“It’s not for you to understand. Trust me. Trust Mother.”
Clara gasps. “Wait, are you going to pretend to be Ember and claim her inheritance?”
I hold my breath, but Imogen doesn’t answer.
“I’m younger,” Clara says too loudly, earning another hush from Imogen. She returns her voice to a whisper. “I should be the one to do it. No one will believe you’re nineteen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I look old? I’m only a year older than she is.”
Clara’s voice turns pouty. “My figure is more similar to hers.”
“It doesn’t matter what I look like,” Imogen says through her teeth. Her next words come out slow. “A trip to a certain glamourist’s shop in Evanston will do the trick.”
My blood goes cold. For the love of the breeze, Imogen is going to get a glamour that makes her look like me. It doesn’t even need to be convincing, considering how few people know who I am. The only person in the palace who knows what I look like is Brother Marus, and I doubt he’d bat an eye at such a scheme.
A storm of fury roars through my veins, sending my arms trembling, my knees quaking. I always knew they’d try anything to take my father’s fortune, but I never imagined they’d come up with an idea that would work. And I can’t let it work. I have to stop them. I must. But how? I can’t show my true face here ever again. Even after my bargain with Mrs. Coleman comes to an end, I can’t risk her trying something to thwart me. She could drum up false charges against me, or even accuse me of my true crimes—evading a legally binding bargain.
A sharp pain strikes my gut. I bite my lip to keep from crying out.I’m obeying. I’m obeying. I’m not evading my bargain. I’m not.
“Where has Ember gone, anyway?” Clara asks. “It shouldn’t be possible for her to leave the palace under the terms of her bargain with Mother.”
Another wave of pain washes over me, and I close my eyes against it.I’m obeying. I’m obeying.
“Mother doesn’t think she’s left the palace at all.” Imogen’s words send icy terror through me.
“Then where is she?”
Pain lashes my core, and I brace my arm against the door.
“Being a disobedient rat,” Imogen says.
The unlatched door gives way beneath my arm. My stepsisters whirl toward me with wide eyes just as I tumble over the threshold. I stumble to right myself, and for one horrifying moment, I fear I’ll slip clear out of my shoes. But as I gather my bearings and look down at my feet, I find them secured in place by the ribbons I’ve begun tying around them every morning.
Thank the breeze.
Pain continues to rumble inside me, but I force it away, breathing deeply to steady my pulse.I’m obeying. I’m obeying. I don’t notice when my stepsisters leave the table and only realize they’ve come to me when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Imogen’s. I flinch away from her touch.
“What’s wrong, Your Highness?” Imogen asks, with only a hint of true concern in her eyes. Clara, on the other hand, looks wildly perplexed.
“It’s nothing,” I bite back, painfully aware of how much control I’ve lost over my voice. It trembles, sounding far too much like my true self. My meek self. The self my stepsisters know too well. Pulling away from them, I weave a lie. “The sun made me dizzy. It appears I’m still not used to being on land.”
“You should sit, Your Highness,” Clara says, trying to lead me toward the table.
I swallow hard and force my voice to come out as evenly as possible. “No, a walk will do.” On trembling legs, I brush past them to my door and rush out into the hall. My mind continues to spin, my vision a blur as I work to breathe away the hum of pain that roils inside me.
“Em.” The voice snags my attention, and I blink a few times as I find myself a step away from colliding with the prince. I halt and stare up at him, the abrupt shift in my momentum making me rock back on my heels. His hands come to my upper arms to steady me, his grip firm but gentle as his touch invades my awareness, overriding my anxiety. Even the bargain’s spike of pain has returned to the dull ache I’m used to. Aromas of jasmine mingling on the night breeze fill my senses, sending my pulse quickening while calming my nerves at the same time.
What the breezing hell? Since when is his scent familiar to me? Since when does itcalmme?
“Franco,” I say under my breath, shoving the unanswered questions to the back of my mind.
He gives me an easy smile, seeming much like his usual self. “Might I have the honor of your company at Lake Artemisa?”
“Of course, Your Highness,” I say with as much polite restraint as I can manage. All I want to do is beg him to take me away from here, away from my sisters and the conversation that lingers in the pit of my stomach.
“Shall we take a coach or fly?” he asks, extending his hand.
I know the right answer. The safe answer. The answer that keeps the proper distance every courting couple—even pretend ones—should maintain. But right now I want to feel the air on my face, tugging my hair, brushing my skin.
