Quint clears his throat. “Not to divert from the point you’re making, Your Majesty, but I’m still trying to understand how the consuls wouldallbelieve him. Some of them, yes. But Arella Cherry, for instance, was always highly critical of Allisander—”
“Oh, she was,” says Sommer. “But that was before she and Consul Pelham found the proof that Kandalawasworking with Ostriary. And that bolstered Sallister’s claims.”
“Proof?” I say.
“Yes. She had shipping logs that dated back for decades, showing years of secret dealings with another kingdom, including letters that indicate a means to poison the people. She actually may have been the first consul to know that the mission to Ostriary was a farce, because rumor says that she brought her proof to Baron Pepperleaf’s daughter. The baron himself is the one who sent the armed brigantines.”
None of this makes sense. I remember Arella and Roydan searching through shipping logs, but there’s no proof of poisoning—and if there was, why wouldn’t they bring it tome?
But I’m stuck on the last part of what Sommer said. “What armed brigantines?”
“The ones sent after Prince Corrick and Captain Blakemore. To stop them from reaching Ostriary.”
I’m frozen in place at these words. The world seems to go still.
The night I left the palace snaps back into my memory with crystal clear focus. It was the night when everything went wrong, when I snuck into the Wilds as the Fox to see what I could learn. Arella Cherry and Laurel Pepperleaf had stood in front of the people along with Captain Huxley from the palace guard. I had no idea what they were doing there.
They said I was poisoning the people. It was so clearly a false claim that I disregarded it.
Then they announced that Captain Blakemore’s ship would never reach Ostriary. That also had to be a false claim, so I disregarded it as well. How on earth would they know?
Armed brigantines.They sent warships after my brother.
I’m not breathing. I’m not even sure my heart is beating.
A strong hand grips my shoulder, and I almost jump. Quint has risen from his seat, and the edge of his hand is warm against the skin of my neck.
He’d never touch me like this in the palace.
Right now I don’t want him to let go.
As if he realizes I can’t speak, he says, “What happened to these brigantines?” he says, and his voice is as hollow as I feel. “Did they return?”
Sommer looks between me and the Palace Master, and he seems to recoil into himself, as if he wishes he could un-share this particular bit of information. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I thought you knew. They said—they said that’s why you fled. That you knew you’d been found out when you heard about the brigantines—”
“You didn’t answer,” I choke out, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance. “What happened to the brigantines?”
“Were they successful in stopping Prince Corrick?” says Quint. “What happened to theDawn Chaser?”
“No one knows.” Sommer shakes his head. “They never returned.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Corrick
Lochlan and I sleep till late afternoon. Well, I do. He’s still snoring away, so he might keep going until nightfall, for all I know. It doesn’t matter. We have nowhere to be until tomorrow at midnight, when we’re due to exchange another message with Ford Cheeke.
We’re back in the boarding house for now, but we have more silver from Oren, so we’ve got a bigger space, with two beds and even a sitting room. We arrived so late last night that Lochlan was sure they wouldn’t even open the door, but I told him that a little silver usually takes away anyone’s sour spirits. He didn’t like that, but I was right. They welcomed us in. A basket of pastries has been left outside the door for our breakfast, too, along with a pot of tea that has long since gone cold, a pitcher of water, and a small bowl of cut fruit that has a fly or two buzzing around it. The house is quiet, but it’s obvious the food has been here for a while.
I don’t remember ever sleeping this late in mylife, but thismight be the first good night’s rest I’ve had since leaving Kandala. I rub at my eyes and carry the food inside.
The sitting room has a larger table than the last, along with a secretary’s kit, filled with paper and pencils and even two fountain pens. I consider what Ford said about passing letters to Rian and wonder if I could send something to Tessa. I’ve been thinking about it since last night. There’s so much I want to say—but none of it needs to be read by Rian’s eyes.
The cynical part of my brain wonders if he’d share my thoughts with her at all.
I take a piece of paper anyway and write without thinking.
Dear Tessa,
