I took a stack of pages from the shelf and handed it to him. “Light reading for the road. Burn it after you’re done.”
I had written out the brief timeline of events in case something happened to me and Reynald had to continue alone. This would save me a lot of explanations.
Solentine gave me a wild look and dropped through the window.
“Nicely done,” Everard said.
I didn’t answer.
The silence stood between us like a wall.
“What happened to the real Reynald?” I asked.
“He died.”
My heart squeezed itself into a tiny ball. “Did you kill him?”
“No. It was an accident. His horse fell. He died of internal bleeding three days later.”
“When?”
“He passed in the early morning on the sixth of Planter.”
I felt sad, worn out, and desperate. My heart hurt.
“Maggie,” he said quietly.
“Please leave.”
He turned, walked out the door into the hallway, and stopped just outside my room, wrapped in shadow. “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I will never hurt you.”
My voice sounded hollow. “I liked you better when you were Reynald.”
“So did I.”
He walked away.
I took a piece of paper with Butcher’s hair from the desk and held it up to the lantern. A tiny drop of blood swelled on some of the hair ends. I must’ve really ripped a chunk out of his scalp.
There was blood on my sleeve, too, and it wasn’t mine.
Blood was good.
I folded the paper in half, slipped it into an envelope, and placed the envelope into the top drawer of the desk. I walked down the hallway, knocked on Clover’s door, and told the children it was safe to come out. Everard wouldn’t hurt them. He considered them his people. Then I went back to my suite, closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it. The triple moons shone their light through the open window.
I’d trusted him. I’d told him things.
He’d sat with me on the wall and tried to distract me from worrying by telling funny stories about the Conquerors, he’d held my hand on the bench in Sonndor, and when he’d smiled, he’d looked so . . .
He’d lied to me and used me. Just like he used other people to get what he wanted.
Everard was a strategist. Stepping between the kids and the slavers, swearing to put himself in front of the disaster that would grip Kair Toren, winning me over step by step; all of it was part of a carefully calculated approach. Everything had been precisely measured and flawlessly executed. Holding my hand had been part of the plan.
Was anything he’d said real?
Probably not.
It hurt so much.
