An impatient-looking woman yanks the door open. She looks even more annoyed when she sees me. “Who the hell are you?”
Definitely not as friendly as Frida. Fortunately, my plan doesn’t require I talk to her for too long.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Before she can stop me, I lean past her, poking my head through the kitchen door and peering around, as though looking for something. I angle my body, blocking her view of the doorframe.
As she glowers at me, the hand hidden behind my back presses a scrap of leather drenched in paste to the doorframe, right where the bolt will slide home when she no doubt slams and locks the door behind me.
Once I’m sure the leather won’t slip, I pull back, twisting my expression into one of mortification. “I am so, so sorry,” I say. “I think I might have the wrong house. Could you direct me to—”
She slams the door before I’ve finished speaking.
It doesn’t matter. As soon as the kitchen is clear, I’ll slip inside. In the meantime, that leaves me stuck out here, seconds away from freezing my ear off, listening to the sounds of shuffling feet and clanging pots.
My instincts tell me the imposter Shadow Queen is Kaidren. The timing can’t be a coincidence. He comes to court trying to beat out Luc for the throne, and around the same time, someoneelsestarts blackmailing Honorate in my name. There’s a connection. There must be. I plan to destroy Kaidren in any way I can. First, by humiliating him in Eteria tomorrow. Next, by exposing him as a blackmailer as well as a fraud.
After the longest two minutes of my life, the sounds of movement in the kitchen fade.
I wait another second. It’s still silent.
I inhale a lungful of wintry air, preparing. I’ll need to move fast. No idea how long the kitchen will remain empty, or what will happen if anyone finds me.
Gently, I nudge open the door. The leather in the doorframe has done its job, keeping the lock from fully closing.
I peek around the door into the kitchen. Empty.
Slipping inside, I peel the leather from the frame and close the door behind me as softly as I can.
I’m not familiar with the layout of the Sixmens’ house. I don’t know where the bedrooms are—or even if the bedroom is where Selva would keep blackmail notes—but I figure my best bet is to move up.
There’s a servants’ stairwell on the other side of the kitchen. I pause here, at the base of the steps.
No creaking or voices. A good sign.
I hold my breath as I dart up the stairs. The old wood groans. I wince, moving faster before someone comes to investigate.
As soon as I’m upstairs, I fling myself through the first door I see.
“Bel?” A woman’s voice echoes up the stairwell after me.
My hand claps over my mouth, holding in the sounds of my breaths, heavy from nerves and my brief sprint up the stairs.
The room is dark and silent, save for my muffled breaths. I wait, but the stairs stay mercifully quiet.
I keep my hand over my mouth as I look around. It’s a dressing room, by the looks of it. Yelina has one just like it. A whole room dedicated to things like clothing, jewelry, and mirrors. This one looks as if it hasn’t been touched in years.
At the other end of the room is a door. Hearing nothing on the other side, I open it to reveal a bedchamber. Selva Sixmen’s, I assume.
Portraits hang around the room. One of an older man, one of a little boy, one of a woman I recognize. Selva’s late wife, Neveah Sixmen. She was one of the few Honorate wives I actually met because she was good friends with Yelina. She used to hang around the Kyler house, laughing at Yelina’s unfunny jokes and drinking that disgusting tea Yelina loves. I didn’t know her well, but I despise her on principle. Anyone who finds my stepmother’s sense of humor tolerable must be awful.
I crouch alongside Sixmen’s bed and feel beneath his mattress. Nothing.
Next, I look through his drawers. I start with his bedside tables, then his dresser. In all, there’s nothing of note.
I cast a long look around the rest of the room. Above the mantel hangs a family portrait. Selva, Neveah, and Flynn, all smiling. Flynn looks much younger, but I know it’s him. He’s got that mole above his upper lip and the signature haircut of a member of the decurio. My gaze flits lower, to the two urns sitting on the mantle.
It gives me pause. One urn makes sense, for his wife’s remains. The other . . .
I open the lighter of the two. Shoved inside are crumpled sheets of parchment.
