What if he was stunted like her stepson?
But no. Edmund had been perfect, just as she had hoped he would be. A beautiful, plump baby, spoiled from the very start. Given everything he could have ever wanted. He grew to be tall. Strong. Handsome.
Andvile, just like his father. The sort of man who would throw his own mother in the dungeons to satisfy awitch.
Charlotte released her mounting anger on a slow breath and stared at her filthy hands from where she huddled in the corner of her cell—the corneroppositethe bucket in which she had to relieve herself like some animal. She could not remember a single time in her life when she had ever been…dirty. But she was certainly dirty now.
Her stench had stopped bothering her days ago, but her hair still caused great offense. It framed her face in thick, oily strands, having tumbled free of its hairpins long ago. She had stopped trying to fix it. It was pointless.
And at least with her hair down, the back of her neck was protected from the ever-present cold. The cold that nipped at her dirt-smudged fingers and seeped into her bones. The cold that gnawed at her day and night, stoking her anger higher. Hotter.
Her anger was all that kept her warm these days. That distracted her from her hunger and that incessant dripping. Her anger was the only friend she had left in this wretched court.
Well, that and Hews. Odious, loyal Hews.
The screech of metal on stone reverberated off the walls, drawing her attention upward toward the floating pool of light approaching from the right. The torch illuminated the handsome, masculine features of the dead-eyed Arathian guard—the witchsworn—who always brought her her one meal of the day.
If one could even call a pitiful bit of broth and a slice of stale bread a meal.
She moistened her chapped lips and croaked, “Lovely to see you again, Igor.”
That wasn’t his name, of course. She hadn’t the faintest idea what his true name was. The man never spoke.
Perhaps he had no tongue.
With a grunt, the great, tall brute crouched down and opened the hatch at the bottom of her cell door that was just wide enough to allow the plate containing her pitiful dinner through. Water. Broth. Bread. No knife. No fork. Not even a spoon.
Her traitorous stomach rumbled at the sight of the broth sparkling in the torchlight. But still, she refused to lunge for it. No matter how hungry she was, she wouldneverappear desperate.
Not until Igor left, at the very least.
For some reason, though, the witchsworn lingered on even after he straightened to his full height. His arm lifted the torch higher, sending the light spilling across her face and the damp corner in which she sat. She blinked and looked away before the light could blind her completely.
This was unusual. Igor never stayed longer than he had to.
A spark of paranoia flickered to life within her heart. Did he somehow know about her plan? Had idiotic Hews given himself away? Her son’s simpering secretary wouldneverbetray her. Of that, she was certain.
But he was stupid enough to make a mistake that might foil everything.
Pushing her dirty hair back from her face and lifting her head once more, Charlotte put on her brightest smile for Princess Mariana’s dog. “You seem to be staring, Igor. Shall I call for an artist so that I might sit for a portrait for you?”
The man narrowed his eyes.
Her pulse quickened.
Swallowing down her pride, Charlotte scuttled closer to the plate of food. She snatched up the slice of bread and tore into it like a savage, chewing with her mouth open and smacking her lips. “Oh, thank you, Igor,” she loudly declared in between chews. “More stale bread? This isjustwhat I was craving.”
Her nauseating display had the desired effect. Disgust rippled across the witchsworn’s usually impassive visage as, without a word, he turned on his heel and tromped back the way he had just come, leaving her alone in the dark.
And just in time, too.
“Your Majesty?” That whisper unfurled from the shadows off to her left, just beyond the bars of her cage. Soft. Inquisitive.Nasally.
Hews.
“Of course, darling,” she answered, sopping up her broth with what bread she had left. “Were you expecting someone else?”
A freshsqueakmade her skin crawl until she realized it was just Hews opening the hatch at the bottom of her cell door. The man slid a cloth-wrapped parcel within. “We must move quickly, Your Majesty. I have a horse waiting for you. It’ll carry you to the coast, where you can book passage to Lothmeer.”
