“She will lie to you,” the man cut in, apparently too stupid to know that he should stay quiet.
Harthon slowly turned his head, spearing the man with his eyes. “One more word from you, and you will be in shackles. Am I clear?”
By some miracle, he had the sense not to verbally respond and took a small step back.
Harthon returned his attention to the prisoner. “Yes or no.”
“Yes,” came her flat response.
“Do you offer a defense for yourself?”
She shook her head, biting her lip as she did so.
It was a clear-cut case. She admitted to her guilt. Harthon would give her an option: prison or punishment.
And yet something in my gut told me that it was not all that simple. Sure, as a young woman, she was unlike any other criminal who’d been dragged before us. But it was more than that. Her hair was…wrong, and not because it was short. Some pieces of her hair were longer than others, the ends frayed as if they’d been cut by a knife rather than shears.
I looked at the bearded man, whose eyes were lit with glee as they roamed over her form.
Ana had told me there was no need to speak here. This was Harthon’s platform, and neither she nor Callen had uttered a single word in the two hours we’d been here. But that didn’t mean Icouldn’tdo so.
The feeling of wrongness intensified, giving me the push to speak. “Was your hair always short?”
All eyes in the room moved to me, though I felt Harthon’s as a weight. I caved and met them for a brief moment, surprised to find approval, not anger, in their depths.
Her eyes widened a fraction, as if surprised by my question. “No.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was cut.”
“By you, or by someone else?”
She didn’t answer, but quickly glanced beside her at the bearded man before focusing on her feet. His smirk had been replaced by a scowl.
“By you, or by someone else?” I repeated.
“I am guilty of the crimes I am accused of. I accept whatever punishment I’m given,” she swiftly uttered, panic raising the pitch of her voice.
“You will answer themagvis’question, and you will not think to lie. She will know if you do so,” Harthon thundered, the threat sounding so real that even I could have fallen for it.
Her chin quivered, and then she gave the very answer I expected. “Him.”
The bearded man didn’t explode in anger. In fact, he abandonedhis scowl, as if her response held no importance at all.
“Is this true?” Harthon questioned him.
“I caught her myself, Princeps. Although you cannot tell with all the dirt, she is a rather pretty thing—or, at least, she was when her hair was long. I thought it wise to cut it so that she would not tempt anyone into letting her free.” His smooth answer grated over my skin.
“How prudent of you.” The compliment was as ingenuine as it was barbed. Harthon didn’t believe the man’s story, and neither did I.
Completely clueless, the man preened. “Thank you, Princeps. I believe in the importance of justice, and I wanted to be sure she would never commit these crimes against another.”
“You say she poisoned you. How do you know this?”
“You see, Princeps, I do not have a lot of money, but only enough to hire an extra hand. She was a hired servant in my home, and on that day, she was responsible for preparing my dinner. After I ate, I began to feel ill, and then black spots appeared in my vision.” His hand drifted to his heart as if it pained him to recall the incident. “I fell from my chair in a state of half-consciousness, and I watched helplessly as she stole food and what little money I had before running off.”
Harthon’s fingers drummed on the armrest. “You’re lucky you aren’t dead.”
