offered?”
“Only your life, you ungrateful brat.”
“Get out.”
He gave her a mocking bow, eyes gleaming behind the mask. “Perhaps in time, you’ll grow as pretty as your mother.”
Kelsea grabbed the book from her bedside table and flung it at him. But it only bounced harmlessly off his shoulder. The Fetch laughed, bitter laughter that emerged hollowly from the mask’s mouth.
“You can’t hurt me, Tear Queen. No one can. I don’t even have the ability to wound myself.”
He slipped into Pen’s antechamber, closed the curtain behind him, and was gone.
Kelsea fell on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and began to cry. She hadn’t cried in months, and tears were a relief, easing some strand inside her that had been stretched tight. But the pain in her chest wouldn’t ease.
I’ll never have him. She even murmured it into her pillow, but the Fetch remained there, lodged in her chest and throat like something she’d swallowed, too big for her to contend with. There was no way to make him be gone.
A hand touched Kelsea’s shoulder, gently, making her jump. Looking up with bleary eyes, she saw Pen standing over the bed. She put up a hand to convey that she was fine, but he stared at her in quiet consternation, and the anxiety in his face brought on fresh tears.
Here’s the man I should have fallen in love with, she thought, and that only made her weep harder. Pen sat down on the bed beside her and placed his hand gently on top of hers, clasping her fingers. The small gesture wrecked Kelsea, and she cried even harder, her face swollen and nose running freely. So many things in this life had proven more difficult than they were supposed to be. She missed Barty and Carlin. She missed the cottage, with its quiet patterns, where everything was known. She missed the child Kelsea, who had never had to make more than a day’s decisions, or worry about more than a child’s consequences. She missed the ease of that life.
After a few minutes Pen tugged her up from the pillow and wrapped his arms around her, holding her against his chest, rocking her in the same way Barty used to when she’d taken a fall. Pen wasn’t going to ask her any questions, Kelsea realized, and that seemed such a gift that her tears finally began to subside into gasps and hiccups. She huddled against Pen’s bare chest, liking the feel of it: warm and hard and comforting against her cheek.