He held me, palms molded to my skin, as his gaze grew heated and flicked down to my lips.
Kiss me.
His focus drifted past my face, to where the crowd watched. He cleared his throat. Regret slammed into me, even as it battled with logic. Of course, this was Princeps Harthon. He would never lose himself to a moment of passion in a room full of subjects.
When didIbecome the person who would?
Music rose again, and the semi-circle around us dispersed as people resumed their own dancing.
Harthon dipped his head, not to kiss me, but to apologetically say, “I will explain. About Jonathan.”
I wasn’t so enamored by our dance as to forget my frustration. “You should have explained before it happened.”
Harthon dropped his hands. He opened his mouth to respond, but his eyes jerked to something behind me. I twisted to see North rushing through the crowd, urgency across his boorish features.
He nearly slammed into Edmund, Ellan’s second-in-command, who was too busy watching us to see his approach.
“There are visitors,” North quickly informed Harthon. “An older man and woman. They’re asking for Etarla.” Suddenly, Edmund—skies,the entire room—ceased to exist. “And they know far too much about her, which is why we haven’t sent them away yet.”
Harthon grasped my arm. “Did they identify themselves?”
North nodded and opened his mouth. I beat him to it, somehow managing to speak even though my insides were spasming. “Merelda and Marsik,” I choked.
North turned to me, suspicion wrinkling his forehead. “How do you know—”
That was all the confirmation I needed. I yanked away from Harthon and raced to the closest door I could find, not giving a damn about how my frantic expression and movements might appear to those around me.
Nothing mattered but seeing if North spoke the truth. If Merelda was alive and really here.
Uncontrollable hope expanded, rocking me as I burst into a hallway. It was the reckless kind of hope that was dangerous in this world, the kind that would implode if what it sought wasn’t there.
“Where are they?” I demanded to a guard beside the doorway.
He looked at me like I’d asked him to strip. I didn’t have time for this.
“Tell me, dammit!”
“W-who, Ladymagvis?” he stuttered.
“This way.” I twisted to see Harthon standing in the hall. He’d left the celebration and followed me.
I hurried in the direction he indicated, rushing ahead of him. He didn’t try to overtake me, just told me when to turn as he shadowed me.
Please, please be true.
“North wouldn’t lie about this,” I said as we rounded a corner, impatience spewing the question disguised as a statement.
“He wouldn’t,” Harthon confirmed, and that hope grew, my surroundings blurring into an inconsequential wash of color as we travelled hallways and staircases that never seemed to end.
Down, down, down—until the scent of mold and mildew slapped me in the face, and I realized we were no longer in a partof the Citadel I knew. The tan stone walls had turned gray, the ceiling hung low, and torchlight was far and few between.
A wail echoed through the hall, and my steps stuttered.
“Is this the prison?” I asked as we turned a corner.
“The entrance to it, yes.”
Anger roared, and I swung around, plowing directly into his body. “I swear to the fucking Domus, if you threw them in aprisoncell, I will slice you the same way you did Jonathan.”
