“He’s usually standing guard at the western turret this time of night,” she answers, and hurries away, looking relieved to get away from me.
I see no one as I make my way down the corridor and up the staircase spiraling to the top of the turret. When I find Patric, he is staring out the window. For a moment I study him silently. His face is shadowed and his jaw is set in a firm line as he watches the sun set over the kingdom. My stomach lurches. I haven’t seen him since the attack. I sent word to him that I was not ready to train because of my ankle. But in truth, I have been too scared to face him.
“So this is where you spend your nights,” I say as I walk over to him.
Patric jumps and draws his sword, but sheaths it when he sees me. “What are you doing up here?”
“I have just come from a meeting with the Guardians, and I thought well . . . I just wanted to see you,” I finish lamely.
“A meeting discussing plans to depart to your future husband’s country?” The coldness in his voice is unmistakable.
“Yes,” I answer, aware that I cannot tell him the full truth. “I should have told you the terms of the peace treaty. I am sorry.”
“That’s it? That’s your apology?” he says. “Do you have any idea how it felt, hearing of your betrothal? Don’t you think that was something I might want to hear from you, Wilha, and not from your father, as if I was just another guard?”
“I know I should have told you, but I was afraid,” I answer, and my voice sounds desperate. “I didn’t want our time together to end. And it doesn’t have to, not yet. Lord Quinlan is seeking guards for the journey. You could volunteer and—”
“Volunteer?” Patric looks as though I have slapped him. “You want me to escort you to your husband’s country? Would you like me to witness your wedding, as well? Shall I stay long enough to watch you give birth to his child?”
“No, that is not what I meant!” I reach for his arm, but he draws back. “I just . . . I wish things could be different.”
“Don’t you think I wish things were different, too?” he answers, his green eyes blazing. “That I could untie your mask and see the girl who—” He turns away and grips the edge of the window.
I step closer to him and take a deep breath. “You could untie my mask. If you want to . . .”
At this, he seems to forget his anger and turns to look at me, surprised. “It is forbidden. You know this.”
“No one has to know. For once we are alone, and I would never tell anyone. None of the rumors are true—”
“I have never believed the rumors—”
“—and I promise, no harm will come to you.” I place my hand on his and he tenses. “Please? I have to go to Kyrenica. Neither of us can change that. But before I go, I want you to look at me.” I take his hand and place it on my mask. “Please? I want you to see me. Just this once, before I have to leave.”
His hand moves up and tangles in my hair. I read the temptation in his eyes. But just as quickly as it came over him, his expression hardens and he drops his arm. “Let your new husband look at you. I will not.”
He turns away and looks out the window. When he speaks again, his voice is hollow. “I cannot see you anymore. If you wish to continue your training, I will assign someone else for your remaining time in Galandria.”
I wait, hoping he will turn back and tell me he has changed his mind, and that he really does want to see me. When he does not, I pull a gold ribbon from my hair and place it next to him on the window sill. “Something to remember me by,” I say quietly. “If you care to, that is.”
Before I descend the stairs, I look back at him one last time. Patric is still looking out over the city. The ribbon next to him stirs in the breeze like it is unwanted and already forgotten.
CHAPTER 20
ELARA
Seven minutes sealed my fate. Seven minutes sentenced me to a life with the Ogdens. Seven minutes separated me from the life I could have had. The life I would have had if I had been born first.
I spend a dark night in my cell, trying to sort out my thoughts. It seems that I’ve always been viewed as a disposable daughter. Hidden away, when my existence was judged as too much of an inconvenience. And now that they feel their precious Wilhamina is in danger, they see me as nothing more than a body to take the arrows for her.
In the morning, I awaken to the sound of my cell door clanking open and Wolfram thrusting a mug at me.
“Breakfast,” he grunts and leaves, slamming the cell door behind him.
I slurp down the broth hungrily and tell myself it won’t be long until he returns with bread and cheese. But hours pass, and no one comes. I think of the last thing I ate that wasn’t stale or moldy. The apple tart I hastily gobbled on my way to the prison . . . how many days ago was that?
That day in Eleanor Square, Cordon had been calling out for me to be careful. When Gunther struck me and carried me away, did Cordon try to stop him? Or did he turn away, happy that he and Serena’s problem—What to do with Elara?—had been solved?
After what seems like almost a full day later, Wolfram finally opens my cell again. “Get up,” he says.
Like yesterday, a bag is dropped over my head and I am led through a series of twisting halls. Only this time the air seems to grow darker and thicker with each turn. Finally we come to a stop and a voice that I recognize as Lord Mur-cedor’s dismisses Wolfram.
The bag is yanked off my head and I instinctively raise my hand to shield my eyes. But it’s unnecessary because I’m in a dark room lit by only a single candle sitting on a wooden table. Lord Murcendor and Lord Quinlan sit at the table with a large feast spread out before them.
“Please, join us,” Lord Quinlan says, sipping from a golden goblet inlaid with opals. He gestures to an empty chair.
I look from Lord Quinlan, the candlelight glinting off the jewels he wears, and into Lord Murcendor’s dark gaze. “Where is the other Guardian?”
“Lord Royce is the Guardian of Trade and has business to attend to.” Lord Murcendor inclines his head to the empty seat. “Sit down.”
I take an unsteady step forward. My head swims at the smell of roast lamb and my stomach growls.
“Hungry?” Lord Quinlan says.
“What is this place?” I ask, ignoring him.
“This is where we take those accused of treason,” Lord Murcendor replies.
“Treason? How is it I’m accused of treason?” I ask as I sink into the empty chair in front of the two Guardians. Now I’m a traitor, as well as the Masked Princess’s twin sister?
Lord Murcendor fills a goblet and pushes it toward me. “Drink,” he commands. “You are in no danger here.”
I suspect I am in the most danger of my life. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to poison me right here. But if they truly want to send me to Kyrenica, then they wouldn’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway. Not while they still need me.
I gulp the wine. It tastes bitter and I nearly spit it out. I wish they would offer me water.
From across the table Lord Murcendor watches me with his dark eyes. “I have something for you.” From under the table he produces a brown satchel. My satchel.
“I believe you will find everything in order,” he says, handing it to me.
I open the satchel, hardly daring to breathe. Inside, just as I hoped, is my mother’s book. And so is my dagger.
I reach in and slowly tighten my hand around it and look up. Lord Murcendor has a dagger of his own, and it’s pointed at my neck. “Your property was returned to you as a gesture of goodwill. But I would think carefully before you try anything foolish again.”