“Midnight.”
Before anyone could react, Georgie spun and paced toward the villa. “I need to see him. No one follow me. And”—she held up a hand without turning around, cutting off both Hildy and Burke, who’d started to protest—“I’ll mirage myself, don’t worry.”
Sheslippedintothelower cellar of Villa Senone. Her ruddy skin and thin brown hair provided a secure mask for her sadness to sulk behind. This particular persona would remain unemotive. It was the safest option.
George considered asking Hildy to join to change her voice. But it wasn’t like he remembered anyway. She pulled open the cell door and stepped inside.
The prisoner, her earl, sat on the edge of the cot, chained at the ankle, with his feet planted firmly on the floor. The bed was in a different spot, the stone a different shade of tan; otherwise, it was just like when she first released him at Villa Manolay.
But not like that at all, her mind countered morosely.
The inner corners of his eyes tightened as he tried to figure her out. She stared right back, soaking in every detail of him: the wave in his hair, the stubble softening his sharp jaw, his oceanic eyes. The flicker of tension in his forearms as he flexed his hands—those hands, the way he touched her, the way he held her, the way he loved her.
“Who are you? Why am I captive?” Isahn asked, calm and measured.
Safe behind her mirage, tears welled in George’s eyes. “Who are you?” she countered, starting toward him, craving his arms around her shoulders, his hand rubbing circles on her back. Catching herself, she planted her boots on the stone floor.
“Why am I captive?” he asked again.
“You tell me.”
He laughed, and it was a dry, humorless sound. “Wish I could, ma’am.”
George didn’t know what to do, what to say. She shouldn’t have come down here without her friends—without a plan. Forcing herself to turn away, fighting that magnetic pull calling her to Isahn’s side, she moved toward the door, each step leaden.
He was really gone.
Her heart wrenched free of her chest, shriveling up and plummeting to the floor. Every tiny dream George had convinced herself was safe to leave alive scrambled for cover, trying to hide. The sense of comfort that had embedded itself in her everyday life, the safety she felt in his arms, gone.
All that remained were the flattened husks of her aspirations, her desires, and one charred and smoking crown with her name on it. Her duty was to the people of Domos, to all the people of Duhra, including Isahn. Come tempests or travesties, she would claim that fucking crown and set things right for once and for all.
twenty-five
Isahn is in a foreign land.
“What?”Isahnstartledawake,dazed, and oddly adrift. He’d dozed off in a state of abject confusion; not much had changed on that front. An odd-looking lamp still burned on a side table, out of reach. He couldn’t have been out for too long.
Remain calm.
He was being held... somewhere... by someone. He definitely shouldn’t have spoken. But not much was in his control at the moment, aside from his voice and his magic, so he had talked—stupidly—to whoever woke him up.
Control emotions.
“Get up, we’re leaving.” The voice floated in from beyond his cell door. “I’m coming in. Don’t hit me with your insane magic. I’m on your side, I promise.”
Isahn scoffed as the door opened wide. A woman of medium build, with tan, olive-toned skin and short curly brown hair, waltzed into the cell.
“Stick out your leg.”
Formulate a plan.
He extended his shackled ankle, not sure how he felt about his person, but certain being unchained would give him the upper hand. “You move like a soldier. Why should I trust you?”
“I used to be one.” She squatted in front of Isahn and worked a key into the shackle’s lock.
Fair enough, so did he—albeit briefly. “Where’d you get the key?”
“Off the dead guard in the hall.”
