“Princess Celeste?” The voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
I freeze.
We all turn at once to see Lord Marcos Trevose standing a few paces down the corridor, gawking at us with wide eyes. His hand, gloved in soft, brown leather, hovers near the hilt of the ornamental dagger belted at his waist—not a soldier’s gesture, but one of uncertainty.
He strides forward studying the three of us. “You were—” He looks past us, to the faint seam in the wall that betrays the secret passage. “Were you in the library without permission?”
Ezra’s mouth tightens. Nadya’s eyes flick to mine. I can feel the tension between the three of us, can feel it in my chest, tightening with each beat.
Podrosa does not forgive rule-breakers. Not easily.
“Marcos.” I keep my voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
I reach out to take his hands. They’re cool and slightly stiff with tension. He glances down at the connection, blinking slowly.
“I’ve always valued your friendship,” I tell him.
His lips press into a line, unreadable. Behind me, Nadya shifts her weight. I can sense Ezra readying himself to speak, but I squeeze Marcos’s hands and lean in just a little closer.
“We meant no harm. We only wished to read for an hour or two.” I hold my empty hands up for him to see. “Nothing was taken. Nothingdamaged.”
He glances toward the sealed passage again, clearly torn. There’s a flicker of hesitance in his eyes, but it conflicts with what I can only assume is a sense of duty. Podrosan loyalty. But if he reports this, it could bring punishment for us.
He holds my gaze for a second longer, and then he gives me the faintest nod. “You should steer clear of this corridor.” He turns and walks away without another word.
When he rounds the corner, disappearing from view, Nadya lets out a slow breath. “Gods, I thought he was going to haul us straight to the stocks.”
Ezra’s voice is dry. “We’re fortunate he values your friendship.”
“Come on.” I glance over my shoulder. “Before someone else catches us.”
“You could have told him the queen gave us permission,” Nadya says, quickening her steps to keep up with me.
“No. I wouldn’t do that. She took a risk giving us access, and I wouldn’t betray her trust just to clear our names.”
I press a hand to my chest, feeling my pulse still racing beneath my ribs. We’re leaving tomorrow. We spent two hours in the most tightly guarded library in Terre Ferique, and still, we walk away emptyhanded.
ChApter
Twenty-Seven
Ican’t remember if it’s been three days or four. I’ve become so bored in this tiny carriage that I’ve even succumbed to Nadya’s recommendation of reading one of her sordid romance books. It turned out to be very entertaining, but at the end, it only made me want to escape our carriage and climb into Dante’s all the more.
Aside from spotting Dante at his carriage as Princess Orida took it upon herself to personally wish him a pleasant journey, I’ve only caught glimpses of him when the caravan has made it stops. King Silas hovers over him like he’s protecting the most valuable treasure in his inventory. Dante must hate it. Even though he spent years seeking out his father’s approval, Dante no doubt feels suffocated by Silas’s constant presence.
I’ve yet to find out if the visit to Podrosa was an actual success. I would guess it was, since he passed their physical trial, but Ezra told me there’s more to it than that. Political views, terms of alliances—all things I wasn’t allowed to be present for when themendiscussed them. Even after I outperformed King Harold’s Ironshields.
I just hope King Harold didn’t take my heroism as an insult that might sway his decision in a negative light.
Knowing Podrosa’s affinity for protocol, they’re probably going to follow some ancient rule, writing up a hundred-page document approving Dante’s claim to the throne. Just to keep things done by the books.
Whether Dante’s trial in Podrosa was a success or not, we’re now approaching Baharat Palace in the capitol of Bastos, and I can’t help but wonder what tests await Dante here.
Our caravan stops, and the heat is the first thing that hits me.
The moment I step out of the carriage to join the royal procession, a wave of thick, sweltering air presses against my skin, heavy with the scent of spiced fruits and something floral—heady and intoxicating. My mourning attire is instantly unbearable, the dark fabric trapping the heat and sweat against my body, and I resist the urge to pull at the stiff collar.
