I try to land softly but slip at the last moment.
I go still, waiting. No startled shrieks or panicked cries.
Relieved, I rise. I brought a small lamp with me. Dim enough it won’t be spotted from outside, yet bright enough to illuminate my search as I tiptoe around the room. Kaidren’s walls are heavily decorated. Not with paintings, but with words. Quotes from speeches written in perfect, elegant script; news clippings; notes to himself, asking questions.
Some of the words he’s collected are familiar. Speeches I’ve studied in preparation for writing Luc’s, and some of them are words I penned for my brother to speak. Just about all the news clippings he saved are about Widow’s Hall. News on the Praeceptor, the Honorate, andme. Well, the Shadow Queen. I remember, not without some satisfaction, that Kaidren was a fan of mine before he came to Widow’s Hall and I (she) accused him of murdering his father.
He’s underlined a few passages on his wall in emerald green ink.
Honorate Arliss Vale opposed the order . . .
Honorate Arliss Vale remains the only member of the Honorate who is unmarried . . .
They’re about his father, from before he fell ill.
There are a few handwritten notes tacked to the wall, overlapping the news. Over an article about Luc, he’s pinned a note:
Who is the girl standing beside him?
I frown. The girl in question is obviously me. But the news clipping he pinned it to is merely a summarization of a speechhe gave. It makes no mention of a sister, or anybody, accompanying him. I remember this speech well. When Luc delivered it, I stood offstage behind him, watching from the shadows as always. The only way for Kaidren to comment on my presence is if he wasthere,in person, and saw me.
His words from our first conversation float back.“I’ve seen you. Skulking around in the shadows . . . Around Widow’s Hall. Hovering near the Praeceptor.”
Just how many of Luc’s public appearances had Kaidren attended before we met? How often was he in the audience, watching me, while I had no idea he existed? I hate the thought of him knowing something I don’t. Hate the idea that he was studying me before I knew to study him.
As I look further, I find more mentions of me from Luc’s public appearances over the past few years.
The girl is back
Who is she?
And, from a note that’s more recent than the rest:
Just Remira
Remira Kyler
Mira
I stare at that final line for longer than I should. Kaidren only ever calls me Remira, yet he made a point of writing “Mira,” as though we’re close enough to use nicknames with each other.
I shake myself. I’m lingering, and I shouldn’t be. I need to search quickly and get the hell out of here. I’m looking for anything I can find to use against him. The rest of the Honorateare easy. I’ve spent years collecting their darkest secrets. For Kaidren, I have next to nothing.
Something under the bed catches my eye. The corner of a flat black box.
I drop to my knees, setting the lamp next to me. I slide the box from beneath the bed and remove the lid. Emerald green fabric laced with gold winks back at me.
Honorate robes. Same as the ones I wear in my attic, watching council meetings. These are worn and fraying at the edges. From a time before Kaidren was given a fresh set of robes to call his own.
A cracked mirror leans against the wall opposite the bed. I wonder how often Little Kaidren stared into it. Wonder if he, like me, donned his father’s robes and danced around, dreaming of one day being someone who matters.
I lower the robes back into the box. As I push it beneath the bed, something else glitters in the low lamplight.
My fingers close around a glass vial, so cold it’s frosted over with a layer of white, obscuring its contents.
I’ve just shoved the vial into my pocket when something creaks behind me. I whirl to face the door.
There’s nothing there.
