My body seizes up. The giving of one’s true name was outlawed decades ago, as were all forms of mental compulsion. Before the last war united the humans and fae on the isle, humans lived in fear of fae compulsion. It was said a fae could compel a human simply by making eye contact with them. Such magic either no longer exists or has been rendered ineffective due to everyday precautions that have become commonplace since unification, such as fortifying all drinking water with Saint John’s Wort—something known to ward against compulsion and other harmful fae magics. However, unlike regular compulsion, which was only said to last as long as eye contact was maintained, giving one’s true name grants a fae permission to use compulsion on them indefinitely.
And where eye contact can be easily forced, giving one’s true name can’t be. It isn’t about discovering some mystical secret name and gaining absolute control. It’s a type of binding bargain that ignites when someone states a very specific phrase to a fae:I give you my true name. Children learn from an early age never to say these words to anyone, and never to confirm you’ve given your true name if asked, for that’s one way a person can be tricked into igniting the magic. This means Marybeth either entered the illegal bargain willingly or was stupid enough to be tricked.
Neither possibility manages to evoke feelings of sympathy as I stare down at the girl who was supposed to be my only friend. “You gave Queen Tris your true name, and she ordered you to try and kill me?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. I’m forbidden from saying certain things. But the poison couldn’t have killed you, Astrid. I knew it couldn’t. Your life was spared. Don’t you understand?”
What does that mean? Did she work within the bounds of my stepmother’s commands? Did she use my tincture, knowing it wouldn’t kill me?
But I told Marybeth I was making the pie for my father. She’s the only one who knew. Which means even if she used Crimson Malus to execute my stepmother’s commands in a way that wouldn’t harm me, she still did it knowing it would kill my father instead. She had the opportunity to poison the pie too. Marybeth was amongst those my stepmother banished from the kitchen when we talked. But if the two are working together, Tris could have commanded Marybeth return after I stalked away in anger. Marybeth could have come into the kitchen before any of the other staff returned.
I curl my fingers so tight, my nails bite into my palms. Rage fills every ounce of my blood. “You killed my father,” I say through my teeth.
“I didn’t have control. I still don’t have control. But I promise you, where we’re going, you won’t be harmed.”
Every inch of my body burns with the heat of my anger. I’m hardly aware of how I lunge for the girl. Hardly aware of Torben’s voice as he begs me to stop, begs me to step away and yield at once. I don’t even know what I intend to do—strike her, shake her, slap her. All I know is that I can’t stop my hands from moving, can’t keep myself from grabbing the collar of her blouse and hauling her to her feet.
Still sobbing, she lets me drag her off her knees. I’m vaguely aware of a sudden roar of cheers echoing from the stands. They’re finally getting the action they came for. I tighten my fist around Marybeth’s collar, but my view of her is obscured by a sudden blast of blinding light. I feel her hand clamp tight around my forearm. The light grows brighter.
I close my eyelids against the blinding glare.
Torben’s voice bellows out from the archway, cutting through the noise rising from the audience. “Madame Fury’s parlor.”
That’s the last thing I hear before the roar of the stands is swallowed by silence.
The sandy floor of the pit shifts beneath my feet, turning hard in an instant. Soon the blinding light begins to fade.
I pry open my eyes to find Marybeth standing before me, her hand still clamped around my forearm. She glances wildly about. “No, no, no!”
I use her current preoccupation to wrench my arm free from her grip. Only then do I realize we’re no longer in the fighting pit. Instead…
Torben’s last words now make sense, as does Marybeth’s agitation.
Marybeth didn’t transport us to Fairweather Palace like she intended.
In fact, she didn’t take us far at all.
She took us to Madame Fury’s parlor.
19
ASTRID
Iquickly scan my surroundings. Marybeth and I are alone in Madame Fury’s parlor. It looks the same as it did earlier today when Torben and I came to speak with Fury, aside from the plates and glass tumblers littered about the room, remnants from the patrons who visited before the match.
“Damn it!” Marybeth says, stomping her foot. “He tricked me into visualizing the wrong place.”
I back up to put several feet between us, stopping only when my hip comes up against a table laden with half-eaten pastries and melted fruity ices. My eyes catch on a glint of something silver beneath a crumbled cloth napkin—a butter knife. It isn’t much, but it’s something.
Clenching my hand around the hilt, I thrust it toward the other girl.
She gives me an exasperated look. “Astrid, we must hurry. I can only use the Chariot one more time before it needs to be charged under starlight. And I can only take you with me if we’re touching. Now, put that down and be reasonable.”
I huff a dark laugh. “Reasonable? You want me to be reasonable? How is this anything but a reasonable way to react to the person who murdered my father?”
Her chin quivers. “I didn’t want to kill him.”
“You were supposed to be my friend.”
