The stairs turned sharply, a wall of trees on the right and the stone wall on the left. They passed out of view of both the balcony above and the garden below. The only light was a pale shimmer of pink from a stained-glass window in the palace. The man noticed the shadows and seclusion and jerked away from her.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I see.”
Confused, Magdala scanned the surroundings. Was someone coming down the stairs? But the man’s eyes, very golden in the pale light, were locked on her.
“Your outfit is clever,” he said with a shaky laugh. “I fell right into your hands.”
“Asherton!” someone shouted above, on the balcony.
The young man flinched.
Magdala’s jaw dropped, and she lurched away from him like he was a snake, her hip striking the railing. The blood drained from her face, and her head swam.
How could this disaster of a man be the prince? She could not reconcile her perception of royalty with this barefooted, coatless, feckless man standing before her.
Her father’s tirades about the bastard prince sleeping in her bed in Elegy shot into her mind like a hail of arrows.
Hatred rose like bile. Her skin crawled. Since childhood, she’d only heard Asherton’s name spoken through grittedteeth and spat like poison. He was the reason she was here as a guard and not a guest. He was the reason her hands were hard as a man’s, why she’d left school when she so loved to learn, why she had no friends, no future, no heritage. He was the reason her father’s face flushed puce and his back troubled him.
Her hand moved to her knife. She could cut his throat. It would be easy. She was quick and cunning, and no one would hear. He would drop at her feet like a rag doll, and his blood would drip down the steps like a river. She could picture it, though in her mind, the steps were made of green marble— she didn’t know why. Tomorrow, her father would hear of it and rejoice. The whole nation of Allagesh would rejoice, and there would be no more need for midnight meetings in her living room or kneading bread in the moonlight. She would be free.
Everyone would blame the curse. Perhaps she was the curse.
Lunging forward, Magdala braced her arm across the prince’s chest and pinned him to the stone. Her knife glimmered at his throat, but she could not remember lifting it.
A press and a flick and it would be over.
Asherton stood perfectly still, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips were slightly parted, and his eyes turned down, meeting hers.
Her arm trembled; she gritted her teeth. One quick cut, a spray of blood, and she could slip into the shadows.
Magdala froze as the voice above continued. “Where are you, troublesome boy?”
For the first time since she’d drawn her knife, Magdala read fear in the prince’s face.
“No … no, please.” The vein in Asherton’s neck stood out—his pulse ticked through her knife blade. “Wait a moment.”
Her knuckles were white on the handle of her knife, her mouth dry.
“Please. I’m begging…”
Magdala’s lip curled with disgust. The crown prince of Allagesh begging for his life like some common criminal? But of course he was a coward.
But while Asherton didn’t fight her, he didn’t quail either. He only whispered, “Just wait until he passes. I don’t want him to see.”
Someone was leaning over the railing above them, scanning the garden. Asherton could have called out to him; he could have screamed for help. But he stood still and quiet, his eyes locked on Magdala’s. His silence irritated her.
“Fight me!” she hissed.
“Be patient,” he bit back. “Wait until Zephyr moves away.”
The man leaned out over the balustrade. Asherton’s breath hitched.
As the shadow disappeared, grumbling again about troublesome children, Magdala’s heart sank. It dawned on her that Asherton wasn’t pleading for his life; he was asking her to wait until his valet was gone. He wasn’t afraid of being murdered; he was afraid of his friend enduring the horror of discovering hisbody.
Magdala’s hate burned out like a fire doused with water. “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped with a sudden rush of blood to her head. She stumbled back, against the railing. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Asherton raised one eyebrow, and he passed his hand over the raw pink skin on his neck.
