Amelia knew the answer before she asked the question, but still, she said, “Where am I?”
He had the grace, or perhaps good sense, to lower his head, a quiet show of regret. “The capital of your nation, my lady. Aquitaine.”
Her heartbeat accelerated, but it seemed a distant action, as though it was happening to someone else. “In the palace?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“The sun is setting. How long have I been asleep?”
“Only a day, my lady.”
She swallowed with difficulty, despite the water she’d choked down. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Because it’s your title.” He sounded baffled. What else would he call her?
She turned to him, then, and was struck by the sadness in his gaze. Big-eyed, and sorry, and, if false, then a bravura performance.
“But I’m your prisoner.”
He shook his head. “No, my lady. Not mine.”
The unmistakeable click of a lock turning came from behind her, and though all of Amelia’s instincts told her to turn and look, she instead gripped the edge of the chaise cushion, and glanced toward Cassius. Clearly, he’d been locked in here with her, and his reaction would tell her whether that was a reward, or a punishment for him.
As she watched him, Cassius’s head lifted. His eyes widened, and then went half-lidded as he ducked his head completely. Before she lost sight of his face, she saw the terror that touched it; subtle, and quickly smoothed, but plain in the smooth, pale lines around his mouth and eyes. His throat jerkedas he swallowed—as he fell into a bow that swept his hair over his shoulder like a spill of fresh cream.
Amelia expected the bold strike of bootheels across the floor, but instead heard the whisper of soft-soled shoes. She half-turned, and was greeted by the sight of a thin wisp of a man rounding the end of the chaise.
He was clearly Selesee, based on his coloring, but there the resemblance to the soldiers she’d fought ended. Short, slight, with shoulders almost as narrow as his hips, if not for the sharpness of his gaze, she would have thought he was a child, fourteen or fifteen at the oldest. His white hair was cut short, to his shoulders, and held back from his face with an ornate gold band. His clothing was likewise sumptuous: fitted purple robes belted at his waist with gold, the narrow sleeves stopping short of delicate wrists adorned with gold bracelets. He wore slippers of soft white leather, and his bracelets jangled like bells when he lifted both clean, fine hands and linked them together when he halted beside her.
He regarded her a long, disapproving moment, then turned his cool attention on Cassius. His voice was high and grating when he said, “You were told to notify me when the prisoner was awake.”
Cassius lifted his head, and his expression was not the peaceable one that he’d shown her and the other Southerners. This was a mask of perfect obedience, devoid of all life and alertness. It was only now, seeing the contrast, that she realized how expressive he’d truly been in her company.
She’d warred with herself about whether or not he was playacting, butthiswas acting. A practiced and extreme form of it.
“She’s only just awakened,” Cassius said. “I was on my way to ring.” He gestured to a thick, silken length of rope dangling from the ceiling, its end a fat golden tassel.
The newcomer’s eyes narrowed, suspicious, doubtful. “His imminence wants you.”
Cassius went very still.
The newcomer flicked his fingers dismissively. He wore lavender lacquer on his short nails, Amelia saw. “Go. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Cassius shot her a furtive, apologetic glance, and then swept from the room. In a swift and careful gesture, he handed her the fresh cup of water over her shoulder as he passed, and she managed not to drop it.
The door clicked, and then she was alone with the strange little man with the short hair—who unceremoniously shoved a table aside with his foot so he could stand across from her and survey her, arms folded, head cocked, unimpressed.
She wetted her throat with a sip of water and said, “Who are you?”
He gave her the same narrow-eyed look he’d given Cassius, and she didn’t find it intimidating. She’d faced off from soldiers, had taken wine with the emperor himself; the overgrown boy in front of her now was laughable by comparison.
“You’re in no position to ask questions, Miss Drake,” he said in his strange, too-high voice.
“But I’m asking them.”
His lips flattened; his nostrils flared. “I did warn them. I said that your sister is too meek to put up a fuss, and the boy’s already enthralled.”
Sister? Was Tessa here? Was theboyOliver?
