“Do you think I’d let people starve?” asks Ronan again. “It’s really important to me to know what you think.”
I can see the raw hurt on his face. He’s not accustomed to being doubted, not openly at least. But it goes well beyond that, and we both know it. He wants to know ifIdoubt him. It matters to him. He can feel what I feel, but he doesn’t know what I think.
And it’s tearing him apart, not knowing what I think about him.
I look at him, and I see exactly who he is, maybe for the first time.
“No, Ronan,” I tell him truthfully. “I know you wouldn’t.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Adria has already left by the time I arrive back in the palace, which is probably for the best. I don’t know if I’d be able to stop myself from confronting her, and doing so as she’s preparing for her highly anticipated fight with Quinn could be disastrous.
I don’t even knowhowto confront her. If I ask her, would she tell me the truth? I doubt it. Maybe I should think of some other way to get her to admit what’s really going on.
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. What would Ronan have to gain from starving our people? Sure, it would save some coin, but at the cost of unrest and lost labor. And judging by the way no expense has been spared for the festival, Selara isn’t that short on coin, despite what the alchemists have told Ronan.
Perhaps he wants to weaken us to allow the Orsa to control our lands completely. That’s what Adria might say, and it’s what Larus likely believes.
And I could see it being true. I should believe it’s true. They took our home from us and gave it to the Orsa. Maybe they asked us to come here so they could expose us and justify taking the rest of our lands from us.
But there’s a part of me—it’s small, but it’s growing—that believes Ronan. More than that, thatwantsto believe Ronan. That wants to live in the world he envisions. A world made of the best of us doing the best we can for each other. It’s naïve, as Quinn said. It’s foolish, and it’s beautiful, and I’m having trouble believing that it’s all a lie he made up for my benefit.
I’m having a hard time believing he’s lying to me at all.
I take my time bathing and dressing. My favorite of the palace servants assigned to us, a sweet young girl named Hilaria with bouncy brown curls and big green eyes, helps me apply makeup in the Selaran style: light eyeliner, a peachy balm for the lips, and a shimmering powder for the cheeks flecked with silvery sparkles. She tames my wavy hair but leaves it down. “To accent the laurel wreath,” she says. “You’re so beautiful. They’re going to see you as their queen after tonight.”
As I prepare to dress in the gown Larus bought me before we arrived, there’s a knock at the door. One of Ronan’s servants arrives with a box. It’s finely packaged, wrapped in a white silk bow.
For the hero of Selara.
- R
I’m certain it’s a gown, and when I lift the top, I find that I’m right.
But I couldn’t have guessed how lovely it would be.
Hilaria squeals. “It’s so pretty!”
The gown is made of delicate white silk threaded with glittering silver. It’s long and flowing, with silver clasps inlaid with opal, or maybe mother-of-pearl.
Not a bit of gold in sight.
I have no idea how to put it on, but Hilaria is happy to help me. She drapes the material over me, crossing it over myshoulders to preserve my modesty. Then she cinches my waist with a silver cord.
It’s a beautiful dress. And, as Larus would say if he were here, it certainly sends a message. It says, “I am Selaran. I am proud to be Selaran.” It’s something I wouldn’t have even considered wearing a few weeks ago, plan or not.
But now?
I hope Adria sees me wearing it and chokes.
Hilaria leads me to a palace entrance I’ve never used to meet Ronan, who’s waiting for me.
He takes a long, lingering look at me as I walk down the stairs. I feel a jolt everywhere his gaze touches as if it’s his fingertips on my skin instead of his eyes.
I can’t tell if it’s his magic or simply my overwhelming attraction to him that makes me tingle when he looks at me.
He looks glorious. He’s wearing a crown tonight, a thin band of gold that sits in hair that has clearly been labored over intensively to undo the mess I made of it in the alley. His face is back to its ordinary, uncanny look of absolute perfection as well, but I’m starting to get used to it. As time goes on, I’m starting to notice little flaws that I find endearing: a tiny white scar on one of his cheekbones, a little asymmetry in his eyebrows. It isn’t a face with history; the healers have done too good of a job for that. But it’s human in a way I couldn’t see at first.
